I had 15 messages this afternoon. I'd taken an hour out of planning and supervising and coordinating and feeling to get a manicure. When I returned I was just a little overwhelmed. NBC, ABC, the local paper, the Phoenix paper..... everyone wants a piece of me.
I refused all the requests to talk to me on Saturday afternoon and Sunday. I will be publicly available at the Stroll and Roll all morning on the 7th and that will just have to be enough for them. I am allowing a reporter who happened to be here anyway to come over this evening before dinner is on the table, but that's about as far as I am willing to go.
It's an interesting balancing act I'm living right now. I need the media to promote my good works, to get the message out, to keep my projects front and center. I can only grow GRIN if people are aware of its wonderfulness. On the other hand, it's hard to stay polite when a producer who sounds as if his voice has yet to change wonders what time on Sunday night I'd like to meet with him.
Seriously? Sunday night? Even on a regular week that's an odd request. Sunday nights are for hunkering down and getting ready for the week ahead. This particular Sunday night, January 8th, one full year after I was perforated and Christina-Taylor died, this particular Sunday night is probably not one that I will be willing to share with reporters. The producer had a hard time understanding that. I don't know why.
It was the first time I'd said "NO" to a request for an interview. I've never shut out a news organization. I've been friendly and welcoming and willing to meet at their convenience. As the frenzy over the anniversary increases, the requests grow in number and frantic-ness... franticity... frantosity.... my brain is melting down as I try to remain calm in the face of their urgency.
This is not my issue. I have nothing new to say. I have been saying the same things for 12 months now and if you and your listeners or viewers or readers haven't been paying attention over the long haul then I don't know why you would start to be interested now. There is nothing startling or surprising that is going to come out of my mouth. In fact, the biggest challenge I am facing right now is trying to keep my responses fresh.
But how do I do that? How do I find different ways to say that I am overwhelmed by the wonderfulness that is my town, that I have been smothered in kindness and grace, that people I don't know care about me and are not shy about sharing that caring and that it all helps me to heal? How can I make my descriptions of my little friend rise from maudlin to exaltation? What can I say that will be new?
It brings me back to where I started a year ago - I am still surprised that others are interested in my drama. Sure, my hip hurts. Sure, I miss Christina. Sure, my life has changed and I'm moving on. I am happy to talk about GRIN, but the reporters want more. They are looking for a sweetener, a hook, a teary response to an unexpected question. Over time, I've learned to guard my reactions and keep the sadness inside. After all, watching me sob on Dateline last January should be enough sorrow for anyone.
I know it is for me. In the beginning, it was helpful to be asked to evaluate and consider and recount. It helped make it real. It helped me to process the events. It gave me an outlook and perspective other than my own to consider. Plus, I was star-struck. Brian Williams wanted to talk to me. That felt pretty cool.
But now, a year into it, I am so over being flattered. Seeing my face on television is not the thrill it once was. Instead, I am boring myself.
This is the story which will not die. Producers and reporters and videographers alike are amazed that there is still interest in our lives. Republicans are dropping like flies in Iowa and NBC national news is sending a crew to my house at dinnertime.
Am I really that impressive? Is my story that important? Am I feeding the beast and thus adding to the madness? Does it really matter?
I know that if I don't speak for myself I run the risk of others speaking for me. That is not a good thing. I need to own my story and my words and my public persona and that can't happen if I am not out front and center.
But tomorrow, both the Arizona Star and a crew from CBS national news will be meeting me at Prince Elementary School to watch kindergarteners hugging me. I am usually totally focused on the individual children sitting at the mini-tables on the mini-chairs doing major work as they learn English and practice being Americans... because that's what a school filled with children of new immigrants is all about.
My experience tomorrow will be different. It will be examined and photographed and questioned and reviewed and evaluated and judged and commented upon. I will be an iconic volunteer. I will be that woman who made lemonade out of lemons.
It's hard to remember who I am when there are so many people who want to define me.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Stroll and Roll
Certificates of Insurance
…. Facilities Use Permits.... Request for In-Kind Donation
Forms.... my life is populated with people who need me to fill things
out and not make any mistakes.
The people who need the
forms don't always have the on-line links available. The people who
proffer the forms are often unknown to the people who answer the
phones. The forms all ask the same basic questions, but no two of
them look alike. There's no such thing as cut and paste with these
agencies.
I am intersecting with the
Sheriff and the Transportation Department and the Town and the
Natural Resources and Parks Department and several school districts
and Waste Management. Each entity has its own strategy and approach
to my event. It's hard to keep track of who wants to schmooze and
who wants to cut to the chase.
What I do know is that
everyone wants to be sure to be indemnified. What I didn't know was
how complicated a process that would turn out to be. Even though I
wasn't the point person for coordinating the COI (notice how cozy the
affidavit and I have become over the last few months) I was
responsible for insuring that it got to where it was going once it
was obtained. I am also responsible for reassuring all the agencies
involved that the Risk Manager has signed off on the document and
that there are no worries.
No worries. That's not a
phrase that makes anyone I've spoken to this week happy. Nor
comfortable. Nor thrilled. I'm reduced to sharing comforting emails
from those higher up the civil service food chain than I, and hoping
that they work some kind of magic.
