I recently read in the newspaper about a Tuskegee veteran whose medal was stolen when someone broke into his house. There has been a little hue and cry regarding this crime-especially since the victim is a WW2 veteran, but reading the article brought back my own memories of when our house was burglarized. Keep in mind, each person's story, each person's reaction is different, and regardless of what was stolen, there is a sense of violation after one's house has been burgled.
December 6, 2007, I thought I had an afterschool meeting, so my son was with my mom, and this ultimately meant we were late getting home. That evening, I parked in front of our house because we had so much to carry in and I wasn't in the mood to try to get past our two dogs with all our stuff. I was helping my son out of the car when our two dogs ran up to us. I was mystified; the dogs were supposed to be in the backyard, how did they get out? As I walked up to our gate, I realized that it looked like it had been kicked in. I also briefly noticed the claw marks on the wooden fence. Ultimately, I believe the dogs had been teased into jumping at the fence, leaving long claw marks. Our back gate faced an alley, and it too had been kicked in. My heart dropped. I knew we had been buglarized; one of my greatest fears was coming true.
The burglars used a crowbar to break the glass on the back door, and our house was thoroughly searched. It was a mess! They also used a crowbar on our garage door, and our truck was gone as were most of the keys we had hanging in the hallway. Our mattress was partially on the floor, underwear was all over the room, drawers were broken, and they even searched my wedding dress box. The crime scene tech asked if we'd made someone mad or if we were trying to jump into a gang. He said the mess that was made was usually done by someone pissed and looking for drugs or as someone was jumping into a gang. The only traceable evidence was a bloodstain left on our bedspread.
I was in shock. As I put my house back together, I couldn't believe someone would feel the right to break into my house, touch my stuff, steal my memories, and make me feel unsafe. I felt violated. The only two stolen items that eventually were found were our truck and my husband's antique hatchet. And the damage to our truck! We couldn't stand the sight or the stench of our beloved truck.
While the goods that were stolen were (mostly) replaceable, what wasn't replaceable was peace of mind. I couldn't go home for weeks without circling the block and the alley to make sure it was safe for us to go in. I hated being home alone. I locked everything. Worst of all, I couldn't be in the backyard anymore. Our poor dogs were freaked out for weeks, so I have no idea what the burglars did to them. My 'final straw' came after our burlgary, after our garage and fence were tagged again, when my husband's work truck mirror was smashed by a bottle one night. I was done with that house and that neighborhood. Within three months of the mirror incident, we sold our house and left the neighborhood.
My sense of violation has slowly dissipated over the past three years. I still lock everything, and it's a habit to slowly approach the house, making sure all windows are intact and no one has gained entry. However, I am finally able to enjoy our backyard. I'm beginning to feel safer. I know I'll never be able to fully prevent another break-in, but I do my best to make it more difficult. I feel for the veteran whose memories were stolen when his house was violated, and I hope his stolen medal is returned.
The question that remains, however, is why? Why feel such a sense of entitlement to break into someone's personal space? Why is burglary okay? I found that even the police were slow to respond to us and they chalked it up to 'another' burglary in the city. Although our burglary was caught-in our pickup with stolen goods that weren't ours-arrested, tried, and convicted, I won't ask him these questions. He's pretty scary looking. I wish I understood better why theft is acceptable in our society.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Don't Judge Me!
Sitting outside on this lovely evening, watching the clouds form and reform across the sky, listening to the birds chatter to one another, the sounds of domesticity in the suburbs surrounding me, I think how little most people know about one another. I'm sure most of my coworkers have no idea how fascinated I am with nature and being outside. Their notions of me are what I allow them to see and what they form from what they've heard.
We all do this, make judgments without really knowing the person we're judging. It's human nature, or so many say. Is it? Or have we been conditioned to pass judgments on others to make ourselves feel better? How many times do we see someone with a disability and feel thankful that isn't us? How many times do we assume people are snooty when, in reality, they might be painfully shy or suffering from a tragedy and barely functioning?
It's easy to pass judgment; it's harder and more difficult to take the time to know someone. A couple of years ago, I was in New Mexico at a conference with another teacher from my school. I was on the veranda, staring into the distance, watching a hawk circle, fascinated with the beauty of nature. My colleague came up, wanting to know what I was doing. I pointed out the hawk and the sheer beauty of the hawk against the sky and the backdrop of pine trees. As the sun set, I showed him how beautiful the rays were as they shot down toward the ground. He was surpised; he commented that he had never pictured me as someone who would like nature. On one hand, I was offended. How dare he judge me? On the other hand, I realized how easy it is to misjudge people.
I work hard at not labelling people. I try to assume positive intention: they are behaving or coming across the way they are because of something in their lives. For example, one year I had a student with blue hair, wild make up and clothes, and piercings enter my classroom. I could easily have judged her as a troublemaker or a freak, but I chose, instead, to greet her as I greet all students. She later told me that a teacher had judged her, asking her what she was doing in an AP class, and she had a chip on her shoulder when she walked into my room. Because I didn't treat her like a freak, she felt comfortable, and she thanked me for treating her like an individual.
While I, like everyone else, wear a mask in public, some of my personal troubles tend to seep through, regardless of how hard I work to cover them. It's true for everyone. Yet, as a society, we immediately judge others based on how they look and our perceptions of their behaviors without knowing what is really happening. That's why I've worked at presuming positive intention, and I've found it liberating! Someone passes me on the road and cuts me off, instead of working myself into a lather, I assume they are in a hurry for a very good reason. The last time I was in a hurry and cutting people off, my mother was in the hospital. I wasn't intentionally trying to be a bad driver, but I was in a hurry for a good reason.
Although the 'golden rule' is considered trite, it still is true: treat others the way you wish to be treated. Sometimes it's hard. I'm not perfect at presuming positive intention, but I try as best as I can. I want to be treated respectfully, whether I am liked or not, therefore, I try to treat others with respect.
Judging others is wrong, but attitudes can be changed. By reciting the mantra of 'presume positive intention,' behaviors and attitudes can be changed. Taking the time to know someone can be surprising and delightful. And just like my coworker found out about me, people have varied interests; by getting to know someone, you might broaden your own horizons.
We all do this, make judgments without really knowing the person we're judging. It's human nature, or so many say. Is it? Or have we been conditioned to pass judgments on others to make ourselves feel better? How many times do we see someone with a disability and feel thankful that isn't us? How many times do we assume people are snooty when, in reality, they might be painfully shy or suffering from a tragedy and barely functioning?
It's easy to pass judgment; it's harder and more difficult to take the time to know someone. A couple of years ago, I was in New Mexico at a conference with another teacher from my school. I was on the veranda, staring into the distance, watching a hawk circle, fascinated with the beauty of nature. My colleague came up, wanting to know what I was doing. I pointed out the hawk and the sheer beauty of the hawk against the sky and the backdrop of pine trees. As the sun set, I showed him how beautiful the rays were as they shot down toward the ground. He was surpised; he commented that he had never pictured me as someone who would like nature. On one hand, I was offended. How dare he judge me? On the other hand, I realized how easy it is to misjudge people.
I work hard at not labelling people. I try to assume positive intention: they are behaving or coming across the way they are because of something in their lives. For example, one year I had a student with blue hair, wild make up and clothes, and piercings enter my classroom. I could easily have judged her as a troublemaker or a freak, but I chose, instead, to greet her as I greet all students. She later told me that a teacher had judged her, asking her what she was doing in an AP class, and she had a chip on her shoulder when she walked into my room. Because I didn't treat her like a freak, she felt comfortable, and she thanked me for treating her like an individual.
While I, like everyone else, wear a mask in public, some of my personal troubles tend to seep through, regardless of how hard I work to cover them. It's true for everyone. Yet, as a society, we immediately judge others based on how they look and our perceptions of their behaviors without knowing what is really happening. That's why I've worked at presuming positive intention, and I've found it liberating! Someone passes me on the road and cuts me off, instead of working myself into a lather, I assume they are in a hurry for a very good reason. The last time I was in a hurry and cutting people off, my mother was in the hospital. I wasn't intentionally trying to be a bad driver, but I was in a hurry for a good reason.
