My blood type

I was born and raised in Steeler Country.  I am a member of the Steeler Nation, and I bleed black and gold.  I remember the Immaculate Reception. I remember the Steel Curtain.  Mean Joe Greene.  Jack Lambert.  Ham.  Bradshaw.  Franco Harris.  Lynn Swann.  Chuck Noll.  Myron Cope - yoi!

I made a celebratory cake designed to look like the Terrible Towel after we won our fourth Super Bowl.

I adore the Rooneys and trust them to make the right choices for the team.  They have proven themselves right time and time again, both in choosing the right players to become Steelers, in letting the wrong players go, and in standing behind Big Ben.  The choice of Mike Tomlin surprised us all - and we are delighted with the foresight and wisdom behind our amazing new young coach.

The Rooneys and the Steeler Nation think of themselves as all part of the same Steeler Family.  And the Steelers were some of the glue that held my father and I together when I was a teen and parents were the worst invention ever.  (I am still jealous that my sister, Barb, got to run a race with my dad and a group of the Steelers back in the day - what a treat!)  My son was taught from birth to be a Steeler, and to hate the Cowboys, the Raiders, the Brownies, and now the Ravens.  Just as a common love of the Steelers bridged the inevitable gap between my dad and I, it did the same thing for my son and I years later.  And that common love for the Steelers has given my 10-year-old nephew and I something to talk and text about although separated by over 3000 miles.

So, as you can imagine, I was thrilled when the Steelers made it to the Super Bowl.  With six Super Bowl rings firmly on our hands, we were dreaming of number seven.  My husband, a native Oregonian, and my father-in-law, also a PNW-er, were amazed that the score at the end of the first quarter didn't cause me any great grief.  Ditto for the score at halftime.  I explained to them that I had confidence in my team, and that as long as we were within a touchdown with the ball in hand and two minutes on the clock, the Steelers have shown that a victory is still firmly within their grasp.

Sadly, this was not the year for us to gain that seventh ring.  People who know that I am a Steeler fan asked if I was upset by the final score.  Of course I was sad.  But not angry.  It was a good game, no bad calls, no really dirty play.  There were mistakes that shouldn't have been made.  But all-in-all, it was the Super Bowl that we all hoped for, only with the wrong final score.

So what is the purpose of this blog?  None, really, I guess.  I just wanted to talk about my Steelers one last time this season.  With a lockout looming on April 1 I wonder if there will be a draft.  Will there be preseason practices for my sister and her son to attend?  Will February of 2012 bring us another Super Bowl, or were those predictions of Armageddon in 2012 accurate, and next winter will bring no football.

I am a member of the Steeler Nation, and I bleed black and gold.

You're not getting older, you're getting....

I'm going grey.

Actually, this is not a news flash.  My first five grey hairs came in overnight about 20 years ago when I was working as a men's dorm supervisor.  An angry student swung at me and the dean chose not to expel him.  But I did get a restraining order which made it almost impossible for the guy to live in the dorm.  (and once again, I have gone off topic before I even finish the first paragraph.)

No, I've been going grey for 20 years now.  But I've been coloring my hair for about, oh, 18 years.  Sometimes I am light brown.  Sometimes I am dark brown.  Reddish.  Auburn.  Caramel.  Mocha.  A touch of burgundy.  And one memorable experiment gone badly awry when it became sort of orange-y.  If I had to tell you my actual hair color, which I do for ID purposes, I say "brown" but I could not pick out the right color to save my life.

But life has been so busy that I haven't been able to find time to re-color it.  And so I have about two inches of grey growing in.  Sadly, it isn't 100% grey, it's about one third grey and the rest is brown.  Enough grey to notice it, but not enough to look cool.

With no time to fix it, I have reverted to my childhood hairstyle:  Pull back the front into two barrettes and call it good.

So my aging hair has caused me to wear it like a child.

I don't mind this hairstyle.  It's easy.  The headset at work doesn't mess it up.  No expensive "product" involved.  And drying and styling time is minimal.

I wonder if this means I have given up, or have come to terms.

By not staying up until oh-dark-thirty in the morning to get it colored, have I made the decision that I don't care how I look, since I am old?  Have I lost interest in the fight against aging?  Against becoming my mother?  Against looking my age?  (how un-American!)

