The egg I dropped into the frying pan this morning assumed the perfect shape of a STEALTH bomber.
It tasted fine, though.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
call me a cat
And I just caught Mouse Number Two, this time with some cleverness and cunning. It poked its head around the bookshelf as I sat on my couch journalling, and sneaked along the baseboard and around the corner to the kitchen. I waited a moment, then followed. It wasn't caught in the glue trap laid along the wall just around the corner. Puzzled, I checked my other empty trap in the kitchen behind the stove, then inspected its path to see how it had escaped.
It occurred to me that the mouse was running on the molding, not the bare floor, so I tipped the glue trap at an angle from molding to floor, and went on a hunt around the kitchen.
As I opened the pantry door, a little brown furriness darted behind the stove. I waited, and then with a jerk it ran over the tipped trap and caught.
So now Mouse Number Two is feeling a little colder and I'm thinking if there are more than two mice in this apartment, I am quickly going to lose my reluctance to give them a sound blow to the head to finish the whole business right away, so as not to waste good Gladware.
Meowwr.
It occurred to me that the mouse was running on the molding, not the bare floor, so I tipped the glue trap at an angle from molding to floor, and went on a hunt around the kitchen.
As I opened the pantry door, a little brown furriness darted behind the stove. I waited, and then with a jerk it ran over the tipped trap and caught.
So now Mouse Number Two is feeling a little colder and I'm thinking if there are more than two mice in this apartment, I am quickly going to lose my reluctance to give them a sound blow to the head to finish the whole business right away, so as not to waste good Gladware.
Meowwr.
a conversation with my father
Me: Hi, Daddy.
Dad: Hey, Sarah B., I just got your message.
Me: Yeah, um...what do I do?
Dad: Well, how bad is it? Did it chew through the whole wire?
Me: Hang on, checking...yeah, it chewed through an entire wire. So the speaker only has one wire intact.
Dad: Well...hm...it's a little hard for me to walk you through it step-by-step...
Me: I know, you can't even see the damage. But there are little bits of copper strewn everywhere and the speaker is definitely not working.
Dad: Do you know anyone you could take it to?
Me: Yeah, my boss's husband is good with this kind of stuff. You think that'll do it?
Dad: Yeah, I think so. Hey, what did you mean when you said the mouse is currently freezing to death?
Me: I mean I put it in the freezer.
So yes, I had a mouse this past week. Monday evening I was sitting on the couch watching TV when a furry black thing scuttled across the baseboard and disappeared behind the entertainment center. I shrieked (wondering if it was perhaps the biggest cockroach on the planet), grabbed a stool, and climbed on it to peer behind the entertainment center. There it was, terrified by the volume of my yell, and there I was, paralyzed. I put in a call to my mother and then to my landlord, who happened to be at Target at that very moment buying mousetraps for his own house. So he brought me some flat glue traps, the kind that catch but don't kill (grr, I hate doing the dirty work myself), and Wednesday afternoon I came home to find it lodged in a corner, its back legs caught in the trap and the glue full of copper wire pieces from the stereo speaker next to which it was lying.
My massive guilt trip evaporated then and there. I had decided in advance that freezing to death was the most humane way of disposing of the mouse (as opposed to smashing it or doing as my landlord suggested, which was to throw the whole thing in the trash: "You'll hear it moving around for awhile, but it'll die eventually" -- what?! -- and the glue prevents you from freeing the mouse in one piece, so I couldn't drive it twenty miles to a field and let it go) and so I lifted the trap with a spatula into a disposable Gladware container, covered it in plastic wrap, and popped it in on top of the icebox.
It's too bad mice are vermin. This particular little mouse was very very cute -- a long, alert face and bright eyes and dark brown fur, much more preferable than the nasty boorish sluggish smelly "domesticated" variety -- and if I had found his little poops in my toilet instead of my pantry, I believe we could have set up a tidy, peaceable coexistence. Instead he crapped on my flour and ate one of my speaker wires. Sorry, little buddy; time to go.
So I'm listening to George Winston with one speaker, which is adequate but one-dimensional. Boss Meg's husband Phillip will fix the devastated speaker for me, so I'm taking it to work with me tomorrow.
Dad: Hey, Sarah B., I just got your message.
Me: Yeah, um...what do I do?
Dad: Well, how bad is it? Did it chew through the whole wire?