Although the 'golden rule' is considered trite, it still is true: treat others the way you wish to be treated. Sometimes it's hard. I'm not perfect at presuming positive intention, but I try as best as I can. I want to be treated respectfully, whether I am liked or not, therefore, I try to treat others with respect.
Judging others is wrong, but attitudes can be changed. By reciting the mantra of 'presume positive intention,' behaviors and attitudes can be changed. Taking the time to know someone can be surprising and delightful. And just like my coworker found out about me, people have varied interests; by getting to know someone, you might broaden your own horizons.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The woods, the bears, and me
Camping...one of a Coloradan's favorite vacations, right? Well, camping, for me, is an incredibly stressful experience because of bears. And bathroom facilities.
Let me explain; I love getting away from the hustle and bustle of our daily lives, and we have a lovely pop-up that helps us spend time in the woods. But there are bears in the woods! I know this because each campground where we go has signs plastered all over it about the bears: where to put the food, what not to wear or have nearby, and to make sure our campsite is cleaned up each night. Bears. Hungry bears.
I've read the signs, and I've decided that we can't eat or bathe while in the woods. In fact, maybe we should simply consume some nuts and berries (being careful not to drop any in case we attract bears), and we should not worry about hygiene since our products, including contact lens solution, could attract bears. I spend the first night of each camping trip worrying about the bears attacking us in our sleep. It might have to do with the movie I saw several years ago where a bear tracked and killed people in Alaska. Plus, I've been to the zoo and have seen the size of claws our black bears have. I don't want a claw coming through our pop-up in the middle of the night!
Once I live through the first night without bears, I begin to worry about my bathroom needs. State parks are the best in this area because their facilities are clean and generally well-stocked. Then there are those other campgrounds with vaulted toilets. My sister-in-law laughs when I call those crap-keepers vaulted toilets, but that's what the signs say...I've read them. They smell, they have fecal matter and urine in the bottom, and bugs live in there. I hate using them would rather use the outdoors than step foot in one. Within a day, my stomach is cramping from performance anxiety, regardless of where we are. The middle of the night is the worst though. Not only do I have to go, but so does the dog. And there might be bears in the woods--or maybe using the vaulted toilets!
So while most people go camping to relax, camping is a bit of a stress for me. I love getting away, and it makes me appreciate my bear-free backyard and my own flushing toilets even more!
Let me explain; I love getting away from the hustle and bustle of our daily lives, and we have a lovely pop-up that helps us spend time in the woods. But there are bears in the woods! I know this because each campground where we go has signs plastered all over it about the bears: where to put the food, what not to wear or have nearby, and to make sure our campsite is cleaned up each night. Bears. Hungry bears.
I've read the signs, and I've decided that we can't eat or bathe while in the woods. In fact, maybe we should simply consume some nuts and berries (being careful not to drop any in case we attract bears), and we should not worry about hygiene since our products, including contact lens solution, could attract bears. I spend the first night of each camping trip worrying about the bears attacking us in our sleep. It might have to do with the movie I saw several years ago where a bear tracked and killed people in Alaska. Plus, I've been to the zoo and have seen the size of claws our black bears have. I don't want a claw coming through our pop-up in the middle of the night!
Once I live through the first night without bears, I begin to worry about my bathroom needs. State parks are the best in this area because their facilities are clean and generally well-stocked. Then there are those other campgrounds with vaulted toilets. My sister-in-law laughs when I call those crap-keepers vaulted toilets, but that's what the signs say...I've read them. They smell, they have fecal matter and urine in the bottom, and bugs live in there. I hate using them would rather use the outdoors than step foot in one. Within a day, my stomach is cramping from performance anxiety, regardless of where we are. The middle of the night is the worst though. Not only do I have to go, but so does the dog. And there might be bears in the woods--or maybe using the vaulted toilets!
So while most people go camping to relax, camping is a bit of a stress for me. I love getting away, and it makes me appreciate my bear-free backyard and my own flushing toilets even more!
Friday, June 17, 2011
Moving forward, looking back
Today is another of the 'firsts' since my mom died in January. So far, we've had the first Valentine's Day without my mom, the first St. Patrick's Day, the first spring break, the first Lent, the first Easter, the first Mother's Day, the first summer vacation, and now the first birthday without her. As I look back, I can see what we've all missed without her. But I can also look forward--not only to more firsts without her, but also to a redefined life. That's really what this first year without my mom is all about--redefining myself and moving forward.
As today is her birthday--without her here--I look back at what we've done for the past several years. We usually went to lunch on her birthday, and then did something else. One year we saw the movie "Cars" because I knew all of us would like it: my son would like the animation, my mom would like the sound of Paul Newman's voice, and I would like time with my mom and son. Some years, we simply went to some of our favorite stores or antique stores to browse.
Recently, my husband and I went to a local garden center, and I wanted to shop like my mom and I shopped. I showed him flowers, garden art, and fountains. He yawned. Then he gave me all sorts of reasons why we couldn't afford all that stuff. I found myself pouting as I realized that I was treating him like my mom, browsing instead of shopping with purpose. An immense wave of sadness doused me, and I understood that those types of shopping trips were no more.
This gives me an opportunity to move forward, to redefine my shopping hobby. Rather than shop without purpose, I have a chance to figure out how to shop with purpose. This also provides room to find some new friends, or to strengthen the friendships I already have. I can't rely on my mom anymore; I have to learn to rely on myself and on others.
I look back on 42 years with my mom as I look forward to redefining myself and living life without her.
As today is her birthday--without her here--I look back at what we've done for the past several years. We usually went to lunch on her birthday, and then did something else. One year we saw the movie "Cars" because I knew all of us would like it: my son would like the animation, my mom would like the sound of Paul Newman's voice, and I would like time with my mom and son. Some years, we simply went to some of our favorite stores or antique stores to browse.
Recently, my husband and I went to a local garden center, and I wanted to shop like my mom and I shopped. I showed him flowers, garden art, and fountains. He yawned. Then he gave me all sorts of reasons why we couldn't afford all that stuff. I found myself pouting as I realized that I was treating him like my mom, browsing instead of shopping with purpose. An immense wave of sadness doused me, and I understood that those types of shopping trips were no more.
This gives me an opportunity to move forward, to redefine my shopping hobby. Rather than shop without purpose, I have a chance to figure out how to shop with purpose. This also provides room to find some new friends, or to strengthen the friendships I already have. I can't rely on my mom anymore; I have to learn to rely on myself and on others.
I look back on 42 years with my mom as I look forward to redefining myself and living life without her.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
My Life as an Introvert
I cannot remember a time when I haven't felt awkward in social situations or preferred being alone to partying. I'm sure that makes me weird, but I am who I am. I am shy. I have always been shy and will most likely always be shy. I don't like being shy, but I find that I prefer quiet and my own company to noisy places and boors. I don't do casual conversation well; I like the reciprocity that comes from a conversation between two people. In fact, I can be quite social when I feel comfortable and when a few people are around. I enjoy conversation, especially about current events or education. I enjoy going out with others, but after a couple of hours, I'm ready to be home again.
When I've told people that I'm shy, an introvert, they've laughed. I can hide this quality, as most introverts do. I can be loud, act gregariously, but for short periods of time. After awhile, in most uncomfortable social situations, I find myself trying to find an excuse to leave. This usually happens when I feel that I've exhausted my gregarious resources, and I need to go and recover.
What's hard is that I'm married to an extrovert. He likes parties, bars, loud restaurants. He likes loud music and being on the go all the time. He, much like his parents, likes to surround himself with people. When we first met, I found it thrilling to be with someone with such energy. About three months after we met, I was exhausted! I looked forward to those times when he had to work late and get up early, simply so I could recharge. Twelve years later, I just tell him when I'm tired, when I can't go anymore. There are social functions that he does without me, simply because I need some alone time.
I need my daily allotment of alone time. Whether it's staying up a little later or taking a walk or a bike ride by myself, I need "me" time. I never feel guilty about "me" time because if I don't get it, everyone suffers. Years ago, my husband took my need to be alone as rejection of him, but he now understands that time away makes me a much happier person when I return. In social situations, I might wander outside or into public room (especially if it contains books!). I breathe, I relax, and I try to rejuvenate. There is a flip side to this need for alone time.