Or have I come to terms with the fact that, although my father blessed me with his genetic makeup which makes me look a good 5 to 8 years younger than I am, I am, indeed, closer to 50 than to 40?  Heck, closer to 50 than to 45!  Am I finally able to embrace the fact that I am not a child, not a teen, not a young woman, but a middle-aged woman?  I have a child who is closer to 30 than to 20 and my mother is in her early 70s.

Is this a sort of mid-life....not "crisis", but perhaps mid-life peace?

It's nice to think that maybe, after warring with myself for my entire life, I am finally accepting who I am.  I'd like to think that this is the answer to why my grey hair is out there for everyone to see.

But I suspect that the real answer is that I am just too busy, and some weekend when we have nothing going on, you'll find me in the bathroom experimenting with the latest color.  Maybe strip it and see how I look with totally white hair.......

I suck at my job

I really do.


My job is to take calls from tax payers who have questions about the tax law.  You have a question, maybe "can I claim my granddaughter as a dependent?" and call to find out.  I am supposed to ask you some specific questions, discover you if you meet the criteria to claim the girl, and then tell you "yes" or "no" and why.  Give you the information, educate you as to why, and move on to the next caller.

Problem is, I can't do it.

In the process of taking your call I find out that you are a single person, low income, you sound scared (who isn't, calling the IRS?!), you don't really seem to know a lot about the tax law, and I suspect that you qualify for the Earned Income Credit and the Making Work Pay Credit, both refundable credits that would put some money in your pocket.  But I am not supposed to offer this info.  I AM NOT YOUR TAX ADVISOR!  I am here to answer your question, the end.

It's killing me, not to help these people.  So I find creative ways to phrase my questions so that I can tell you about the credits without just telling you.  In the course of asking the required questions I phrase them in such a way that you ask what it is, so I can tell you a bit about the credit, and then (if we're lucky) you ask if you can get that, too.  When it all works according to plan, I am such a happy camper.  But I have a feeling I am going to get busted for it someday. 

Then there was the combat-wounded veteran I talked to.  He called because money that was to be non-taxable was listed as taxable.  Come to discover, this is something that the courts ordered corrected TWENTY YEARS AGO and the computer programs still haven't been corrected.  I could tell him how to "fix" part of it on his tax return, but the rest - well, finally I had to suggest he call him congressman and senator to get it corrected.  The telephone number I had for him to call to get the other corrections taken care of was one that he already had called.  And their response was basically "sucks to be you."

This was three days ago and I am still steamed about it.

Every day there are people I talk to who simply need some guidance.  They need an advocate.  They need a person who will point them in the right direction.  They aren't looking for someone to do it for them.  They aren't looking for a free ride (although I get plenty of them, too).  They are just simply ignorant of the law, ignorant of their rights, ignorant of how to work through the system.  They want to do things properly, and they sure don't want to arouse the wrath of the IRS.  But they just don't know.

And I want to help them.  But it's not my job.  For every person I spend extra time sneakily finding ways to tell them things they don't know, I am making two others wait on the phone longer than they should have to wait.  It's a catch-22.  Either I help everyone a little bit but not enough, or I help a few people fully and make the others do without.

I'm not complaining about my job, or what I am supposed to do.  I completely understand that I was NOT hired by the US government to be a tax advisor to these folks.  But my instinct is to help; to offer them the full benefit of my knowledge and the tax code.  But that isn't what you all are paying me for.

Anyone want to pay me to be a tax advisor to the good citizens of this country who want to do it right but don't have a clue?

Serenity and Elvis and Making Peace with Your Life

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

I grew up with this prayer and I have to admit I hated it.  It seemed so weak and wimpy.  Maybe because it was one of those responsive readings, and hearing a hundred or more people muttering it on a Sunday morning made the prayer seem embarrassing or silly.

As an adult I ran into it again in various 12-step programs.  Again, it was muttered by the attendees, but since it's Portland, the "God" part was taken out, so we could be addressing whatever divinity or life force or universe we preferred.  (This is the city that houses the Church of Elvis, after all!)

