Slow learner, but I am learning

Normally I am a pretty balanced person.  Not super-sunny or anything like that, but balanced.  Have my anger in control after years of struggling with it, so no rages.  A tad bit on the quiet side.  Shy, but not a recluse.  Practical in action and idealistic in outlook.

Normally.

But ever since I was a wee bitty thing I have been prone to depression.  Didn't realize it at the time (what 7 year old does?) but looking back I saw it.  Sadly, it took me until my mid-30s to realize that I wasn't "right" and get the diagnosis.  I spent a year or so on meds, decided that while they helped, the side-effects weren't worth it (I would rather cry over beer commercials and struggle with depression than spend my days emotionally flat).  My angel of a doc concurred, and sent me to counseling, which helped a bit too.  I learned some good skills.  I realized common triggers for me and my world, and I trundled along with life, pretty balanced.

But recently I have begun to notice symptoms that I didn't notice.  I am gaining weight like mad.  And I don't give a rip.  I don't feel like working out.  Even the lure of running does nothing for me.  I am cranky.  I am pissy.  I get outraged over trivial things.  And I day-dream of running away.

THAT was the kicker.  You see, there is NOTHING in the world that would EVER make me believe suicide is the answer.  So instead, I plot and plan to run away.  I remember a vivid episode of it when I was 12.  I was going to run away from home.  Had it all planned out:  I would leave with my coin collection and all the food I could carry in a pillow case, hike up to the Jumonville Cross.  Very practical for a 12 year old.  But no real plans for what happened once I got there.

In my 30s I began a long stretch of it, this time planning to just up and go to Arizona.  Rent a car down there, and soak in the sun. And that was about the extent of my plans.  Except this time I actually looked into the flights, rental car agencies, and figured which day of the week was best to go. That is when I finally went to the doc and got the diagnosis.  And when I realized that my thoughts of running away were the equivalent to others' thoughts of suicide.

Lately I have been doing it again.  This time I am planning to leave Scott for good.  I have been scoping out the condos in downtown (online), figuring my budget, mentally planning for the fireworks that walking out will start.

Don't get me wrong, it isn't Scott that is the problem.  It's just my way of mentally checking out.  And I am doing it with a vengeance.  Have been for weeks now.  And it only dawned on me what I was doing and what it meant about two days ago.

It's winter here in the PNW, and as a non-native, I am struggling with it once again.  Too many grey days for my body.  Add to that the mother-in-law struggles, the step-son grief and life begins to look bleak.  Throw in the fact that my dear husband is hurting from all of this and not talking much about it (score one for male folly) and is also having some health issues that are making him feel down.  Now add in the fact that I haven't seen my mom or sisters for a year, and my beloved only son for two and a half years.  For good measure, take away my ability to run.  Give me two months in the classroom being bored out of my mind.  Add in a former friend's treacherous lies.  Toss in some Hood to Coast stress.  And simmer.

So the question isn't:  "Am I dealing with a walloping dose of depression?"  The question is:  "How I can be so blind?!"

Needless to say, I have made an appointment with my new doc (but not until I am out of the classroom - missing class is NOT allowed).  I think it is time to try out the pharmacopia and see what sort of fun pills they have these days.  But just knowing what is wrong with me has helped already.  I KNOW what to do.  I KNOW what to avoid.  And I am taking action.  I realize that I am in too deep to dig out on my own this time, but it's a good start.


Happiness Is a Choice: The Symptoms, Causes, and Cures of Depression

The Letter

The following is the letter that I will post to my stepson.  Needless to say, I am sad and hurt beyond words.  And if this letter sounds harsh, let me reassure you, it was way worse before I got calm and edited it!

It was nice to see you for those few hours you were with us over Christmas day.  It meant so much to your Dad to have (almost – except for N'l) the whole family together.  We all know that there isn’t much hope that Grandma will be with us next year, so we were very happy to get Uncle R and Tia A up, along with you and J and D to spend time celebrating family.

But I have to tell you, not as your stepmother, but as the wife of your Dad, that I am gravely disappointed in you.  Disappointed and angry.  Disappointed because you let your Dad down.  And angry because you hurt the person I love the most in the world.

And deeply saddened because it was not intentional, just selfish and thoughtless.

Your Dad loves you J'y.  He loves you very much.  And he has sacrificed much for you.  He gave up his job at Domino’s, where he was making great money and had a lot of perks and power and privilege so that he could have his weekends off to spend them with you.  When you started to school your Dad realized that his required work over the weekends would mean he barely would see you.  And that wasn’t acceptable to him.  So he quit his job and went back to school to learn a whole new trade for a whole new career simply to ensure he had his weekends off and would be available for you.

Your Dad loves you so much that he went to court to fight to give you your last name.  And he fought for custody of you, knowing of your mother’s history of alcoholism and other poor choices.  He wanted you to have a stable home.  And he wanted to shield you from the difficulties of living with an alcoholic parent.  Sadly, while he won the right to give you his name, he lost the right to raise you.