People who don't know me assume I'm a snob. They feel that my quietness or my aloneness is a rejection of them. If I'm outside during a party people think I'm not having a good time or that they need to come and keep me company. I'm urged to rejoin the party. I also find that it is hard for me to initiate conversation, especially with people I don't know. I'm not good at it at all, and I fear rejection and judgment. I like events where children are present because I feel comfortable with them. I have my son with me, and all of us play, tell stories, laugh.
Moreover, I hate going into situations where I know no one. I don't know how to talk to people, or so I think. I find my attempts are often rebuffed, probably because I project such social awkwardness as I try to find common ground. My husband is so much better at meeting people, and in social situations, I find myself clinging to him like a leech. I then feel badly for him because of my own social awkwardness. People, as soon as they find out I teach, want to tell me about their education, the teachers they hate(d), or make fun of education. However, it isn't any better when I'm with teachers; I feel awkward and uncomfortable with them too.
Being an introvert has helped in several situations. When I moved to Amarillo to teach, I knew virtually no one. I had to learn about myself while I was there, how to entertain myself, and how to be truly alone. Ultimately, living in Amarillo helped me when I had to go on bedrest for 20 weeks. While my husband came home for dinner, he wasn't home until 7 pm; he went to bed at 9 pm, so he could get up at 4:30 to leave the house and go to work. I was alone, completely alone, from 4:30 am until 7 pm each day. My mom was sick at the time, and a friend of mine would come over when she could, but I had to learn, once again, what it meant to be truly alone. I survived my bedrest, but I found that I crave my alone time.
It's hard to have enough alone time during the school year. By the time I'm home, I've worked with 100 or more students and adults during any given day. We still have homework or other afterschool responsibilities and activities, and I don't have the time or chance for alone time. My husband helps me carve out some alone time, which we all greatly appreciate.
I wouldn't suggest that being an introvert is the best way to live a life, but it is my way. I recognize when I've had too much social stimulation and know how to remedy that. Now, if I could only figure out how to handle unfamiliar social situations or casual conversation!
When I've told people that I'm shy, an introvert, they've laughed. I can hide this quality, as most introverts do. I can be loud, act gregariously, but for short periods of time. After awhile, in most uncomfortable social situations, I find myself trying to find an excuse to leave. This usually happens when I feel that I've exhausted my gregarious resources, and I need to go and recover.
What's hard is that I'm married to an extrovert. He likes parties, bars, loud restaurants. He likes loud music and being on the go all the time. He, much like his parents, likes to surround himself with people. When we first met, I found it thrilling to be with someone with such energy. About three months after we met, I was exhausted! I looked forward to those times when he had to work late and get up early, simply so I could recharge. Twelve years later, I just tell him when I'm tired, when I can't go anymore. There are social functions that he does without me, simply because I need some alone time.
I need my daily allotment of alone time. Whether it's staying up a little later or taking a walk or a bike ride by myself, I need "me" time. I never feel guilty about "me" time because if I don't get it, everyone suffers. Years ago, my husband took my need to be alone as rejection of him, but he now understands that time away makes me a much happier person when I return. In social situations, I might wander outside or into public room (especially if it contains books!). I breathe, I relax, and I try to rejuvenate. There is a flip side to this need for alone time.
People who don't know me assume I'm a snob. They feel that my quietness or my aloneness is a rejection of them. If I'm outside during a party people think I'm not having a good time or that they need to come and keep me company. I'm urged to rejoin the party. I also find that it is hard for me to initiate conversation, especially with people I don't know. I'm not good at it at all, and I fear rejection and judgment. I like events where children are present because I feel comfortable with them. I have my son with me, and all of us play, tell stories, laugh.
Moreover, I hate going into situations where I know no one. I don't know how to talk to people, or so I think. I find my attempts are often rebuffed, probably because I project such social awkwardness as I try to find common ground. My husband is so much better at meeting people, and in social situations, I find myself clinging to him like a leech. I then feel badly for him because of my own social awkwardness. People, as soon as they find out I teach, want to tell me about their education, the teachers they hate(d), or make fun of education. However, it isn't any better when I'm with teachers; I feel awkward and uncomfortable with them too.
Being an introvert has helped in several situations. When I moved to Amarillo to teach, I knew virtually no one. I had to learn about myself while I was there, how to entertain myself, and how to be truly alone. Ultimately, living in Amarillo helped me when I had to go on bedrest for 20 weeks. While my husband came home for dinner, he wasn't home until 7 pm; he went to bed at 9 pm, so he could get up at 4:30 to leave the house and go to work. I was alone, completely alone, from 4:30 am until 7 pm each day. My mom was sick at the time, and a friend of mine would come over when she could, but I had to learn, once again, what it meant to be truly alone. I survived my bedrest, but I found that I crave my alone time.
It's hard to have enough alone time during the school year. By the time I'm home, I've worked with 100 or more students and adults during any given day. We still have homework or other afterschool responsibilities and activities, and I don't have the time or chance for alone time. My husband helps me carve out some alone time, which we all greatly appreciate.
I wouldn't suggest that being an introvert is the best way to live a life, but it is my way. I recognize when I've had too much social stimulation and know how to remedy that. Now, if I could only figure out how to handle unfamiliar social situations or casual conversation!
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Religion Rant
People who refer to themselves as Christians and then don't act like Christians really frustrate me. This could be said of anyone who is of any faith, but the group I see this behavior demonstrated most is those who label themselves "Christian."
The parking lot after church is an example of a lack of Christianity in action. There are always too many cars trying to leave at the same time, so it would seem logical to act with Christian love and allow people to get into the exit line, right? Nope. It's every person for him/herself as all try to leave church. Were they simply not listening during the service? Do they understand respecting one another? Why does it have to be a race to exit the church parking lot?
How about, on a larger scale, pastors of churches who spread misinformation or simply ridicule other Christian groups? How many times have I heard Latter Day Saints ridiculed or misinformation about Catholics as 'worshippers of Mary and statues'? How many times do people in other faiths ridicule Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists or Jews? How is this behavior Christian? Even certain faiths, derived from the early Catholic church-which was derived from Judaism-ridicule Catholics, telling them they aren't Christians? Seriously?
Rather than mocking or disliking what they don't understand, why don't people take the time to find out more about different faiths. For example, they could find out what Jews, Muslims, and Catholics have in common, or they could understand that not all members of the LDS church practice polygamy. Maybe folks who consider themselves "Christian" could open their minds and hearts to simply understand other faiths. I'm not saying that they need to embrace other faiths or convert, just understand. This understanding would go a long way in terms of diffusing the tension between different religious groups. It would also help if said-Christians wouldn't mock other religions. Just because a particular faith isn't one person's path doesn't mean it isn't another person's path. Why judge? What purpose does judging serve?
It seems easy to say, doesn't it, education is the key to end discrimination, but there has to be a desire to know. Until the desire is present, religious discrimination, religious misinformation will persist.
The parking lot after church is an example of a lack of Christianity in action. There are always too many cars trying to leave at the same time, so it would seem logical to act with Christian love and allow people to get into the exit line, right? Nope. It's every person for him/herself as all try to leave church. Were they simply not listening during the service? Do they understand respecting one another? Why does it have to be a race to exit the church parking lot?
How about, on a larger scale, pastors of churches who spread misinformation or simply ridicule other Christian groups? How many times have I heard Latter Day Saints ridiculed or misinformation about Catholics as 'worshippers of Mary and statues'? How many times do people in other faiths ridicule Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists or Jews? How is this behavior Christian? Even certain faiths, derived from the early Catholic church-which was derived from Judaism-ridicule Catholics, telling them they aren't Christians? Seriously?