Me: Hang on, checking...yeah, it chewed through an entire wire. So the speaker only has one wire intact.
Dad: Well...hm...it's a little hard for me to walk you through it step-by-step...
Me: I know, you can't even see the damage. But there are little bits of copper strewn everywhere and the speaker is definitely not working.
Dad: Do you know anyone you could take it to?
Me: Yeah, my boss's husband is good with this kind of stuff. You think that'll do it?
Dad: Yeah, I think so. Hey, what did you mean when you said the mouse is currently freezing to death?
Me: I mean I put it in the freezer.
So yes, I had a mouse this past week. Monday evening I was sitting on the couch watching TV when a furry black thing scuttled across the baseboard and disappeared behind the entertainment center. I shrieked (wondering if it was perhaps the biggest cockroach on the planet), grabbed a stool, and climbed on it to peer behind the entertainment center. There it was, terrified by the volume of my yell, and there I was, paralyzed. I put in a call to my mother and then to my landlord, who happened to be at Target at that very moment buying mousetraps for his own house. So he brought me some flat glue traps, the kind that catch but don't kill (grr, I hate doing the dirty work myself), and Wednesday afternoon I came home to find it lodged in a corner, its back legs caught in the trap and the glue full of copper wire pieces from the stereo speaker next to which it was lying.
My massive guilt trip evaporated then and there. I had decided in advance that freezing to death was the most humane way of disposing of the mouse (as opposed to smashing it or doing as my landlord suggested, which was to throw the whole thing in the trash: "You'll hear it moving around for awhile, but it'll die eventually" -- what?! -- and the glue prevents you from freeing the mouse in one piece, so I couldn't drive it twenty miles to a field and let it go) and so I lifted the trap with a spatula into a disposable Gladware container, covered it in plastic wrap, and popped it in on top of the icebox.
It's too bad mice are vermin. This particular little mouse was very very cute -- a long, alert face and bright eyes and dark brown fur, much more preferable than the nasty boorish sluggish smelly "domesticated" variety -- and if I had found his little poops in my toilet instead of my pantry, I believe we could have set up a tidy, peaceable coexistence. Instead he crapped on my flour and ate one of my speaker wires. Sorry, little buddy; time to go.
So I'm listening to George Winston with one speaker, which is adequate but one-dimensional. Boss Meg's husband Phillip will fix the devastated speaker for me, so I'm taking it to work with me tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
a disclaimer
Life has been a little depressing lately...I'm exhausted with no apparent cause (I've been taking iron supplements and have decided to add a meat dish every week to my diet to avoid anemia), haven't been sleeping well, and have no energy.
I've begun cracking into my Bible in the mornings again (I've needed that pretty desperately) and exercise regularly, so hopefully with my improvements in diet I'll be picking up the pace again.
Really I think my exhaustion stems from my job. I love my work, I love the kids, I love what Meg and I are trying to do; but it's an exhausting job. All day every day I have to remain patient, calm, and loving for 6-8 very small children whose mental/emotional wellbeing partially depends upon my attitude and how attentive and vigilant I am for them. This keeps me on my guard every second.
Plus it was a long summer with only one steady volunteer on only Monday and Wednesday mornings. Meg and I have been planning and executing lessons (Yes, we do lessons: This is an early intervention classroom, not a daycare) all morning every morning by ourselves since June. All summer we've been upbeat about it, refusing to admit how hard our job has been, plowing through until we can get a break. Finally more volunteers are returning with the start of the academic year; but not many are coming in the mornings when we do our lessons and need the most help: Therefore we're not getting much of a break. But even a slight bit of help has the weight of the summer leaning on me -- rather like plowing through a semester refusing to get sick because of the workload for school, then going home for fall break and catching pneumonia, the flu, or some ungodly horrible cold. Only this is manifesting itself not in illness but utter, bone-deep mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion.
I am dead tired. When I come home I barely have enough energy to make something for dinner before I sink into the couch and stare vacantly at the TV until bedtime. My entire apartment needs a thorough cleaning; my plants need regular watering; my refrigerator could stand a purge; but I can't do it.