Your Dad loves you so much that we have made three trips to Klamath Falls to see you since you moved down there.  And we have worried about it only being three trips, and not more.  Your Dad, a frugal man as you well know, never hesitated to spend over $300 each trip to drive down there, get a hotel room, and take you and J'n to meals with us, because he loves you and misses you.  No matter that he had to stay up late into the night on Sunday night after we got home to grade papers and prepare for Monday morning – he got to see his son for a few days, so it was worth the time, the money, the effort, and the loss of sleep.

Since I have known him, your Dad’s number one priority has been you:  your health, your safety, your success, your happiness.  He was by your side every night that you spent in the hospital.  He drove literally hundreds of miles each month to pick you up from your mom’s homes to bring you to ours.  He always made certain that he attended every parent-teacher conference, every performance, every game.  He thought of ways to entertain you, taking you to Yellowstone and Yosemite, taking you camping and hiking and skiing, playing Hungry Hungry Hippo and Looping Louis, making blanket forts and igloos with you, building Legos and reading books.  While your Dad may not have spent as much money on you as your mother did, he gave you the gift of his time, his undivided attention, and all of his focus and energy not only when you were together, but while you were gone, as he planned for the next time he got to see you.

Your Dad tried to teach you the qualities and characteristics of a good man, not by overtly preaching to you, but by example and by gently guiding you.  (I think you have received only one spanking at his hands, and I have never heard him raise his voice to you or send you to your room for a time-out.)  And I can safely say that you owe your work ethic, your academic success, and your strength of character to your Dad, because they are a mirror image of him.  And while it may be your sunny personality and outgoing friendliness that attracts people to you to begin with, it is your basic goodness and decency, your stability, and your trustworthiness that keeps them by you.  Ask J'n.  I bet she says she loves you for your determination and steadfastness and perseverance.  All traits you learned from your Dad.

Your Dad was so proud of you when you graduated from high school.  And he was so proud to take you to college.  He is so proud of you for sticking with your job, even though it must be frustrating at times, when your dreams and aspirations are so much greater.  He sees the young man that you are becoming, and he is pleased and happy for you.

And that is why he was so deeply hurt by your behavior this weekend.  He knew ahead of time that you would get sucked into spending most of your time with your mom and her other kids.  He even commented that he figures that is how it will be for years to come – before you even got up here.  But he was still hoping for more than 10 hours of time with you.  (that’s all you gave your Dad you know – 10 hours of time that you were awake)  Your Dad spent all day on Monday hoping that you would call or come over, but you chose to spend it with others.  And your phone message last night and subsequent failure to call back as promised was a slap in the face.

Your Dad is nearly heart-broken J'y.  To be treated so casually by someone on whom you have lavished so much love is painful beyond words.  And for me to have to stand by and watch it happen is infuriating.

And so I say to you what your Dad will never say:  J', it is time to grow up. 

As a child of divorced parents I know how difficult it is to have to split your time between two sets of parents.  Throw in friends you want to visit, and it makes it even harder.  Been there, done that.  You know as well as I do that all you have to do is make a few sacrifices on your part. 

Sure your mom buys you large and lavish gifts.  (Guilt will make you do that - by your own admission, she has never bothered to visit you since you moved to Klamath Falls.  And while I went to more parent-teacher conferences than she did and she made few to none of your soccer games or lacrosse games or basketball games, she did buy you an x-box, got you a cell phone, took you shopping at American Eagle.)  Remember, she is just as capable of driving down to see you as we are, and her trips to Eugene could have been extended those few extra hours to see you.  Her choice not to see you, not yours, and certainly not ours.

Last night when we got home and found no promised second message from you, your Dad sadly said “I wonder if I have a son anymore.  Maybe he would rather we don’t intrude on his life.”  He went on to comment on the fact that N'l calls and texts and emails me regularly, but he only hears from you when you want something from us.  And all I could do was sit there and remind him that you are still very young, that you have time to mature and realize the value and importance of your Dad, and I hoped out loud that you will come to your senses and realize how much you need your Dad.

So J'y, as the wife of your Dad, and the woman who helped to raise you and who loves you as my own son, but who loves your Dad even more, I am telling you that you need to think about what I have said.  Yes, parts of it weren’t very nice to read.  But it is the truth.  There are things I have written that, although true and accurate, your Dad will never say to you because he will never say an unkind word about your mom to you – a courtesy he extends to you so that you don’t have to feel torn between your parents.

J'y, you owe your Dad an apology.  And you owe your Dad some sign of respect and attention and love.  This has been a hard year for him – Grandma and Grandpa and work have all proven extremely worrisome and frightening.  Don’t you make it even worse by continuing to turn you back on your Dad like you did this week.  Don’t make this good man who has only ever acted on your behalf, think that it was all for nothing. 