Rather than mocking or disliking what they don't understand, why don't people take the time to find out more about different faiths. For example, they could find out what Jews, Muslims, and Catholics have in common, or they could understand that not all members of the LDS church practice polygamy. Maybe folks who consider themselves "Christian" could open their minds and hearts to simply understand other faiths. I'm not saying that they need to embrace other faiths or convert, just understand. This understanding would go a long way in terms of diffusing the tension between different religious groups. It would also help if said-Christians wouldn't mock other religions. Just because a particular faith isn't one person's path doesn't mean it isn't another person's path. Why judge? What purpose does judging serve?
It seems easy to say, doesn't it, education is the key to end discrimination, but there has to be a desire to know. Until the desire is present, religious discrimination, religious misinformation will persist.
Monday, June 13, 2011
The Chaise Lounge
Nearly every pool has the most magnificent of seating...a set of chaise lounges. Their value is immeasurable to anyone at a pool. However, another place where a chaise lounge is incredible is the backyard sans pool.
Our backyard is large, but not too large. We have the requisite patio table and chair set, inherited from my grandparents. We have a chiminea, which we've never used, but it does add a certain flair to the patio. As Coloradans, we have the large grill convenienly located between the patio set and the back door. We even have a lovely six-person swing I recently repainted in purple. But it seemed as though we were missing something.
I love our swing because we can lay on it, sleep on it, read on it, or simply swing on it. At gatherings, the swing is a popular location for our friends and family. we added a bird feeder this year as per our son's suggestion. It has turned out to be far more fun than I thought as we watch a variety of birds fly in and out of our yard. We've added a flower garden and fence decorations. Yet our yard still seemed to lack something...chaise lounges.
This past weekend, we went to a neighborhood garage sale, and we found the perfect lounge chairs for the yard. The sellers threw in a couple of tables for free. My husband has always believed chaise lounges belong at the side of a pool; our new chairs, however, prove they belong anywhere! I spent most of today in my new chaise lounge, watching the sky, dozing, reading, and simply relaxing. As we've worked hard to make our yard a family sanctuary, the chaise lounges simply give us one more place to renew ourselves.
Our backyard is large, but not too large. We have the requisite patio table and chair set, inherited from my grandparents. We have a chiminea, which we've never used, but it does add a certain flair to the patio. As Coloradans, we have the large grill convenienly located between the patio set and the back door. We even have a lovely six-person swing I recently repainted in purple. But it seemed as though we were missing something.
I love our swing because we can lay on it, sleep on it, read on it, or simply swing on it. At gatherings, the swing is a popular location for our friends and family. we added a bird feeder this year as per our son's suggestion. It has turned out to be far more fun than I thought as we watch a variety of birds fly in and out of our yard. We've added a flower garden and fence decorations. Yet our yard still seemed to lack something...chaise lounges.
This past weekend, we went to a neighborhood garage sale, and we found the perfect lounge chairs for the yard. The sellers threw in a couple of tables for free. My husband has always believed chaise lounges belong at the side of a pool; our new chairs, however, prove they belong anywhere! I spent most of today in my new chaise lounge, watching the sky, dozing, reading, and simply relaxing. As we've worked hard to make our yard a family sanctuary, the chaise lounges simply give us one more place to renew ourselves.
Camping
My first camping experience took place with the Girl Scouts when I was about nine. We were in Long Beach, CA at some reservoir, and it rained the entire weekend. The tent leaked, the food was meant for warm weather...salads, fruits, cereal, and even the toilet paper was damp. It was miserable and cold. When the rain cleared, we put on our bathing suits to jump in the lake, but the water was freezing. I vowed I would never camp again.
I broke that vow over the Fourth of July weekend in 1981. We had a huge Ford pickup with a camper, and we wanted to live the Colorado lifestyle since we had recently moved Colorado. We drove to Trinidad Lake, and then it started to rain. It rained virtually the entire weekend, until we packed it in and came home. However, fate was against this camping trip too, as our fuel pump broke in Monument, Colorado. My dad managed to get the truck to a 7-11, where we parked. The day was hot and sunny, of course, and we were dirty and smelly. We spent eight hours parked behind the convenience store since nothing else was open over the holiday weekend. We hardly knew anyone in Colorado, with the exception of our next door neighbors, and we spent our time arguing, eating, and going into the store to call the neighbors. They were kind enough, when they finally got home and answered the phone, to drive to Monument to pick us up. We left the camper there until my dad could get down there to get it fixed. Shortly thereafter, we sold the camper and vowed to never camp again.
Several years later, like twelve, I decided to try camping again. Everyone I knew camped, and I put the two miserable camp trips out of my mind. Camping wasn't as bad as I remembered! In fact, I had fun, with the exception of having to pee outside. I didn't mind sleeping on the ground, nor did I mind the bugs or the dirt. My parents thought I'd lost my mind. However, I was young and in love with someone who camped, so it made sense to try something new. When it rained, I read my book or napped and made sure the toilet paper didn't get wet.
My husband and I began camping together soon after we met. We were in sync with one another from the beginning. Neither of us were expert campers, but we had fun, which was all that mattered. After our son was born, we took a hiatus from camping; I wasn't sure what to do with a baby when we camped, and it seemed like a lot of work. By the time our son was two, we started camping again, and he loved it! He would jump out of the pickup once we arrived and roll in the dirt, squealing, "We're camping! We're camping!" He is now a seasoned camper, and he even sets up his own tent without help from us.
Camping affords us the opportunity to leave the hustle and bustle of daily life. I sleep a great deal when we go camping. I also read and write more because I have the time to gather my thoughts or maintain focus. Last year, we started bringing our dog camping. At first, she wasn't too sure about it, but she seems to like it. I do feel sorry for her because she has to be tied up more than she ever is at home, but she's with us and that makes her happy.
My husband, however, is a "Rambo camper." He's on the go from the moment he wakes up on camping day. Our son has the same attitude: let's go! let's go! let's go! As soon as we're set up, they're off exploring or getting ready to fish. Me? I'm piddling around, finding a good spot for my camping chair. They go four-wheelin' and return simply to eat. We all make the most of our time together.
While we no longer sleep in a tent or on the ground, it's still fun to get away from the pressures of daily life. We've seen some places we ordinarily would never have seen and have spent quality time with one another we need. I still don't like peeing outside, but I like camping more, even if it rains.
I broke that vow over the Fourth of July weekend in 1981. We had a huge Ford pickup with a camper, and we wanted to live the Colorado lifestyle since we had recently moved Colorado. We drove to Trinidad Lake, and then it started to rain. It rained virtually the entire weekend, until we packed it in and came home. However, fate was against this camping trip too, as our fuel pump broke in Monument, Colorado. My dad managed to get the truck to a 7-11, where we parked. The day was hot and sunny, of course, and we were dirty and smelly. We spent eight hours parked behind the convenience store since nothing else was open over the holiday weekend. We hardly knew anyone in Colorado, with the exception of our next door neighbors, and we spent our time arguing, eating, and going into the store to call the neighbors. They were kind enough, when they finally got home and answered the phone, to drive to Monument to pick us up. We left the camper there until my dad could get down there to get it fixed. Shortly thereafter, we sold the camper and vowed to never camp again.
Several years later, like twelve, I decided to try camping again. Everyone I knew camped, and I put the two miserable camp trips out of my mind. Camping wasn't as bad as I remembered! In fact, I had fun, with the exception of having to pee outside. I didn't mind sleeping on the ground, nor did I mind the bugs or the dirt. My parents thought I'd lost my mind. However, I was young and in love with someone who camped, so it made sense to try something new. When it rained, I read my book or napped and made sure the toilet paper didn't get wet.
My husband and I began camping together soon after we met. We were in sync with one another from the beginning. Neither of us were expert campers, but we had fun, which was all that mattered. After our son was born, we took a hiatus from camping; I wasn't sure what to do with a baby when we camped, and it seemed like a lot of work. By the time our son was two, we started camping again, and he loved it! He would jump out of the pickup once we arrived and roll in the dirt, squealing, "We're camping! We're camping!" He is now a seasoned camper, and he even sets up his own tent without help from us.
Camping affords us the opportunity to leave the hustle and bustle of daily life. I sleep a great deal when we go camping. I also read and write more because I have the time to gather my thoughts or maintain focus. Last year, we started bringing our dog camping. At first, she wasn't too sure about it, but she seems to like it. I do feel sorry for her because she has to be tied up more than she ever is at home, but she's with us and that makes her happy.