But just a few years ago I ran across another bunch of 12-steppers who did not hurriedly mumble their supplication, reading if from a card or paper.  Instead, they had it memorized and, with heads up, loudly made their demands.

These men and women required serenity.  There were things in their lives beyond their control and they needed serenity to accept that fact.

They wanted courage.  Some things are within our control and must be addressed and changed, no matter how difficult, and so they wanted the courage to set to those difficult tasks.

And the demanded wisdom.  No sense in courageously attacking things beyond our control, now is there?

I loved these people for their faith and dependence and wisdom.  They knew what they wanted and they were not afraid to ask for it.

I thought of the prayer and that little band of stalwarts this morning when I finally decided, at 430, to go ahead and get out of bed.  My yesterday went from bad to worse (no, not MIL issues) and by 930 last night just about everything that could have gone wrong, had.  I won't bore you with details, but suffice it to say my doctor's visit wasn't a 100% happy one, I ended up being 2 hours late to work because of it (thank goodness for sick time to cover that), as the day ended I was handed info on 2 calls that I made that I will be reviewed on today and they were bad calls.  I have been tossing and turning and worrying and fretting all day and all through the night.  (Okay, not tossing and turning at work, but you get my meaning)

But about an hour ago I realized that what is done is done and it can't be undone.  No sense in fretting over it.  Learn from my mistakes and move on.  No, the review will not be pleasant.  And yes, my conviction that my manager doesn't like me will only be solidified by this process, so I will have to work on not taking anything personally, but professionally.  And no, the doctor's visit wasn't quite as positive as I would have liked, but he didn't shake his head and somberly pronounce me dead, so there's that to consider!  (I did have to laugh at my doc, because I think he might be 25 years old.  Or going on 25.  And he was acting all wise and grandfatherly with me as if he was the kindly family GP from a Norman Rockwell painting.  Not condescending or anything, just acting and speaking about 40 years older than he appears to be,)


Today, as I face the music at work and in other areas of my world, I will have to keep this in the forefront of my mind:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

And maybe I'll stop at church on the way in to work!

Am I smarter than......

Why is #7 on my list "Become a member of MENSA"?  It's really a vanity thing for me.  And maybe a bit of wishful, or wistful, thinking.

I have mentioned before that growing up with three younger sisters meant that we were labeled.  For the convenience of others who couldn't seem to keep us straight.  There was the pretty one, the athletic one, the funny one, and then I was the smart one.  Back then I believed it.  I was the smart one.  Not funny, pretty, or athletic.  But smart.

However, you wouldn't have guessed it based on my behaviors.  I dated the wrong guys, I didn't bother trying in school (although I did take all the AP classes that were out there), I went to an easy-to-get-into college, I married the wrong guy (note to all you single gals out there - if, as you are standing there at your wedding, you find yourself thinking "I can say 'no'.  Sure it will cause an uproar, but Mom and Dad will take care of returning gifts, making apologies, and shielding me.  I really should say 'no'." then SAY 'NO' YOU SILLY GIRL!!  (sorry, had to get that out of my system)

Anyway.  My life has been one stupid mistake after another.  Things that I knew better and did them any way, or didn't, as the case may be.  Getting a degree in Medieval History.  NOT getting a PhD while I could.  Running injured.  Staying in jobs that were literally killing me.  Ignoring good advice.  And on and on.

These days I am feeling pretty dumb.  I look over my thesis and I can barely believe that person who wrote it is me - I swear I don't even know what all the words mean!  I have a Master's degree and have taught at colleges and universities but I  work in a call center.

I find myself doing stupid things or foolish things or silly things and I say to myself "If you're the smart one, how the heck do your sisters even survive?"  I am only half joking when I say it.

I know that there was never a "smart one" or an "athletic one" or any other "one".  We were all each of those girls, just in varying degrees at that moment in time.  And there was no stasis - our smartness or prettiness or funniness levels waxed and waned.  Even today you can't label us that way.  We still are all four works in progress.

But I need something to validate that smart girl part of me.  So MENSA is my choice.  I know, there are all sorts of smarts out there, and successfully meeting the requirements of membership no more "proves" me smart than failure to do so "proves" me dumb.  But is has always been one of those "wouldn't it be cool if..." things, so I am going to try it.