Don’t ever let me hear your Dad wonder if he has a son anymore.

I love you, J'y.  Remember that.  But most of all, remember that your Dad loves you.

A little family history

As a historian and a Civil War reencactor, I am particularly fond of a few items of family Civil War memorabilia that I own.  One is the bayonet that is supposedly a souvenir my great-great grandfather picked up from his Civil War days.  He was cavalry, so I am not sure what he would have wanted with an infantry rifle bayonet, but I have it, and would dearly love to unravel that mystery.

I also own his discharge papers, and some correspondence regarding his old-age pension.  All in all, I would guess I have about half a dozen pieces of John's service-related paperwork.

Another Civil War-era relic from that same grandsire is this:  

It's his presentation discharge from the army.  It details John's enlistment information (Pennsylvania Volunteer Cavalry, the battles he fought (quite a few, including one of the bloodiest cav battles of the war), and the terms and conditions of his discharge (honorable due to the end of the war).  As you can see, it has a lot of very colorful and detailed bits of artwork around the borders:

And at the very bottom of the whole thing is the dedication.  The wording is pretty plain:  "To the memory of his beloved wife Rebecca" - poor John, he was a widower by the time this fancy thing was made up.  But no, Rebecca was alive and well.  And there is the first bit of the real mystery.  Why would John dedicate this to the memory of his wife if she was still alive?

Which leads me to an interesting family story, and a hypothesis or two on my part.  You see, after the war, John returned home, married Rebecca, they had a son, and he settled down to working at a mill in the next county over.  John and Rebecca lived in town and John had a habit of walking home to work for lunch each day, then returning to the mill to finish his shift.  One day John didn't come back from lunch, and after work his buddies showed up to check on his health.

Imagine their surprise when Rebecca informed them that John had left to "find his fortune".  Imagine Rebecca's! 

Seven years later finds Rebecca filing for a common-law divorce citing John's abandonment as the reason.  Turns out John made it all the way to his parent's house where he lived to the end of his days, a white-bearded old man who wrote poetry in his spare time.

Rebecca eventually remarried and her second husband raised John's son.  John also had some part in his son, William's life, and there are photographs of them, along with William's son and grandson (my grandpa and uncle).

Obviously John knew good and well that Rebecca was alive and well when he received this presentation discharge.  So why in the world did he dedicate it to her memory?

Could be he was dedicating it to his memory of her from back in the day when they were married.  Could be that since she remarried she was "dead" to him.  And my family is always good for the grand gesture.  And martyrdom is something we do particularly well.    Alas, there are no family records to tell us what in the world was going through his head when he chose that dedication.

It is these objects - the bayonet, the various pieces of correspondence, and the presentation discharge - that I would like to have appraised some day.  Not in order to sell them, but to know their value for insurance purposes and to be able to impress on future generations of my family their value and importance.

Now if only I had some items belonging to John and Rebecca's son, William.  He had a interesting end to his life.....the police report says he committed suicide by straight razor.  But his wife (a second one) spent the end of her life in the state insane asylum.  I'll have to tell that story some other day.


Interested in your own family history?  Try Family Tree Maker 2011 Essentials and Genealogy Online for Dummies

Ugly, old, and not very hip

 Last Christmas Scott and I made the trek to Pennsylvania to visit my Mom for a couple of weeks.  We did a lot of talking, a lot of reminiscing, and a lot of snow shoveling!  And Mom gave us a present of a box of old ornaments.  The one I have above is the very old-fashioned glass kind circa 1960 or 1965.  It was green and silver back in the day.  Today the green has been washed out by sunshine and tree lights and time so that it is a sort of pale, barely-there minty green color.


I hated these ornaments growing up.  They seemed so understated and uncool.  (yeah, I was such a hip third grader!)  But when Mom gave me the box to open they were just what I wanted.  A bit of my past to put on my tree each year.  So this year, when we FINALLY started putting ornaments on the tree I had to put these on their first thing.  Now the tree continues with our family tradition of having only hand-me-downs from others.


The other ornament that I had to get on right away was this one:

Made out of a kleenex, glitter, and half of a green pipe cleaner with construction paper wings, it is just exactly what it looks like...an angel ornament made by a child.  Nathaniel made it for me many hundreds of years ago.  When he was at home he used to protest noisily about me including it on the tree, but I think secretly he was happy to see it up there.  He never took it down, never hid it, and it never "accidentally" got torn or lost, so I think he was glad to know I treasured it.

Nathaniel hasn't been home for Christmas for several years now.  This will be his third one away and I have been missing him something fierce this year.  Economics prevented me from spending the hundreds of dollars that it would cost to fly him out here from Miami.  But he is spending it with his Dad's family, so he won't be alone.  He'll hang with his cousins, stay up late, play lots of Spoons and Nertz, watch a lot of football, and get pampered by his Grandmother, so he will have a lovely Christmas.