It upsets me when people assume that most of my negligence of a social life is due to some internal rudeness or irresponsibility or callous disregard. First, my job is my life. I love it, and I will not leave it until my work there is pretty much through, and while I have it I must necessarily have early bedtimes and low-key weekends, since any time not at work is time recuperating from that day and preparing for the next. I'm in social work. If I show up groggy or grumpy children who have already endured more insecurity than I have ever endured in my life will suffer for it. I cannot do that to them. Thus, my night life is g.o.n.e. Kiss it goodbye, friends; I already have.
I am happy to meet people for dinner. I miss a lot of the folks I used to see regularly. But I can't jump into clubbing clothes and hit the bars on a work night. I doubt I can even jump into clubbing clothes and hit the bars on a weekend night. At ten o'clock my vision starts fuzzing. It's the nature of my current life.
Second, I am by nature an introvert. I do not believe this characteristic is the negative hurdle-to-be-overcome that contemporary society would have us believe. It is merely a fact. By nature I avoid oversocializing with people -- not because I dislike people, but because being with people, however fun and necessary and wholesome (and it is fun and necessary and wholesome) drains my resources. It has nothing to do with the people and everything to do with how I'm wired. When I'm at a mental/physical/emotional ebb, I heal by being alone. And I've been in a mental/physical/emotional low tide for a long time.
So friends, please don't take offense if I neglect you. I love you, and apologize for neglecting you, and hope not to neglect you soon. In the meantime, if you think of me, kindly pray that more morning volunteers will show up to help Meg and me, because until then it looks like my social life (which, may I reiterate, is sometimes just as much work for me as my job) is kerplut.
And in the meantime, I'm going to bed.
I've begun cracking into my Bible in the mornings again (I've needed that pretty desperately) and exercise regularly, so hopefully with my improvements in diet I'll be picking up the pace again.
Really I think my exhaustion stems from my job. I love my work, I love the kids, I love what Meg and I are trying to do; but it's an exhausting job. All day every day I have to remain patient, calm, and loving for 6-8 very small children whose mental/emotional wellbeing partially depends upon my attitude and how attentive and vigilant I am for them. This keeps me on my guard every second.
Plus it was a long summer with only one steady volunteer on only Monday and Wednesday mornings. Meg and I have been planning and executing lessons (Yes, we do lessons: This is an early intervention classroom, not a daycare) all morning every morning by ourselves since June. All summer we've been upbeat about it, refusing to admit how hard our job has been, plowing through until we can get a break. Finally more volunteers are returning with the start of the academic year; but not many are coming in the mornings when we do our lessons and need the most help: Therefore we're not getting much of a break. But even a slight bit of help has the weight of the summer leaning on me -- rather like plowing through a semester refusing to get sick because of the workload for school, then going home for fall break and catching pneumonia, the flu, or some ungodly horrible cold. Only this is manifesting itself not in illness but utter, bone-deep mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion.
I am dead tired. When I come home I barely have enough energy to make something for dinner before I sink into the couch and stare vacantly at the TV until bedtime. My entire apartment needs a thorough cleaning; my plants need regular watering; my refrigerator could stand a purge; but I can't do it.
It upsets me when people assume that most of my negligence of a social life is due to some internal rudeness or irresponsibility or callous disregard. First, my job is my life. I love it, and I will not leave it until my work there is pretty much through, and while I have it I must necessarily have early bedtimes and low-key weekends, since any time not at work is time recuperating from that day and preparing for the next. I'm in social work. If I show up groggy or grumpy children who have already endured more insecurity than I have ever endured in my life will suffer for it. I cannot do that to them. Thus, my night life is g.o.n.e. Kiss it goodbye, friends; I already have.
I am happy to meet people for dinner. I miss a lot of the folks I used to see regularly. But I can't jump into clubbing clothes and hit the bars on a work night. I doubt I can even jump into clubbing clothes and hit the bars on a weekend night. At ten o'clock my vision starts fuzzing. It's the nature of my current life.
Second, I am by nature an introvert. I do not believe this characteristic is the negative hurdle-to-be-overcome that contemporary society would have us believe. It is merely a fact. By nature I avoid oversocializing with people -- not because I dislike people, but because being with people, however fun and necessary and wholesome (and it is fun and necessary and wholesome) drains my resources. It has nothing to do with the people and everything to do with how I'm wired. When I'm at a mental/physical/emotional ebb, I heal by being alone. And I've been in a mental/physical/emotional low tide for a long time.