My husband, however, is a "Rambo camper." He's on the go from the moment he wakes up on camping day. Our son has the same attitude: let's go! let's go! let's go! As soon as we're set up, they're off exploring or getting ready to fish. Me? I'm piddling around, finding a good spot for my camping chair. They go four-wheelin' and return simply to eat. We all make the most of our time together.
While we no longer sleep in a tent or on the ground, it's still fun to get away from the pressures of daily life. We've seen some places we ordinarily would never have seen and have spent quality time with one another we need. I still don't like peeing outside, but I like camping more, even if it rains.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
My Love Affair with Books
My love affair with books began in early childhood, which is unsurprising as my father is an incredible reader and my mother read to me all the time. What is surprising is how long it has lasted. I've had times in my life where my difficulties made the desire to read obsolete (or so it seemed), but there have been other times when I haven't been able to put a book down. I have a nightstand filled with books; I have an entire room in my house devoted to my books. Moreover, our house is filled with print--a variety of magazines and a subscription to the newspaper. Reading is a passion for me.
My current passion is "works of literary merit" that I can use in my Advanced Placement Literature class, but I will read most anything. Currently, I'm reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, which is enjoyable. It has two first person narrators, telling their own stories that are set in the same location. I'm at the point where they have met and are beginning a friendship. I've also begun an Edith Wharton novel called The House of Mirth, a story of a 29 year old woman looking for marriage while using her beauty to land a man. I'm trying to muster sympathy for Lily Bart, but I'm comparing her to Madame Bovary and Edna Pontellier and finding her relatively shallow. However, if society impresses shallowness on its women, for example, how can I fault these characters for their own shallowness?
There are many genres I feel as though I've hardly explored. To look into my library is to see the varied interests I have, from historical works to pulp fiction. And yet, I routinely haunt used bookstores, trying to find the perfect book, the book that will allow me some escape from my world and some pleasure in another world. I particularly like mysteries because there is almost always a satisfactory ending, a solution to the problem. Life is filled with mysteries, often unsolvable or with no satisfactory ending, and it's nice to have something resolved in a mystery.
There's also something about choosing the book...the way it feels or smells. The cover. The size of the print or if there are pictures in it. Until I taught AP Literature, I thought I was the only person who surreptitiously smelled books. In class one day, I passed out brand-new novels to my students. To my amazement, they opened the novels and began smelling them. It was then that I realized book lovers like myself often smell the interior of a novel, reveling in the 'new book' smell. I now encourage all my students to smell the interior of their books when I give them their books in class. It's fun to see the look of shock when the students realize others enjoy the new book smell. The beauty of a literature class is the comfort in knowing others love books too.
This summer, my goal is to read about 25 books. Since I have only eight weeks of vacation, that's about three books a week. Some are long; some are much shorter. Some will be hard to put down; others will be hard to pick up. Ultimately, regardless of how many I read this summer, I will be much richer for having read. I will still haunt used bookstores this summer, attempting to find the perfect, good smelling book, which will assume its place on my nightstand, awaiting me.
My current passion is "works of literary merit" that I can use in my Advanced Placement Literature class, but I will read most anything. Currently, I'm reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, which is enjoyable. It has two first person narrators, telling their own stories that are set in the same location. I'm at the point where they have met and are beginning a friendship. I've also begun an Edith Wharton novel called The House of Mirth, a story of a 29 year old woman looking for marriage while using her beauty to land a man. I'm trying to muster sympathy for Lily Bart, but I'm comparing her to Madame Bovary and Edna Pontellier and finding her relatively shallow. However, if society impresses shallowness on its women, for example, how can I fault these characters for their own shallowness?
There are many genres I feel as though I've hardly explored. To look into my library is to see the varied interests I have, from historical works to pulp fiction. And yet, I routinely haunt used bookstores, trying to find the perfect book, the book that will allow me some escape from my world and some pleasure in another world. I particularly like mysteries because there is almost always a satisfactory ending, a solution to the problem. Life is filled with mysteries, often unsolvable or with no satisfactory ending, and it's nice to have something resolved in a mystery.
There's also something about choosing the book...the way it feels or smells. The cover. The size of the print or if there are pictures in it. Until I taught AP Literature, I thought I was the only person who surreptitiously smelled books. In class one day, I passed out brand-new novels to my students. To my amazement, they opened the novels and began smelling them. It was then that I realized book lovers like myself often smell the interior of a novel, reveling in the 'new book' smell. I now encourage all my students to smell the interior of their books when I give them their books in class. It's fun to see the look of shock when the students realize others enjoy the new book smell. The beauty of a literature class is the comfort in knowing others love books too.
This summer, my goal is to read about 25 books. Since I have only eight weeks of vacation, that's about three books a week. Some are long; some are much shorter. Some will be hard to put down; others will be hard to pick up. Ultimately, regardless of how many I read this summer, I will be much richer for having read. I will still haunt used bookstores this summer, attempting to find the perfect, good smelling book, which will assume its place on my nightstand, awaiting me.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Cycle of My Life
As a child, I was surrounded by aunts. I loved my Aunt Eleanor because she reminded me of a redheaded Cher. She wore clogs, had long, straight, beautiful red hair, and carried an embossed leather purse. I once found a smaller version of the same purse and carried it too, wanting to be like her. She liked reading, and I liked reading. She was quiet, and I was quiet. I thought she was marvelous.
Out of all my aunts on my dad's side, she is the only one left. She no longer wears bell bottoms or clogs, and her hair isn't long and straight anymore. In fact, she's 64. She is still quiet and a reader, and after all these years apart, we are slowly reacquainting with one another.
My other favorite aunt on my dad's side was Aunt Edie. A lifelong spinster, she was fun, quirky, and religious without being pretentious. She too was quiet and a reader. I loved her because she smiled all the time at us, treated us lovingly, and gave the best (albeit the oddest) gifts. I was a child; I loved presents! One of my favorite presents from Aunt Edie was a transistor radio fashioned like a hamburger. I spent many nights with it near my ear, quietly listening to song dedications and learning about the world of love in 1970s LA.
On my mom's side, my favorite aunt was Aunt Sara. She wore White Shoulders cologne and always smelled powdery. She was a quiet speaker who had picked up a Texas accent after living there for a number of years. She loved reading, needlework, and Diet Dr. Pepper. She would come and visit my grandmother every so often, and I loved sitting near Aunt Sara, not only because she smelled so good but because her words and tone were soft and caressing.
Aunt Sara is long gone, and the only remaining aunt I have on my mom's side is Fran. As a child, I found Aunt Fran scary. Although she married, she never had children and often could not relate to us. It seemed like she was always yelling, whether at us or just in her usual speech, her tone was loud. Her husband was also scary; he had a unibrow, a cigarette always in hand, and a loud, gruff voice. I was allowed to bring a book to her house, where I tried to make myself as invisible as possible while my parents visited with them because they frightened me so badly.
But Aunt Fran is my only living aunt on my mom's side, and I'm finding it much easier to talk to her now. I write to her every couple of weeks, and she calls me to just visit. I think it's important to get to know her after all these years because she is my last link to my mom. Once Aunt Fran is gone, it will feel like my mother's entire family is gone.
As I'm now an aunt to two, I've had to decide how I want them to see me. Am I fun loving? Loud? Accepting? I don't want to lose touch with them because it's been such a privilege to watch them grow up, to be part of their lives. Some day when I'm gone, I want them to remember me with love, like I remember my aunts.
Out of all my aunts on my dad's side, she is the only one left. She no longer wears bell bottoms or clogs, and her hair isn't long and straight anymore. In fact, she's 64. She is still quiet and a reader, and after all these years apart, we are slowly reacquainting with one another.
My other favorite aunt on my dad's side was Aunt Edie. A lifelong spinster, she was fun, quirky, and religious without being pretentious. She too was quiet and a reader. I loved her because she smiled all the time at us, treated us lovingly, and gave the best (albeit the oddest) gifts. I was a child; I loved presents! One of my favorite presents from Aunt Edie was a transistor radio fashioned like a hamburger. I spent many nights with it near my ear, quietly listening to song dedications and learning about the world of love in 1970s LA.