But when Scott's family gathers around our tree tomorrow and we talk and laugh and eat and soak up the precious family time, a part of me will be missing my little boy.

The Nativity Set

This nativity set is another family "heirloom".  We bought it at Sears in about 1972, so it's not of great monetary value, nor is it particularly old nor rare.  But is is the nativity set with which I grew up.  

As a child I remember Mom and Dad setting it up, usually on top of the piano.  We were not allowed to touch it.  And so it was simply a piece of Christmas that was part of the whole process.  Nothing special.

Something happens to us, though, when we grow up and leave home.  In my case, I left home far, far behind, moving from PA to NC, OK, and finally out here in OR.  I had the opportunity to start my own family traditions.  I was on my own, all grown up, and independent.

And so I started to collect my childhood.  And insist on doing things just like we had done them back in the day.

Mom always baked dozens of cookies for Christmas.  Most were made while we were in school.  But the sandtarts, a sugar cookie that was cut with cookie cutters and then decorated with colored sugar and little candies, those were done when we were at home so that the kids could help out with the decorating.  Mom rolled the dough and cut the cookies, brushed them with egg white to make them shine, and then passed the tray on to us.  The four of us attacked the cookies with our decorations, striping bells, highlighting the tips of stars, putting buttons on gingerbread men, and outlining Santa's hat.  On Christmas morning those cookies were the featured item for our breakfast.  I don't know why this tradition got started, but I never complained - cookies and hot chocolate for breakfast and presents, too?!!?  Bliss!

So after I left home I scoured antique shops and estate sales until I found the cookie cutters like Mom had.  With the boys gone I don't make sandtarts anymore, but I need to know that I can make them, just like Mom, if I want to.  And while Scott thinks cookies for breakfast is disgusting, I still make sure there is at least one batch available.

But I digress.  Back to the nativity set.

Somewhere along the way, our nativity set came into my hands.  It could be that no one wanted it and it wasn't being used, so Mom gave it to me.  I just don't remember.  But what I do remember is how drastically the traditions surrounding it changed.  With no piano on which to enthrone it, the nativity set ended up on a coffee table.  My son, Nathaniel, who was a young boy at the time, was given the task of arranging the characters in some semblance of order.

He hit upon the idea of making the nativity set a sort of Advent calendar.  Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and the angel took center stage.  The Ox and Ass settled in next to them.  The lone shepherd with his half dozen sheep crept close.  And way off in the distance the Wise Men began their journey to see the newborn king.  Every night, before he went to bed, Nathaniel moved the three travelers with their lone camel a few steps closer to their destination.  By Christmas Eve they were close enough to see the Holy Family, but were not permitted to join in the adoration until Christmas morning.

These days, now that Nathaniel is gone, I simply set up the nativity set like you see it.  But as I do, I am flooded with memories of my childhood and that of my son.  And I know that I am blessed.

That plastic church

This little plastic music box church building used to be Scott's Grandmother's Christmas decoration.  (yet another item in our "Dead Grandmother Collection")  It's something he has had for more than 20 years, and when I first saw it I nearly cried.

You see, MY own Grandma had one of these, and it was passed on to our family.  It was one of those things that made its appearance each year, and was dutifully wound up so we all could listen to it play "Silent Night".

When we had it, I don't think it was a particular favorite of mine.  It just was a part of Christmas.  Because it always made an appearance it was the fabric of Christmas to me.  And something I didn't know I missed until I saw it again.

How fortunate that it is in my family again!

Every time I see it I am reminded of Scott's Grandmother, the one I never knew.  And my own Grandma James.  And my family when I was young.  Back when we decorated the tree with construction paper ornaments and Mom made about five hundred thousand cookies and there was always the right amount of snow on the ground.  Back when my memory is probably so dim that none of that really happened!

Each year when I unpack the "living room stuff" and set it out, I am always eager to find this church building.  I plug it in, wind it up, and continue on with my unpacking and placing of the various ornaments and doo-dads.  And I think about my family, some gone from this earth, some thousands of miles away, and I am grateful for another Christmas full of hope and joy.

Merry Christmas!

As of right now, apology NOT accepted

If someone told lies about you, what would you do?

I don't mean unintentional little fibs.  I mean full-throttle, out-and-out intentional untruths.

Lies designed to make you look bad.

Lies designed to make them look good or to cover their sorry butts.

And what would you do if you found out about those lies but the liar doesn't know that you know about them.  (does that make sense?)  And to compound it all, the liar writes you an apology email, in which he lumps all of those hurtful lies under the category of "I let stuff get out of control...[i]t was mostly me"?

Do you confront the liar?  Do you say "I understand that you told X these things and Y these other things.  Is this true?  Why did you lie about me?"