So friends, please don't take offense if I neglect you. I love you, and apologize for neglecting you, and hope not to neglect you soon. In the meantime, if you think of me, kindly pray that more morning volunteers will show up to help Meg and me, because until then it looks like my social life (which, may I reiterate, is sometimes just as much work for me as my job) is kerplut.
And in the meantime, I'm going to bed.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
fall cleaning
I made a delightful discovery yesterday when depositing my birthday money into my checking account: I have much more money there than I had thought.
Much more really isn't much in the grand scheme of things, but the end of the month usually finds me scraping the bottom of the financial barrel because my spending habits have never been stellar. Well...actually my spending habits are great for the economy, but my saving habits suck.
But so far this month I've been practically miserly, not buying anything but groceries and staying in a lot to watch Buffy. (My birthday shopping spree at the Grove doesn't count, as it used up money that didn't come from my paycheck.)
So I can relax a little bit and enjoy the not-spending that is September.
Today my apartment was fifty-eight degrees when I woke up (again, up and about before nine -- huzzah!) and even though I didn't feel I'd had the best night's sleep, just rolling out from under the covers into delightful briskness had me completely energized. Which means I get to partially accomplish my goal of reorganizing and cleaning my entire apartment this weekend. The clutter has been accumulating and it's driving me bonkers.
Boss Meg and I have been working out consistently after work on MWF; yesterday's workout was fantastic (although sadly I sweat like Niagara Falls, thanks Dad) and I've finally found the perfect height on the exercise bike so that my knees aren't burning two minutes into the routine.
The two of us managed to get through the end of August and part of September without hearing someone ask us, "Are you sisters???" But this week we were deluged; it's gotten to the point where we either start laughing as soon as it's asked, or suppress impatient groans. I mean seriously. She's Greek-Italian and I'm Scots-Irish-German. We're two pretty white girls with big smiles and brown hair, and that's where the resemblance ends. Although I do look a little more like her sister than her own sister does.
My mango yogurt ice went over fabulously at La-Di-Ta; I met two new young women who a.) don't mind at all our various differences in personality and background (which rocks) and b.) apparently know all the young people in South Bend, so I've been threatened with a social life, which sounds grrrreat. They exclaimed over the delicate flavors and beautiful presentation (at the recipe's direction, I served the ice with sprigs of mint) and asked, "You made this?" Which of course made me smile.
Bring on the cleaning. I'm wearing ancient, huge, patched, faded jeans and a bandana. Brace yourself, clutter. Te goberno!
Much more really isn't much in the grand scheme of things, but the end of the month usually finds me scraping the bottom of the financial barrel because my spending habits have never been stellar. Well...actually my spending habits are great for the economy, but my saving habits suck.
But so far this month I've been practically miserly, not buying anything but groceries and staying in a lot to watch Buffy. (My birthday shopping spree at the Grove doesn't count, as it used up money that didn't come from my paycheck.)
So I can relax a little bit and enjoy the not-spending that is September.
Today my apartment was fifty-eight degrees when I woke up (again, up and about before nine -- huzzah!) and even though I didn't feel I'd had the best night's sleep, just rolling out from under the covers into delightful briskness had me completely energized. Which means I get to partially accomplish my goal of reorganizing and cleaning my entire apartment this weekend. The clutter has been accumulating and it's driving me bonkers.
Boss Meg and I have been working out consistently after work on MWF; yesterday's workout was fantastic (although sadly I sweat like Niagara Falls, thanks Dad) and I've finally found the perfect height on the exercise bike so that my knees aren't burning two minutes into the routine.
The two of us managed to get through the end of August and part of September without hearing someone ask us, "Are you sisters???" But this week we were deluged; it's gotten to the point where we either start laughing as soon as it's asked, or suppress impatient groans. I mean seriously. She's Greek-Italian and I'm Scots-Irish-German. We're two pretty white girls with big smiles and brown hair, and that's where the resemblance ends. Although I do look a little more like her sister than her own sister does.
My mango yogurt ice went over fabulously at La-Di-Ta; I met two new young women who a.) don't mind at all our various differences in personality and background (which rocks) and b.) apparently know all the young people in South Bend, so I've been threatened with a social life, which sounds grrrreat. They exclaimed over the delicate flavors and beautiful presentation (at the recipe's direction, I served the ice with sprigs of mint) and asked, "You made this?" Which of course made me smile.