On my mom's side, my favorite aunt was Aunt Sara. She wore White Shoulders cologne and always smelled powdery. She was a quiet speaker who had picked up a Texas accent after living there for a number of years. She loved reading, needlework, and Diet Dr. Pepper. She would come and visit my grandmother every so often, and I loved sitting near Aunt Sara, not only because she smelled so good but because her words and tone were soft and caressing.
Aunt Sara is long gone, and the only remaining aunt I have on my mom's side is Fran. As a child, I found Aunt Fran scary. Although she married, she never had children and often could not relate to us. It seemed like she was always yelling, whether at us or just in her usual speech, her tone was loud. Her husband was also scary; he had a unibrow, a cigarette always in hand, and a loud, gruff voice. I was allowed to bring a book to her house, where I tried to make myself as invisible as possible while my parents visited with them because they frightened me so badly.
But Aunt Fran is my only living aunt on my mom's side, and I'm finding it much easier to talk to her now. I write to her every couple of weeks, and she calls me to just visit. I think it's important to get to know her after all these years because she is my last link to my mom. Once Aunt Fran is gone, it will feel like my mother's entire family is gone.
As I'm now an aunt to two, I've had to decide how I want them to see me. Am I fun loving? Loud? Accepting? I don't want to lose touch with them because it's been such a privilege to watch them grow up, to be part of their lives. Some day when I'm gone, I want them to remember me with love, like I remember my aunts.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Why "thinkerdudette"?
When my now-husband and I were dating, we spent our first summer together going to different festivals and cultural events. I was a city kid, who loved fairs and fests and free concerts in the park. He was a country boy who liked beer and loud rock-n-roll music. And he loved his pickup truck. We were (and are) a rather incongruous pair. However, we were happy and newly in love, so he followed me to festival after festival while I happily rode in his pickup.
Because my husband had grown up in a fairly homogeneous town, the city of Denver sometimes confounded him, and he often felt (and still sometimes feels) uncomfortable in the presence of diversity. One of the fairs I loved was the Black Arts Festival held at East High School, a place to find diversity. While I haven't been to it in awhile, it was an amazing festival 12 years ago, filled with fabulous music, fascinating history and culture, and amazing art. I had attended for several summers in a row, and I wanted to take my new boyfriend to this edifying event.
We had a great time, listening to music and perusing the art booths. At one booth, he stopped, mesmerized by the wooden carvings. He picked up a carving of a figure that is sitting, with one arm holding onto his face...like he's thinking. My husband loved the work, the wood, and the carving itself. I didn't know then that he has a long-standing love of wood and woodworking, and lovely objects made of wood.
He bought it, and we immediately began calling it "Thinker Dude." He put it on his fireplace mantle, where we were able to admire it. After we were married, I found that Thinker Dude was a force to be reckoned with. Once he fell from the mantle and landed on my head, leaving me briefly stunned and with a large knot. Thinker Dude is a solid piece of wood. Thinker Dude has fallen off tables, denting the floor, and yet to look at him, no one would know of his power. The strength and power of Thinker Dude is always with us, and we move him from place to place in our house, careful never to drop him on a toe; to do so would then involve a trip to the ER for a broken toe.
When I decided to try blogging, I thought of some moniker that best represents me. I tried all sorts of silly combinations, but then I remembered Thinker Dude. I realized we have a great deal in common. He's perpetually thinking as I am. He's solid and can hurt someone if he falls on them. So can I. He's been around for awhile. Me too! I finally decided to use Thinker Dude as my model, my muse. However, not being a "dude" was my next problem until I remembered that I have, occasionally, been referred to as a "dudette," a phrase that makes me cringe. So why not "Thinker Dudette?" And a blog was born.
Because my husband had grown up in a fairly homogeneous town, the city of Denver sometimes confounded him, and he often felt (and still sometimes feels) uncomfortable in the presence of diversity. One of the fairs I loved was the Black Arts Festival held at East High School, a place to find diversity. While I haven't been to it in awhile, it was an amazing festival 12 years ago, filled with fabulous music, fascinating history and culture, and amazing art. I had attended for several summers in a row, and I wanted to take my new boyfriend to this edifying event.
We had a great time, listening to music and perusing the art booths. At one booth, he stopped, mesmerized by the wooden carvings. He picked up a carving of a figure that is sitting, with one arm holding onto his face...like he's thinking. My husband loved the work, the wood, and the carving itself. I didn't know then that he has a long-standing love of wood and woodworking, and lovely objects made of wood.
He bought it, and we immediately began calling it "Thinker Dude." He put it on his fireplace mantle, where we were able to admire it. After we were married, I found that Thinker Dude was a force to be reckoned with. Once he fell from the mantle and landed on my head, leaving me briefly stunned and with a large knot. Thinker Dude is a solid piece of wood. Thinker Dude has fallen off tables, denting the floor, and yet to look at him, no one would know of his power. The strength and power of Thinker Dude is always with us, and we move him from place to place in our house, careful never to drop him on a toe; to do so would then involve a trip to the ER for a broken toe.
When I decided to try blogging, I thought of some moniker that best represents me. I tried all sorts of silly combinations, but then I remembered Thinker Dude. I realized we have a great deal in common. He's perpetually thinking as I am. He's solid and can hurt someone if he falls on them. So can I. He's been around for awhile. Me too! I finally decided to use Thinker Dude as my model, my muse. However, not being a "dude" was my next problem until I remembered that I have, occasionally, been referred to as a "dudette," a phrase that makes me cringe. So why not "Thinker Dudette?" And a blog was born.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Learning the Value of Work
As this is the first summer vacation my son and I will have without my mom, we are struggling to define what this time looks like. In years past, I could ask my mom to watch him while I went to appointments, but I can't do that now. My mom would call and ask if my son could come over, giving me some much needed personal time.
But now we're together, 24/7, and it's quite different. My son is at the age where he wants to be completely independent and completely dependent simultaneously. He wants to have an allowance, for example, but he doesn't want to do the work for it. To mitigate this problem, together we created an allowance chart, which gives him different jobs he can do with a monetary value-one he suggested-placed on them. Needless to say, he's not earning much money. Each day we battle over what he needs to do, and while I know I should stop paying him, especially after nagging him to do the chores, he does do them halfheartedly.
Today was one of those days. He was supposed to pull weeds; we have enough of them! I told him to fill a five gallon bucket, and I would pay him for each filled bucket. After watching him sit and play in the dirt for a couple of hours, virtually pulling no weeds, I had had it. Ordinarily, I would have called my mom to take over for a bit, but instead I had to figure out something else.
I made him clean his room. Cleaning his room gave me something I needed...alone time and work time, and it gave him something he needed too...a clean room. I want my son to learn the value of work, which is why I agreed to an allowance. I remember feeling a sense of accomplishment after a week of chores as my mom handed me my allowance and thanked me for what I had done. On the other hand, my son expects to be handed money because he's cute and because he asks for it. I want him to learn the value of applying himself to a task and feeling a sense of accomplishment when it's finished.
Mowing the lawn, doing the dishes, or washing his clothes will make him a better person ultimately. He will have skills that can help him find jobs, or even simply survive on his own. More importantly, he will learn the value of applying himself, of completing a job to the best of his ability, and of earning compensation for the work he does. If my job as a parent is to raise a healthy, independent, hardworking, responsible person I do him no favors by handing him money.
And while we still battle over chores, my ultimate goal is the same as my mom's was for me: to raise the best person I can raise. I might need some valium to do it! ;)
But now we're together, 24/7, and it's quite different. My son is at the age where he wants to be completely independent and completely dependent simultaneously. He wants to have an allowance, for example, but he doesn't want to do the work for it. To mitigate this problem, together we created an allowance chart, which gives him different jobs he can do with a monetary value-one he suggested-placed on them. Needless to say, he's not earning much money. Each day we battle over what he needs to do, and while I know I should stop paying him, especially after nagging him to do the chores, he does do them halfheartedly.