Do you let it go?  Forgive and move on?

Do you ignore the apology email or acknowledge it?

I heard that this apology email was probably on its way to me.  And, to be honest, I was looking forward to it.  Not that I wanted the writer to grovel, but because he and I used to be good friends.  The kind of good friends who tell each other the truth, and who listen to the other's advice and wisdom.  And he shunted me out of his life when I asked him if he was being honest in his dealings with his wife and family.  So I was hoping that his apology would be a sincere expression of regret for the lies he told about me, and for killing the messenger (so to speak).

Instead I got bragging about his accomplishments.  Whining about how another friend and I are mad at him.  And "I'm so sorry for [the] way things turned out between us".  And "I should not have reacted the way I did.  I regret doing that!"

I know, men are never good at saying "I was wrong.  I am sorry."  (I know, blatant sexism on my part - sorry, but that has been my experience)  And maybe for this guy, this is as close to that as I will ever get.

But what bugs me is that he never acknowledged the fact that he intentionally lied in order to turn people against me and to bolster his self-importance.

He was dishonest and behaved in the most unfriendly manner possible, and yet he turns it around to sound like I am the one who told him to take a hike!

Ultimately, as I told the friend who told me the apology was coming, I feel as though I have been wronged.  I am hurt by his betrayal.  I want a sincere apology.  I want him to admit to what he said and did.  But I don't think that is going to happen.

Nothing

Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in a world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it.

Impossible is not a fact.  It’s an opinion.

Impossible is not a declaration.  It’s a dare.

Impossible is potential.

Impossible is temporary.

Impossible is nothing.

- Mohammed Ali

I have this quote on the front of a notebook filled with my list of 101 things that I am going to accomplish in the next 1001 days.  As you know, some of the things on the list are simple:  keep fresh flowers in the house year-round, go to the Pendleton Round-up, call Mom once a week. 

Then there are those which will take a lot of time and effort to accomplish:  make a wool quilt for Scott to take reenacting, take an online class each term, become an instructor at work, donate and save as much money as I spend. 

Others are more difficult because of the time and/or money involved:  PR a marathon, camp alone at least three nights, see a Steeler game at Heinz field. 

And a few seem to fall into that “impossible” category:  climb Mt. Hood, lose 90 pounds, hike the Pacific Crest Trail across Oregon from the California border to the Washington border.

But there really aren’t any impossible goals on my list.  Each and every one is attainable.  With the patience, hard work, dedication, and willingness to sacrifice to make them happen.

It’s easy to call my Mom once a week.  Pick up the phone and do it.  And it’s enjoyable.  Mom is fun to talk to.  She is still a busy lady.  She has friends and kids and work and church to tell me about.  And, of course, I love her.  So calling Mom once a week isn’t a chore at all.

Donating and saving as much money as I spend will take some self-discipline and self-sacrifice.  Even though we are just talking about my “personal” budget, not the family budget, to slash it into thirds is easy on paper.  But in reality it is tough.  While it is fun to imagine the savings growing and growing, and it is satisfying to make those donations, it is hard to realize that some of the other things on my list are going to take a while longer if I stick to this one.  Yes, you’re right:  I am an American and I hate to say no to myself.

Which leads me to some of those “impossible” tasks.  Let’s be honest, people climb Mt. Hood and hike the PCT all the time.  People who know what they are doing.  People who have prepared.  People who have the right equipment.  People who are in shape.  So it seems that in order to accomplish those two tasks I am going to have to succeed in that other impossible task:  lose 90 pounds.  Because I can’t climb a 11,249 foot tall mountain or hike 430 miles in the late summer/early fall when I am furloughed from work (maybe 6 weeks of time to do it before the rains start up) if I am lugging all of this extra weight with me.  And so out of shape that you can hear me gasping for air half a mile away!

The great thing about this list is that right now, almost all of the things on it are impossible to complete this week.  There is so much time and effort and money involved in completing all 101 items, that it would be impossible to do it all right away.

But if I break down each task and tackle it one step at a time, this list moves from impossible to possible.

Finish my dad’s photo album?  Not right this minute.  But if I work on it for an hour a week, completing one section before I start on the next, labeling photos, and archiving documents as I go, I will find it is completed well before 2013.

Watch all of Katharine Hepburn’s movies?  Not this weekend.  But give me one movie a week and I can do it in 45 weeks.  And have a blast in the process.

Lose 90 pounds.  Not by New Year’s Day.  Or even by my birthday in April.  And the task looks nigh on impossible if I try to lose 90 pounds.  But lose 5 pounds, now that I can do.  And again.  And again.  And again.  I have over two years to get it done, so I know that I can do so.  And there is no reason I have to lose all the weight before I hike the PCT or scale Mt Hood or PR a marathon or run a race in sub-10:00 miles. 