Bring on the cleaning. I'm wearing ancient, huge, patched, faded jeans and a bandana. Brace yourself, clutter. Te goberno!
Thursday, September 15, 2005
la-di-ta
Temperatures last night bottomed out at a welcome fifty-something degrees, so that when I woke groggily to the insistence of my alarm this morning my apartment registered at a blissful fifty-nine. With the sun filtering through slowly yellowing leaves on the street outside my living room window, and yellow-brown leaves scattered over the sidewalk, it definitely bespoke the coming of autumn.
Colder weather brings out the best in me. I like summer while it lasts, but the heat and the humidity make me feel bloated, lethargic, and stupid. When I wake up and get cold feet walking across my kitchen floor to put on the kettle, and the air bites at my bare legs, I feel energized, chipper, ready to take on anything. I think I'm going to get up an hour earlier on these fall mornings so that I can take a long constitutional in the vinegar-tangy air before work. My ideal temperature is sixty-five, my ideal day a late September Saturday when I can dig out my shapeless red barn coat, stuff the pockets with apples, and wander at will through the trees.
On a social note, tonight begins the inception of La-Di-Ta ("Living Alone -- Dining Together"), a single women's dinner group started up by Colette and one of her coworkers. Six women comprise the group, and every Thursday we shift hostesses and get together at one gal's place for a sit-down-together-and-chat meal. Everyone brings something so the hostess only has to worry about the entree.
Tonight I'm in charge of dessert. My oven knob caved, so while I'm waiting for my spastic landlord to replace it, I'm cooking a lot of soup, stovetop curry, and cold food. For tonight's sweet-tooth indulgence I selected a Mango Yogurt Ice recipe from my vegetarian cookbook. Everything went smoothly; I just have to stop by the house to make sure it froze as it was supposed to. I'm not sure it's enough for six women, so since I'm doing my laundry before dinner and the laundromat is located in a Martin's plaza, I'll swing by the grocery store for some mixed fruit.
I'm actually terribly nervous. I do very well cooking for myself, but I've never made anything sweet for anyone besides my Ann Taylor coworkers last Christmas (I'm not a big dessert person, so I never make any for myself). I want it to taste good, to turn out perfectly, and to be enough for everyone. But I'm sure the ladies will be forgiving in the event that perfection is unattainable.
Here goes!
Colder weather brings out the best in me. I like summer while it lasts, but the heat and the humidity make me feel bloated, lethargic, and stupid. When I wake up and get cold feet walking across my kitchen floor to put on the kettle, and the air bites at my bare legs, I feel energized, chipper, ready to take on anything. I think I'm going to get up an hour earlier on these fall mornings so that I can take a long constitutional in the vinegar-tangy air before work. My ideal temperature is sixty-five, my ideal day a late September Saturday when I can dig out my shapeless red barn coat, stuff the pockets with apples, and wander at will through the trees.
On a social note, tonight begins the inception of La-Di-Ta ("Living Alone -- Dining Together"), a single women's dinner group started up by Colette and one of her coworkers. Six women comprise the group, and every Thursday we shift hostesses and get together at one gal's place for a sit-down-together-and-chat meal. Everyone brings something so the hostess only has to worry about the entree.
Tonight I'm in charge of dessert. My oven knob caved, so while I'm waiting for my spastic landlord to replace it, I'm cooking a lot of soup, stovetop curry, and cold food. For tonight's sweet-tooth indulgence I selected a Mango Yogurt Ice recipe from my vegetarian cookbook. Everything went smoothly; I just have to stop by the house to make sure it froze as it was supposed to. I'm not sure it's enough for six women, so since I'm doing my laundry before dinner and the laundromat is located in a Martin's plaza, I'll swing by the grocery store for some mixed fruit.
I'm actually terribly nervous. I do very well cooking for myself, but I've never made anything sweet for anyone besides my Ann Taylor coworkers last Christmas (I'm not a big dessert person, so I never make any for myself). I want it to taste good, to turn out perfectly, and to be enough for everyone. But I'm sure the ladies will be forgiving in the event that perfection is unattainable.
Here goes!
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
a year older
Yesterday I turned twenty-four.
I've been looking forward to this birthday since about February, when I decided that twenty-four is a.) going to be the best year of my life so far and b.) closer to being a settled, "real" adult than twenty-three. At twenty-four I think it's beginning to look like I have a clue...or if not a clue, then at least a plan that happens to be working out so far.