I have sent in for, and received, the practice test.  Now I need to find 30 minutes of quiet to take the test, then mail it in and see what the preliminary analysis is.  If it looks good, I will schedule an appointment to take the real test, with a live proctor, later this spring.

As long as they don't do background checks, looking for "100 foolish things you've done in the past that exclude you from MENSA" I should be okay!

Looking to test your wits?  Try Match Wits With Mensa: The Complete Quiz Book (Mensa Genius Quiz) or The Mensa Genius Quiz-a-day Book

What's in a name?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0SSeACInqw

To start, go ahead and click on the link.  That will give you a soundtrack for this blog.  It's been going through my head all morning, so you might as well share the love!

I've been thinking about names a lot recently.  My mother-in-law is "Libby" - always has been.  But her legal name is "Elizabeth".  DO NOT CALL HER ELIZABETH!  She never liked the name, never answered to it.  She is Libby.  If you looked at all of her official documents - driver license, bank records, old W-2s, you would swear her name is Libby.  Poor old unloved Elizabeth.  Nowhere to be found.

My mom is Betty.  Also not an Elizabeth.  But she never was.  Her given name is "Betty".  And if you offered to make her an Elizabeth, she would smack you.  She doesn't like the name.  At least not for her.  She likes QUEEN Elizabeth just fine, can't imagine her being "Queen Betty", but don't call Mom "Elizabeth."

My name isn't really "Kate".  I don't care for my first name, so over 20 years ago I just decided to go by Kate.  Someday I will have to go make it legal and official.  I've only ever been Kate to Scott and my Oregon family.  Heck, my son has heard me go by Kate for almost his entire life.  If you asked him what my full name is, I bet he would start with "Kate".

It seems name things are mostly a female issue.  Is it Barb or Barbie or Barbara?  Jean or Jeanie?  Melissa or Missy?  Maureen or Mo?  Caroline or Carol?  We care about what we are called.  Men usually don't mind.  (Although I do have an Uncle Earl who has been "Uncle Bud" always and forever.  His son is a junior, and so goes by "Little Bud".)

At work I have been collecting unique and unusual first names.  When folks are calling to verify their ability to claim a child as a dependent I will ask for the child's first name, so that I can call him or her by name, rather than just "your kid".  So far I have run across a girl named London.  Her brother is Polo.  Her OTHER brother is Tatiano.  (Note the "o" on the end - that makes is masculine and so is fine for a boy's name - that's what mom told me)  There is a young lady named Integra.  Another named Miracle.  And one named J.  Just the letter.  There was one interesting boy's name.  It seems the parent/s were torn between something ethnic and something very Roman Empirish when they chose the name Keyontavius for their son.  What in the world is the name HIS friends call him??

Shakespeare said "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" and yet Juliet plaintively requested that Romeo "Deny thy father and refuse thy name" so it sounds like even The Bard was conflicted about names.  But my Dad never was.  Although his name is not the sort to cause any confusion (it was "John" after all!) folks still managed to mess it up, mostly because he had a "first name" for a last name, too.  Bu Dad didn't care.  He always said "Call me anything you want.  Just don't call me late for dinner."


If that little taste of Southern Fried Rock made you hungry for more....Lynyrd Skynyrd - All Time Greatest Hits

Nearing the end

This photo was taken in May or June of 2010.  Just 6 months ago.  We (Scott, Jeremy, and Jenn and I) had gone to visit Libby who was recuperating from her broken hip in a nearby nursing home.  Libby wasn't in any pain, and was able to talk and laugh with us while we visited.  I like this photo because it is one of the last ones that show Libby really "with" us.

I wrote a big old blog and then deleted it, because nothing is coming out right.  The short version (if I can keep this one short) is that it is a matter of hours now.  I'm heading off to sit with her (is that a woman thing?  an East Coast thing?  all I know is that Scott and Marv see no reason for me to do it, and I can't imagine NOT doing it) in a few hours, and will stay until the end or they send me home.  I'm guessing I am over my cold enough for it not to be a problem for anyone else in the house, and I don't think it's going to matter to Libby's health, one way or the other.