Difficult?  You bet!  Hard work?  No doubt!  Impossible?  Not even close.

What impossible things can YOU accomplish?

I think my job is causing PRE-traumatic stress disorder

My new boss is making me feel a little paranoid.  Since I now work for the US government and am therefore a public employee (meaning I work for you, thank you very much!) I am required to have perfect taxes.  Not that you will get to see my tax return, nope not that public of an employee!  But we all have to have flawless tax returns.  All the time.  Flawless.

And to make certain that I follow the rules, my taxes will be audited from here on out.  By other IRS employees.  Looking for mistakes.  Trying to create a workforce that is without blame when it comes to their federal tax returns.

Now I am an honest person.  I never really played the "who can screw the IRS" games.  Partly because I always figured that I would get caught.  But mostly because my parents taught me to be honest.  To do the right thing.  Not to monkey around with the truth.

So my (our) taxes have never been a source of fear for me.  I knew that they were accurate (except for the time that I decided to add up our income by hand and didn't use a calculator and forgot to carry the one, which resulted in reporting $10,000 less than we made.  OUCH that hurt when the bill came due!)  And I knew I hadn't done anything fast and loose with the law.

But now that I know that they will be reviewed with a microscope I am nervous.  I picture a room full of cranky agents, all in fedoras and smoking cigars, rifling through tax returns.  Suddenly one shouts out "Ah HAH!" as he leaps to his feet, brandishing a tax return with an error on it.  And the one that is in that agent's hand is, of course, ours.  Immediately another agent is dispatched to my cubicle, the lovely, much longed-for cubicle with the window, and I am dragged to the elevator to the 11th floor where other agents await me.  I am mercilessly grilled in a small windowless room with a bright light and finally told, with disgust, to gather my things and leave the building forever.

I know that in reality it will be nothing like that.  And I know that I have nothing to fear.  But I can't help worrying.  So I am eagerly awaiting the 2010 tax forms and publications and tables and schedules.  And our W-2s.  I need to get started on our taxes.

I figure that if I do them every week for three months I should have a consensus return to mail in by April 15.

But we already have a perfectly good couch - two, in fact!

My husband is of German extraction.  But his first name is Scott.  And he is definitely more "Scot" than German.  Take our furniture.  Our house is full of what I call "dead grandmother furniture".  We own one of his grandmother's couch.  End table.  Dining room table.  Coffee table.  Bookcases.  Dry sink.  Tea cart.  Another coffee table.  Dressers.  Don't get me wrong, with the exception of the table (which was found by a grandfather in the attic of a house they had as rental property and so is at least 50 years old) this is good stuff.  Almost all of it is Ethan Allen furniture.  Gorgeous solid wood furniture that would cost a fortune today.  And all in the totally dated "Colonial America" style.

The "new" stuff we includes the bedroom set Scott bought when he bought this house.  Over 23 years ago.  The dining room table I bought 25 years ago.  The book case my dad made 43 years ago.  The antique dressing table, circa 1920.

The totally modern stuff includes the furniture we purchased together:  two cheap bookcases we got at Fred Meyers and a futon.

And that's it.

My house is full of stuff that is over 20 years old, and some of it is older than either of us!

So on my list of 101 things is a couch.  I want a new couch.  One that was not made by the Pilgrim forefathers.  One that was not originally owned by a lovely lady who has been dead for 10 or 20 years.  One that my husband doesn't remember playing on as a boy.  A couch that has soft cushions and doesn't require a board under the seats to help brace the sagging upholstery.  A couch that looks like someone my age would own, not someone my grandmother would buy.

I have no idea what this couch looks like.  While I am partial to Victorian furniture, I don't think I want to go there.  Instead, something that is comfy, long enough for Scott to stretch out on when he is watching late night TV, and not too fru-fru with pillows and such.  So I guess it's off to go couch hunting some time soon.  Just to see what's out there.  And what a good couch costs these days.  Then I will have to start saving and saving and saving.  'Cause I have a feeling that Scott (Scot) will have a cow when I tell him how much a new couch will cost!

Fingers crossed and hoping I am wrong

You know how sometimes you just get a feeling about how a day is going to go?  Well I have one of those feelings today.  And the feeling is that today isn’t going to go well.

On Wednesday, as Scott was driving me in to work he noticed the battery light come on.  Not good.  So he dropped me off and headed home.  The Ford guys couldn’t see our truck until Thursday, but fortunately we have my little car.  Yesterday we dropped the truck off in the wee hours of the morning (hooray, making Scott get up at 6 on his Christmas break!  She says sarcastically).  Eventually they called to say that there are a myriad of problems, total cost, over $600, and the truck will be ready sometime on Friday.

Then late last night FIL calls.  Seems caregiver called to say she is very worried about MIL.  MIL is totally unresponsive.  She appears to be retaining fluids in a massive quantity (I guess she is “squishy” to the touch).  So, get this, caregiver and FIL decided to put a call in to the hospice nurse to come out to check on MIL this morning and give an opinion as to what to do.