It's also the age my mother was when she gave birth to me. My life has taken dramatically different turns from hers: Not married right out of college (not even dating), not holding my first child in my arms. One thing, though, we have in common: I moved far away from family to start a life of my own.
I'd planned to be incredibly reflective, but as it turns out that's all I have to say about turning twenty-four. My birthday itself was a great deal of fun in a relaxing, low-key way. I went out for some excellent deep-dish pizza with Colette, came home and watched the season premieres of Bones and House while on the phone with Leigh Ann, broke open a bottle of mead (which I highly recommend: honey wine is sweet, flavorful, and rich) and contentedly watched the day end. I'm glad, as I'm glad of most things lately, to be a year older and to find nothing to wish for, having all that I want (besides a raise, let's be honest).
This past weekend I caught a ride East to visit my sister and her fiance in New Wilmington -- and it was perfect. I didn't get to see enough of Laura, as she spent most of the weekend working, but my future brother-in-law doesn't mind shopping, so we spent some intensive hours at the Grove City Outlets, where I bought eight T-shirts, three long-sleeved T-shirts, and two tanktops (nearly all of them for work), a garlic press, three pairs of underwear, and a cheap VHS edition of E.T. I consider this my birthday shopping spree, and was profoundly happy that it took place in a state without clothing tax. It was absolutely rejuvenating to be back in Western PA for thirty hours, among old hills, small farm towns, and a slower pace of life. I needed that time in the landscape of my home.
Thanks everyone for your good wishes! Life is, as usual, lovely.
I've been looking forward to this birthday since about February, when I decided that twenty-four is a.) going to be the best year of my life so far and b.) closer to being a settled, "real" adult than twenty-three. At twenty-four I think it's beginning to look like I have a clue...or if not a clue, then at least a plan that happens to be working out so far.
It's also the age my mother was when she gave birth to me. My life has taken dramatically different turns from hers: Not married right out of college (not even dating), not holding my first child in my arms. One thing, though, we have in common: I moved far away from family to start a life of my own.
I'd planned to be incredibly reflective, but as it turns out that's all I have to say about turning twenty-four. My birthday itself was a great deal of fun in a relaxing, low-key way. I went out for some excellent deep-dish pizza with Colette, came home and watched the season premieres of Bones and House while on the phone with Leigh Ann, broke open a bottle of mead (which I highly recommend: honey wine is sweet, flavorful, and rich) and contentedly watched the day end. I'm glad, as I'm glad of most things lately, to be a year older and to find nothing to wish for, having all that I want (besides a raise, let's be honest).
This past weekend I caught a ride East to visit my sister and her fiance in New Wilmington -- and it was perfect. I didn't get to see enough of Laura, as she spent most of the weekend working, but my future brother-in-law doesn't mind shopping, so we spent some intensive hours at the Grove City Outlets, where I bought eight T-shirts, three long-sleeved T-shirts, and two tanktops (nearly all of them for work), a garlic press, three pairs of underwear, and a cheap VHS edition of E.T. I consider this my birthday shopping spree, and was profoundly happy that it took place in a state without clothing tax. It was absolutely rejuvenating to be back in Western PA for thirty hours, among old hills, small farm towns, and a slower pace of life. I needed that time in the landscape of my home.
Thanks everyone for your good wishes! Life is, as usual, lovely.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
the post in which I confess to like being single
I like being single.
I like it a lot.
It's been a dawning comprehension over the last couple of months, moving to a conscious realization over the last couple of weeks, blooming to a solid awareness over the last couple of days. Given a choice, at the moment, I think I would choose to stay as I am.
Oh, not forever -- "it is not good for [man/woman/a person/me] to be alone" and all that -- but for now. When I find my life completely satisfying. When I have so much to do and learn, and so much to read. When I look around and see that everything is good, as it is.
When I was younger I thought I would never have the capability to be/live alone, as in single (I'm not actually "alone"; I have faith an family and friends and plants). But that's what has happened, and it's very very good.
A blessing. This, for the time being, is my blessing. Something to cherish and protect, something to make me smile with my whole being, until the next blessing.
I like it a lot.
It's been a dawning comprehension over the last couple of months, moving to a conscious realization over the last couple of weeks, blooming to a solid awareness over the last couple of days. Given a choice, at the moment, I think I would choose to stay as I am.