Today was one of those days. He was supposed to pull weeds; we have enough of them! I told him to fill a five gallon bucket, and I would pay him for each filled bucket. After watching him sit and play in the dirt for a couple of hours, virtually pulling no weeds, I had had it. Ordinarily, I would have called my mom to take over for a bit, but instead I had to figure out something else.
I made him clean his room. Cleaning his room gave me something I needed...alone time and work time, and it gave him something he needed too...a clean room. I want my son to learn the value of work, which is why I agreed to an allowance. I remember feeling a sense of accomplishment after a week of chores as my mom handed me my allowance and thanked me for what I had done. On the other hand, my son expects to be handed money because he's cute and because he asks for it. I want him to learn the value of applying himself to a task and feeling a sense of accomplishment when it's finished.
Mowing the lawn, doing the dishes, or washing his clothes will make him a better person ultimately. He will have skills that can help him find jobs, or even simply survive on his own. More importantly, he will learn the value of applying himself, of completing a job to the best of his ability, and of earning compensation for the work he does. If my job as a parent is to raise a healthy, independent, hardworking, responsible person I do him no favors by handing him money.
And while we still battle over chores, my ultimate goal is the same as my mom's was for me: to raise the best person I can raise. I might need some valium to do it! ;)
Monday, June 6, 2011
Money
I hate money. I know hate is a strong word, but I think it's appropriate in this case. People behave oddly about money. Some claim to not care about it; others will sell their souls for it. Some believe money is the root of all evil, while others believe without it, they are nothing. Personally, I hate dealing with it.
While money provides me with necessities and extras, it's such a hassle when we don't have enough of it. Nothing feels worse than working so hard for our money, paying the bills, and realizing nothing's left. It almost feels like all our hard work is pointless. In my rational mind, I know this isn't true, but our check register runs red far more often than it runs black.
My son recently asked me why I don't believe money brings happiness. He cited examples such as people who have billions of dollars, and pointed out that they are happy; they can buy whatever they want. They don't have to save or deny themselves anything. Technically, he's right. I'm sure millionaires and billionaires deny themselves, but are they happy? Are those of us in the middle to lower-middle class happier? Does money make people happy or unhappy?
My entire life has been lived counting pennies, watching budgets, denying myself things I want. I heard "can't" as a child, constantly...we can't have this...we can't go there, and now my own son hears the same words. My mother was insistent that I go to college to have a financially secure future, and yet, I still struggle to pay bills and buy necessities. I don't live in a mini-mansion, I don't wear fancy clothes or take exotic vacations (unless camping in the Colorado mountains counts as exotic). But as prices rise, my paycheck stretches until it's near a breaking point. It's not going to stretch much more.
So I hate money. I hate needing it, desiring it, and wishing for more of it. I hate telling my child 'no' to just about everything. I hate thinking of different ways to make more of it. I hate what it does to me, to my husband, and to those around us. I just would prefer to have enough of it.
While money provides me with necessities and extras, it's such a hassle when we don't have enough of it. Nothing feels worse than working so hard for our money, paying the bills, and realizing nothing's left. It almost feels like all our hard work is pointless. In my rational mind, I know this isn't true, but our check register runs red far more often than it runs black.
My son recently asked me why I don't believe money brings happiness. He cited examples such as people who have billions of dollars, and pointed out that they are happy; they can buy whatever they want. They don't have to save or deny themselves anything. Technically, he's right. I'm sure millionaires and billionaires deny themselves, but are they happy? Are those of us in the middle to lower-middle class happier? Does money make people happy or unhappy?
My entire life has been lived counting pennies, watching budgets, denying myself things I want. I heard "can't" as a child, constantly...we can't have this...we can't go there, and now my own son hears the same words. My mother was insistent that I go to college to have a financially secure future, and yet, I still struggle to pay bills and buy necessities. I don't live in a mini-mansion, I don't wear fancy clothes or take exotic vacations (unless camping in the Colorado mountains counts as exotic). But as prices rise, my paycheck stretches until it's near a breaking point. It's not going to stretch much more.
So I hate money. I hate needing it, desiring it, and wishing for more of it. I hate telling my child 'no' to just about everything. I hate thinking of different ways to make more of it. I hate what it does to me, to my husband, and to those around us. I just would prefer to have enough of it.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Constant Companion
My mom was a dog lover. From the time we adopted our first family dog, a mutt I named Lonesome Leonard, until her death, my mom always had a dog. Her last dog is Buddy.
Buddy is an ugly dog, but he's so ugly, he's actually cute. He has a large head and long neck, a long body rather like a bassett, big brown eyes, a tail of steel, and short legs with feet that point away from his body.His bark is ferocious for such a little dog. My parents found him in a shelter, and Mom fell in love with him. I went with her to meet him and couldn't believe that she could love him. He's slobbery and wants constant petting. His saliva made my skin itch as did his fur. Mom was insistent that he was the right dog. And so Buddy became part of the family.
After all the paperwork was finished and medical care administered, I drove Mom to pick him up. He was excited to go for a ride and jumped, wiggled all over the front seat and Mom. She was insistent that she hold him on the way home because she wanted him to know that he was a loved and cared for dog. She felt badly that he'd been a shelter dog, that no one had wanted him. She talked and petted him the entire way home. From that moment and until her death, Buddy and Mom were rarely separated.
Buddy was Mom's constant companion for the next several years. My dad always said that Mom could never be lost as Buddy was always with her. Just look for Buddy and there Mom would be. Buddy and Mom watched TV together; he especially liked the dog shows. Mom would nap; so would Buddy. Mom would clean house while Buddy would follow her. Should strangers show up to the house, Buddy would protect Mom until he was certain they weren't going to hurt her.
The day Mom went into cardiac arrest, it was Buddy who alerted my dad that something was wrong. While she was in the hospital and my dad had other worries, Buddy stayed with us. He whined and cried; it was as if he knew Mom wasn't coming back. We kept Buddy for several days until my dad felt like he could bring Buddy home.
I notice that Buddy whines and cries more than he did before Mom died. However, he likes playing with our dog, and he doesn't mind too much when he stays with us. I feel badly for him though; he loved my mom and she loved him. He completely lived up--and continues to live up--to his name: Buddy. A constant companion.
Buddy is an ugly dog, but he's so ugly, he's actually cute. He has a large head and long neck, a long body rather like a bassett, big brown eyes, a tail of steel, and short legs with feet that point away from his body.His bark is ferocious for such a little dog. My parents found him in a shelter, and Mom fell in love with him. I went with her to meet him and couldn't believe that she could love him. He's slobbery and wants constant petting. His saliva made my skin itch as did his fur. Mom was insistent that he was the right dog. And so Buddy became part of the family.
After all the paperwork was finished and medical care administered, I drove Mom to pick him up. He was excited to go for a ride and jumped, wiggled all over the front seat and Mom. She was insistent that she hold him on the way home because she wanted him to know that he was a loved and cared for dog. She felt badly that he'd been a shelter dog, that no one had wanted him. She talked and petted him the entire way home. From that moment and until her death, Buddy and Mom were rarely separated.
Buddy was Mom's constant companion for the next several years. My dad always said that Mom could never be lost as Buddy was always with her. Just look for Buddy and there Mom would be. Buddy and Mom watched TV together; he especially liked the dog shows. Mom would nap; so would Buddy. Mom would clean house while Buddy would follow her. Should strangers show up to the house, Buddy would protect Mom until he was certain they weren't going to hurt her.
The day Mom went into cardiac arrest, it was Buddy who alerted my dad that something was wrong. While she was in the hospital and my dad had other worries, Buddy stayed with us. He whined and cried; it was as if he knew Mom wasn't coming back. We kept Buddy for several days until my dad felt like he could bring Buddy home.
I notice that Buddy whines and cries more than he did before Mom died. However, he likes playing with our dog, and he doesn't mind too much when he stays with us. I feel badly for him though; he loved my mom and she loved him. He completely lived up--and continues to live up--to his name: Buddy. A constant companion.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I miss my mom. That's all I can think about today. Hell, she exasperated me, frustrated me, but whenever I needed her, she was there.