WTF?  (yes, I have to start over again, again, on the whole not saying the F-word….this is turning out to be harder than I thought it would be)

We don’t call 9-1-1 for an ambulance?  We just let her stew for 12+ hours and THEN there will be another conference between the hospice nurse and the caregiver, and then one between one or both of them and FIL BEFORE we actually decide on what to do?

After Scott hung up the phone last night (sadly, I wasn’t in on the conversation, so none of those things got said or asked or whatever) he calmly told me that he thinks the end is near. 

I agree.

But then we thought that about MIL twice before.

So who knows?

What I do know is that Scott and I are heading over to the caregiver’s this morning before work to see MIL (my brilliant idea…..if this is the end, I want to see her and say goodbye, and I know that Scott doesn’t want to get the call and then wish he had done the same).  We’ll arrive before official visiting hours, but I don’t think the caregiver will care.  Personally, I don’t care.  I also plan to keep my phone handy and instruct Scott to call me as soon as he hears anything.  I’m not supposed to have my phone out at work, but I will simply let the managers know what is up.  Because I am not waiting 2 or 3 hours from getting the call to talk to Scott.

I know, things may turn out better than all of this.  But somehow I don’t think so.

On closer examination...

Working through my list of 101 things to do has been interesting to say the least.  Once the list is compiled (and that was a difficult task in and of itself) then I had to write a series of steps for each goal.  Then transfer the first step to a "to-do" list so I can get to work.

In creating the to-do list I find that a lot of my goals are contingent on me accomplishing another goal first.  Many of my goals involve money in some form or fashion.  So that means I need to budget and save for them.  So quite a few of my goals will have to remain in the window-shopping or planning stages until I get the budget done.

And speaking of window-shopping, there are a number of goals that require me to do that - spend some time looking around at the possibilities and then making a choice regarding what I want.

It has been so many years since I have done that!  Yesterday I just looked at ONE online store that sells ladies' cowboy boots and was overwhelmed by the choices.  Ankle boot or tall boot?  (while the ankle boots are pretty cool, and I wouldn't mind having a pair of them, I envisioned tall boots, so that is the way I am going)  Black or brown?  Or colorful?  What kind of leather?  What kind of design?  Simple top-stitching or fancy inlays?  And then I have to decide if I like them enough to wait to save $200 or $300 or $500.  For a pair of boots.  But man, are some of them amazingly awesome.....

I also need to window shop for couches, wooden window blinds, paint, curtains, flooring, desks, laptops, filing cabinets.  The list is an endless parade of catalogs and stores and online views.  What fun!

I also have a lot of research to do.  What do I want to see in Hawai'i?  How much does an appraiser charge?  Can you get certification to be a life coach?  What classes do the local community colleges offer online?  Does my insurance carrier offer information on braces?  Plastic surgery?  What are some reputable tattooing places in town?  What does a tattoo cost anyway?

So while there are a few things that I can get to work on right away (I had to restart my no F-word efforts after my test yesterday - missed two stupid questions because I didn't read the whole form correctly! - see I need to stop saying that so much!) there will be a lot of prep work for most of them.

But I had better get busy.  The days are ticking down!

Mindfulness

Becoming mindful is on my list of things to do.  And while it sounds silly and New-Agey even to me, I think it is important.

I will have to get some books on the subject to make sure that we are talking about the same thing, but what I am striving for is the ability to actually experience my life.  It seems that I rush around checking things off my list simply because they are on my list:  get up, read my emails, make breakfast, hit the gym, shower, dress for work, pack my lunch, go to work, sit in class and try to behave, come home, unpack the lunchbox, sit and watch tv until I fall asleep.  Rinse and repeat.

Now I'm not complaining about my life mind you.  It's more a complaint about how I live it and how I seem to be trying to survive it.

So I am hoping that some guidance in slowing down or turning on my brain to think about what I am doing, or something like that will help.

And if you have any book or article suggestions to make I will gladly take them!

Get Braces

Since (one of) you asked, I thought I would explain the whole "get braces" thing.

When I was a child my mouth didn't seem to fit my face.  I know, our faces and heads don't grow much over the years, but it seemed to me that my mouth was far too large for the rest of me.  And my teeth - they seemed to loom over the rest of my face.

Sure, I was overly self-conscious.  What girl child isn't?  Add to that the constant knowledge that others saw my sisters as prettier than me, and I did, too, and an overdose of introspection, and my large and crooked teeth seemed to always make their own appearance.  There are photos of me as a fourth and fifth grader trying to smile with my mouth closed.  THAT'S how much my teeth bothered me.