Oh, not forever -- "it is not good for [man/woman/a person/me] to be alone" and all that -- but for now. When I find my life completely satisfying. When I have so much to do and learn, and so much to read. When I look around and see that everything is good, as it is.
When I was younger I thought I would never have the capability to be/live alone, as in single (I'm not actually "alone"; I have faith an family and friends and plants). But that's what has happened, and it's very very good.
A blessing. This, for the time being, is my blessing. Something to cherish and protect, something to make me smile with my whole being, until the next blessing.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
planning tracks for the grove
So I'm still sick, home from work actually, which wasn't as difficult to achieve as I'd always thought. Meg and I were worried about me infecting the kids, so we called Boss-Boss Beth who got very agitated on our behalf and came up with half a million ideas for helpers and substitutes over the next few days.
"Everyone gets sick," she fumed. "You ought to have a substitute. And you both are taking a vacation at Christmastime. I'm ordering you!"
Well. All righty then. So today the symptoms are milder and I am (if you can believe it) all Buffy' and Angel'd out. I've watched almost the entire fourth season of B and the first season of A for the past five days straight. My brains began sloshing about in my skull last night, so I decided to call a TV-free day today and do things like blog and wash dishes and listen to George Winston and Chopin.
So. Homecoming. Once again, due to the finances of travel, I faced the difficult decision between the North East Wine Fest (the weekend prior to Homecoming) and Homecoming at Grove City. The Wine Fest has infinite charm (and infinite wine), but the Grove has old friends with whom I seldom have the opportunity to connect. So, friends trumped wine and I'm planning to make tracks for the Grove in a few weeks.
I also think this is the last year I can crash in someone's room. After this I won't know anybody who's still attending, so friends, if we make plans for Homecoming next year, why don't we make them way in advance so we can reserve a cheap motel room cheap?
"Everyone gets sick," she fumed. "You ought to have a substitute. And you both are taking a vacation at Christmastime. I'm ordering you!"
Well. All righty then. So today the symptoms are milder and I am (if you can believe it) all Buffy' and Angel'd out. I've watched almost the entire fourth season of B and the first season of A for the past five days straight. My brains began sloshing about in my skull last night, so I decided to call a TV-free day today and do things like blog and wash dishes and listen to George Winston and Chopin.
So. Homecoming. Once again, due to the finances of travel, I faced the difficult decision between the North East Wine Fest (the weekend prior to Homecoming) and Homecoming at Grove City. The Wine Fest has infinite charm (and infinite wine), but the Grove has old friends with whom I seldom have the opportunity to connect. So, friends trumped wine and I'm planning to make tracks for the Grove in a few weeks.
I also think this is the last year I can crash in someone's room. After this I won't know anybody who's still attending, so friends, if we make plans for Homecoming next year, why don't we make them way in advance so we can reserve a cheap motel room cheap?
Sunday, September 04, 2005
the healing power of chicken
Recognizing that my posts tend to ramble, I will attempt to keep this concise and clear. (This is how you should never, never start a paper.) This blog will have three parts.
1. Notification and apology to all my friends: I've turned on word verification for comments. I'm tired of random comment spam.
2. Nara, my favorite two-year-old at work, on Thursday demonstrated the impossible. The kids had discovered a wagon left in the courtyard during their outdoor free play time, and organized themselves into puller, pulled, and pusher. The teamwork as they navigated the curves in the path was adorable.
Then Nara started pulling everyone else. Raziel, Antonio, and Kristopher sat in the wagon while she pulled them around and around the circle. Meg and I looked on amazed. I laughingly asked Nara if I could have a ride, to which she responded, "You cain't have a ride! My kids in there!" (She has Mother Hen and Matriarch embedded into her personality.)
But then Meg had everyone climb out and climbed in herself, and Nara pulled 135-lb Meg halfway around the circle. Then Meg climbed out and I climbed in. She pulled 160-lb me partway around the circle. Then 25-lb Christopher and 35-lb Kristopher climbed in with me, and she dragged the 220-lb three of us -- five times her own body weight -- about a foot.
I think she's going to take over the world.
3. Chicken broth. This morning I woke up unspeakably nauseous and could barely bring myself to sip water. But then I remembered the boullion granules on my spice rack. I made a cup of chicken broth. Bliss. Digestive healing heaven.