Summer was 'our time.' We would have lunch, shop, go to movies, or simply sit outside and talk while having something cold to drink. I come from a line of women who like to sit outside, reading, talking, napping, all while having something cold to drink. Our favorite was usually freshly made iced tea, or a diet cola, or, even though she didn't like it, iced water. We'd talk about most everything.
One summer, Mom decided that she wanted to see various parts of Denver, including the state capitol. While she was a Colorado native, there were landmarks she hadn't ever seen or hadn't seen in a long time. So once a week, we'd load up and head someplace she hadn't seen. She was most impressed with the state capitol building, and we spent hours there. That was a great summer because we went to museums and various Denver landmarks. We even went and saw the Italian exhibit at the history museum, which was important to her since she was Italian.
Because my birthday is a summer birthday, one year Mom, my son, and I went to the art museum for the day. She hadn't seen the contemporary art museum, so we started there. At first, she was horrified to see some of the abstract pieces, calling them 'junk.' Then she was shocked by some of the nudes, wanting me to cover my son's eyes so he wouldn't see them. We laughed at a video that didn't make sense to us. We even ate at the museum's fancy restaurant for lunch. In the end, though, she talked about how much fun she'd had, even if she hadn't particularly liked the nudes.
My mom also had a summer birthday, so one year I took her to get her ears doubl- pierced because she felt like she was ready to have them done. I think she was 68 that year. I bought her some aquamarines and off to Claire's we went. She wore those earrings for awhile, but then she decided that an 'old' lady looked silly with double piercings. I always wished she had continued to wear those earrings. Now I wear them and in my double-piercings.
For her birthday last year, I surprised her with a trip to Evergreen. She didn't want anything for her birthday; in fact, she didn't want any of us to acknowledge it. I simply couldn't ignore her birthday, so we went to Evergreen and had lunch at Beau Jo's, a place neither of us had been in years. We shopped around in some of the kitzchy stores, ate ice cream in Morrison, and then came home. She told me she'd had a great day and was genuinely happy that day.
It just seemed like she knew when I needed her most. She'd call out of the blue and we'd end up having lunch at Chick-fil-A. Or Taco Bell. I'd do something to my house or garden, call her up, and she'd come over to see what was different. Naturally, we'd end up sitting outside, having a cold drink.
Today I painted the potting table my husband made me, and I went into the house to call her. But she's not there. So I sat outside by myself today, having a cold drink, listening to the birds instead.
Summer was 'our time.' We would have lunch, shop, go to movies, or simply sit outside and talk while having something cold to drink. I come from a line of women who like to sit outside, reading, talking, napping, all while having something cold to drink. Our favorite was usually freshly made iced tea, or a diet cola, or, even though she didn't like it, iced water. We'd talk about most everything.
One summer, Mom decided that she wanted to see various parts of Denver, including the state capitol. While she was a Colorado native, there were landmarks she hadn't ever seen or hadn't seen in a long time. So once a week, we'd load up and head someplace she hadn't seen. She was most impressed with the state capitol building, and we spent hours there. That was a great summer because we went to museums and various Denver landmarks. We even went and saw the Italian exhibit at the history museum, which was important to her since she was Italian.
Because my birthday is a summer birthday, one year Mom, my son, and I went to the art museum for the day. She hadn't seen the contemporary art museum, so we started there. At first, she was horrified to see some of the abstract pieces, calling them 'junk.' Then she was shocked by some of the nudes, wanting me to cover my son's eyes so he wouldn't see them. We laughed at a video that didn't make sense to us. We even ate at the museum's fancy restaurant for lunch. In the end, though, she talked about how much fun she'd had, even if she hadn't particularly liked the nudes.
My mom also had a summer birthday, so one year I took her to get her ears doubl- pierced because she felt like she was ready to have them done. I think she was 68 that year. I bought her some aquamarines and off to Claire's we went. She wore those earrings for awhile, but then she decided that an 'old' lady looked silly with double piercings. I always wished she had continued to wear those earrings. Now I wear them and in my double-piercings.
For her birthday last year, I surprised her with a trip to Evergreen. She didn't want anything for her birthday; in fact, she didn't want any of us to acknowledge it. I simply couldn't ignore her birthday, so we went to Evergreen and had lunch at Beau Jo's, a place neither of us had been in years. We shopped around in some of the kitzchy stores, ate ice cream in Morrison, and then came home. She told me she'd had a great day and was genuinely happy that day.
It just seemed like she knew when I needed her most. She'd call out of the blue and we'd end up having lunch at Chick-fil-A. Or Taco Bell. I'd do something to my house or garden, call her up, and she'd come over to see what was different. Naturally, we'd end up sitting outside, having a cold drink.
Today I painted the potting table my husband made me, and I went into the house to call her. But she's not there. So I sat outside by myself today, having a cold drink, listening to the birds instead.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
My nine year old is discovering girls, not as yucky, cootie-covered creatures created for "boy-torture," but as young women to like, love, and marry. This I am not ready for!
We were doing one of our favorite summertime activities: having a picnic in the park. We brought our books to read, great food to eat, and were ready to simply hang out with one another. My son, who is also discovering hygiene and hairdos, 'did' his mohawk today--with red gel. It actually looks like he has spots of fresh blood around his head, in his eyebrows, and on his ear. Little kids kept walking over to stare at him, he looks so odd.
However, one young lady didn't look at him oddly. Instead, she started flirting with him, talking to him, drawing him out of his shell. At first, I paid no attention. I mean, really, I had a book to read! The next time I looked up, they were pushing a swing together, and then I began to surreptitiously watch them.
They followed one another all over the playground, playing tag, hanging around and talking, laughing, smiling and hiding from one another and their parents. I was shocked! First because his bizarre hairdo didn't freak her out. And second because I hadn't thought of my son as ready to flirt...with a GIRL!
The tenuous thread that holds mother and son together strengthened occasionally; he'd come back to check with me, to make sure I was still present for him. I tried to gently coach him into finding out information about this young lady, like her name. Finding out her name hadn't even dawned on him! Eventually, she had to leave as did we, and their buddingly fragile relationship came haltingly to an end.
On the way home, he told me more about her--Kaylee--and then began to think too far ahead for me; he wondered if they'd eventually get married. While the inner mother in me was freaking out, the outer mother, the mother who wants her son to feel comfortable talking with her, listened attentively, asked a few questions, and tried my best to sound supportive. While I'm sure he has already forgotten her as he immerses himself in "Scooby do," I won't forget this first-of-many-budding romances.
Time with my son has passed too quickly.
We were doing one of our favorite summertime activities: having a picnic in the park. We brought our books to read, great food to eat, and were ready to simply hang out with one another. My son, who is also discovering hygiene and hairdos, 'did' his mohawk today--with red gel. It actually looks like he has spots of fresh blood around his head, in his eyebrows, and on his ear. Little kids kept walking over to stare at him, he looks so odd.
However, one young lady didn't look at him oddly. Instead, she started flirting with him, talking to him, drawing him out of his shell. At first, I paid no attention. I mean, really, I had a book to read! The next time I looked up, they were pushing a swing together, and then I began to surreptitiously watch them.
They followed one another all over the playground, playing tag, hanging around and talking, laughing, smiling and hiding from one another and their parents. I was shocked! First because his bizarre hairdo didn't freak her out. And second because I hadn't thought of my son as ready to flirt...with a GIRL!
The tenuous thread that holds mother and son together strengthened occasionally; he'd come back to check with me, to make sure I was still present for him. I tried to gently coach him into finding out information about this young lady, like her name. Finding out her name hadn't even dawned on him! Eventually, she had to leave as did we, and their buddingly fragile relationship came haltingly to an end.
On the way home, he told me more about her--Kaylee--and then began to think too far ahead for me; he wondered if they'd eventually get married. While the inner mother in me was freaking out, the outer mother, the mother who wants her son to feel comfortable talking with her, listened attentively, asked a few questions, and tried my best to sound supportive. While I'm sure he has already forgotten her as he immerses himself in "Scooby do," I won't forget this first-of-many-budding romances.
Time with my son has passed too quickly.
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