To others, especially today, my teeth may not seem all that crooked.  And they certainly don't bother me, nor are they out of place so that proper dental hygiene is difficult.  But I am still self-conscious of my teeth.  When someone compliments me on my smile I always want to cover my mouth with my hand.  And when I see photos of me, my crooked teeth, especially my prominent canines, are all that I can see. 

My sisters have the same smile.  Well, at least two of them do.  And when I see girls #2, #3 and #4 smile, or when I see a photo of all of us together smiling, all I can do is inwardly wince.  All those teeth!  All those canines!

So I have wanted braces since I was about 12.  My folks couldn't afford them for any of us.  (Heck, I didn't go to the dentist until I was well in my mid-30s.  Dental care was for those in pain.)  And every time I get dental insurance I look to see what orthodontic coverage it has, and dream of getting braces.  Well, this insurance has the necessary coverage WITHOUT requiring me to wait 12 or 24 months, so I thinking that this is my time.  Scott is fine with me getting braces.  And these days it seems like most kids have them on for significantly shorter periods of time than they did back when I was jealously watching all of my friends endure the agonies of tightenings and rubberbands.

But soon I will get to join them.

Happiness!

Cleaning up my potty mouth

Yeah, I know.  Not the most auspicious start to my blog, but as I looked over my list of 101 things to accomplish in the next 1001 days, this is the one that really popped out at me as needing immediate attention.

I grew up in a family that did not swear.  We didn't even say "darn" or "gosh".  Those euphemisms were considered to be just as bad as saying the real thing.

And as I grew up I refrained from saying anything remotely naughty. Mom frowned and scolded me if I so much as lowered myself to saying "butt".  Gotta give them credit.  My folks tried to teach me to sound lady-like and mature.

All went well until about 5 years ago.  Sure, sometimes when I got REALLY mad I would descend to saying "crap".  But for the most part I had a clean vocabulary that would make anyone's maiden aunt proud.

Like I said, until about 5 years ago.  That was when I went to work as a 9-1-1 operator and police dispatcher.  Talk about high-stress job.  Getting frantic calls from frantic people desperate for immediate help.  Who, bless them, didn't usually stop to consider their language when talking to me.

So I started hearing more and more "potty talk" in my life.  And you know that what you hear begins to influence what you say.

Add to that the fact that everyone who works in that kind of call center is a super-duper type A personality, and they didn't hesitate to use the most colorful language known to mankind.

Slowly but surely, I began to adopt the language of my surroundings.  First some mild profanity.  Then some crudities.  And finally full-fledged obscenities, laced with plenty of F@$%s.  The sad thing?  I didn't even realize how coarse my vocabulary was becoming in my daily life until my sweetie began to bemoan the fact that his wife was swearing like a longshoreman.  Or worse.

I was never so embarrassed as the evening I was having trouble with a dispatch net.  It seemed that every broadcast  I made I messed up somehow or other.  And after one particularly long flurry of changes I discovered that I had put the wrong officer on the call.  "F@$%" I muttered under my breath.  Five seconds later I received an email from the duty sgt that simply said "I heard that".  "Heard WHAT?" I wondered.  And immediately realized that I had my foot on the pedal, broadcasting over the entire city, my lovely choice of vocabulary. 

Lucky for me the sgt. on duty was kind.  I had to stand a lot of ribbing from the officers, but I wasn't officially reprimanded for my language.  I could have been.  And if he wanted to really make a big deal out of it, I could have been suspended for it.

I realized that I was becoming hardened to the language around me - and coming from me - the night I was answering 9-1-1 calls and had a distraught man on the phone.  Literally every other word out of his mouth was F@$%.  Normally I simply ignored profanity and vulgarity, even when directed at me personally.  But that evening the call was so intense, and the caller was so prolific in his use of the word F@$% that I literally could not understand what he was saying to me.  I tried to get him to relax and calm down, but it was futile.  Finally, in desperation I said "Sir, if you don't stop saying F@$% every other word I will never be able to understand you and get you the help you need." 

Again, I was fortunate, and the caller was shocked into relative calm and we got the help to him that he needed.  But if I had been less fortunate, I could have gotten fired and publicly humiliated for that one.  Every call made to our 9-1-1 call center is recorded and all calls are matters of public record.  Had the caller complained about my word choice, there would have been no getting around what I said.  And I would NOT have like having that call broadcast on the evening news!

I have left that job behind me (there are only so many 5 pm to 3 am shifts I can work in my life, and I believe that I have worked them all) and the stress has dissipated from my life.  But the sad truth is that I still have quite the potty mouth on me.

So when I started putting my list of 101 things to accomplish in 1001 days this was a no-brainer.  I worry that I will slip and give my mom a heart attack with my mouth one of these days.  (thank goodness that I live on the other side of the continent from her)  And I would rather not say things that make me blush to hear coming from my own mouth.

Starting today I am counting the days.  Let's see if I can make it 7 days without saying F@$%.