Why? What makes chicken broth a cure-all for upset stomachs?
Well. I'm just glad it works.
1. Notification and apology to all my friends: I've turned on word verification for comments. I'm tired of random comment spam.
2. Nara, my favorite two-year-old at work, on Thursday demonstrated the impossible. The kids had discovered a wagon left in the courtyard during their outdoor free play time, and organized themselves into puller, pulled, and pusher. The teamwork as they navigated the curves in the path was adorable.
Then Nara started pulling everyone else. Raziel, Antonio, and Kristopher sat in the wagon while she pulled them around and around the circle. Meg and I looked on amazed. I laughingly asked Nara if I could have a ride, to which she responded, "You cain't have a ride! My kids in there!" (She has Mother Hen and Matriarch embedded into her personality.)
But then Meg had everyone climb out and climbed in herself, and Nara pulled 135-lb Meg halfway around the circle. Then Meg climbed out and I climbed in. She pulled 160-lb me partway around the circle. Then 25-lb Christopher and 35-lb Kristopher climbed in with me, and she dragged the 220-lb three of us -- five times her own body weight -- about a foot.
I think she's going to take over the world.
3. Chicken broth. This morning I woke up unspeakably nauseous and could barely bring myself to sip water. But then I remembered the boullion granules on my spice rack. I made a cup of chicken broth. Bliss. Digestive healing heaven.
Why? What makes chicken broth a cure-all for upset stomachs?
Well. I'm just glad it works.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
a little plague for the weekend
Yesterday I woke up with a fever and a nasty sore throat. I came home early from work (God bless my courageous boss), slept for a few hours, decided I should call a doctor, found one that had Saturday hours AND took my crappy insurance, and rolled out of bed at 6:30 this morning after a terrible night's sleep to wait for an hour and a half in the waiting room stuck watching a 72-hour Michael Landon marathon, which struck me as supremely unfair.
The nurse who took me back to the exam room asked why I'd come in, and I reeled off a list of my symptoms (sore throat, swollen painful glands, fever, joint and muscle aches, cold extremities, headache), and when she returned with a swab to do the strep test she said, "You gave that description really well. Are you a medical student?"
I didn't say, "No, I'm a hypochondriac and I watch House." Instead I smiled and said, "No...but thanks. I check a lot of online websites." And gave myself bonus points for sounding educated while running a fever of 101.5 before ten in the morning.
I paid through the nose for the medication (half of which the doctor's office gave me in samples; I'm grateful), bought myself necessary BRAT diet goodies like bananas, applesauce, and ginger ale, and returned home to find that my fever had spiked to 103.5, at which I panicked and called the doctor's office. They kindly gave me a schedule for Tylenol doses, which has helped dramatically.
It's really the only downside of living alone -- when you're sick no one knows, and no one is there to brush your nasty unwashed hair off your sweaty sickie forehead and tell you, Drink this; everything's going to be all right.
So I called my mom and Leigh Ann and spent the rest of the day watching Buffy and Angel. It's not like having family closeby, but it'll do.
And I didn't once hallucinate. Which I consider to be a good thing.
The nurse who took me back to the exam room asked why I'd come in, and I reeled off a list of my symptoms (sore throat, swollen painful glands, fever, joint and muscle aches, cold extremities, headache), and when she returned with a swab to do the strep test she said, "You gave that description really well. Are you a medical student?"
I didn't say, "No, I'm a hypochondriac and I watch House." Instead I smiled and said, "No...but thanks. I check a lot of online websites." And gave myself bonus points for sounding educated while running a fever of 101.5 before ten in the morning.
I paid through the nose for the medication (half of which the doctor's office gave me in samples; I'm grateful), bought myself necessary BRAT diet goodies like bananas, applesauce, and ginger ale, and returned home to find that my fever had spiked to 103.5, at which I panicked and called the doctor's office. They kindly gave me a schedule for Tylenol doses, which has helped dramatically.
It's really the only downside of living alone -- when you're sick no one knows, and no one is there to brush your nasty unwashed hair off your sweaty sickie forehead and tell you, Drink this; everything's going to be all right.
So I called my mom and Leigh Ann and spent the rest of the day watching Buffy and Angel. It's not like having family closeby, but it'll do.
And I didn't once hallucinate. Which I consider to be a good thing.
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