All I wanted was to be
surrounded by family and friends on the anniversary of the worst
Saturday of my life. It seems that I will get my wish... times
ten... or ten hundred. BEYOND has spread the word far and wide. Two
radio stations are running promotional spots touting my Stroll andRoll. I'm walking around with business cards detailing the
logistics; I'm leaving them everywhere I go.
I am riding a golf cart
with the Parks Department liaison tomorrow morning. Last time
Martina and I rode the path of the Stroll and Roll we were hunkered
down in our jackets and mittens. She was smart enough to have
brought a hat along. I froze. That was 3 weeks ago. Tomorrow I'll
be wearing shorts and a t-shirt. (Why are you living in an
environment that is c-c-c-cold today? We'd be glad to share our
sunshine and warmth with all of you.) I'll be deciding where to put
tables and chairs and canopies and water stations and recycling
containers as we bump along the newly constructed walkway named in
honor of my little lost pal. We'll be enjoying the outdoors and the
view and we'll be analyzing the turns for signage needs and I'll be
thinking about the child whose loss precipitated this event.
It's hard to keep the lump
in my throat from turning into dripping tears. She would love to be
in that cart next to me, making decisions and planning her entrance.
Her ceramic butterflies will be there in her stead, and I will feel
her absence with every breath I take.
There is nothing I can do
to bring her back, but there is much that I can do to bring her
forward with me. I can invite schoolchildren to join me in her name.
I can remind myself that smiles not sorrow are just what Christina
ordered and that wallowing gets me no place. I can picture my
girlfriend, her mother, riding in The Rose Parade and marvel at the
celebrity which has found us. I can encourage people to “bring
someone unlikely” to the event, because my friendship with C-T was
viewed as surprising by so many. I can share the joy of
inter-generational intersections with a moving back story to bolster
my case.
I can't bring her back,
but I can keep her near.
If you are in Tucson on
Saturday, come and visit with us for a while.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Taking Charge
I cannot let the situation win. It is trying. Read that sentence in both senses -- the year is trying to win and the year has been a trying one. But I am done with it. I know that, for the rest of you, the new year started a few days ago. For me, it will start on January 9th. Til then, I have some straightening up to do.
*****
I'm organizing a massive walk on Saturday morning; 2 radio stations will be there before dawn to set up. Six Pima County Sheriffs will work under the supervision of my own personal Deputy, who promises to come the moment I call him. The Arizona Rangers are going to try to help, too. Security is my primary concern - for the attendees and for myself and Little Cuter and SIR and TBG. The last time I was out on a sunny Saturday in January the results were less than salubrious. I'm paying attention to details these days, and I'm enlisting the right people to make me feel safe.
*****
I'm organizing a massive walk on Saturday morning; 2 radio stations will be there before dawn to set up. Six Pima County Sheriffs will work under the supervision of my own personal Deputy, who promises to come the moment I call him. The Arizona Rangers are going to try to help, too. Security is my primary concern - for the attendees and for myself and Little Cuter and SIR and TBG. The last time I was out on a sunny Saturday in January the results were less than salubrious. I'm paying attention to details these days, and I'm enlisting the right people to make me feel safe.
I'm learning to ask for help and I'm finding that people almost always say yes. The yes might be followed by "But next year you have to ...." but no one has refused me outright. Budgets have been dipped into, concessions have been made, and I have put myself out there, in front, using my vaguely awkward celebrity to do good deeds. It's a funny balance, being a charity slut. I'm selling my story for a 15% discount on sidewalk chalk at Michaels and instead of feeling pushy I'm feeling loved... really loved.... hugged for a long time loved.... and I remember the lesson that had slipped behind the sofa cushion of my brain: Accept help with grace.
I have to put that at the top of my list of things to remember.
*****
I'm learning to delegate. I've asked a volunteer if she would be The Boss of the other volunteers and she knew just what I meant. There won't be much bossing to do because the staff aren't random helpers. The people who are coming to work are seasoned veterans of the Volunteer Campaigns of the late 1900's... the ones centering on teams and scouts and family vacations. Part of the beauty of GRIN has always been the ease with which the volunteers can slip (back) into the roles they played in other situations while doing the same tasks. We've all done it before.The work isn't onerous and the company will be good. I thought I would take charge of it myself, because I always take charge of it myself, but this is the beginning of a new phase for me. I am learning to step back.
And it turns out that when I take a deep breath and let other people step into the breach, everything gets done and I don't have to worry. There are other competent people in my life and it is foolish to refuse their help. What needs to happen will happen and while it might not look exactly the way that I would have arranged it I know that it will be perfect in the eyes of the person who set it up. And because I trust her, it will therefore be perfect for me. I have no need to worry.
I cannot remember delegating anything to anyone with as much equanimity as I seem to be doing right now. It's self-preservation, of course. There will be reporters and family and children I've invited and in no particular order I will be spending most of my time with them, I hope. I'd like the t-shirts and the water bottles and the raffle tickets and the sidewalk chalk to sell themselves; delegating seems to have made it so. I've been told not to worry. I'm going to do just that.
*****
I carried on despite my hip's insistence that enough was enough and was rewarded by TBG's big smile and declaration that The Garage Is Back!!! when he drove up after the gym. Every box is either on a shelf or broken down and in the recycling bin. Every bag containing items to be given away is now comfortably ensconced on a shelf at Goodwill. Parcels have been sent to Auntie Em and Brother and there is not a pile to be found in the house or the garage. Not one.
I am taking charge of my life. I am not letting random thoughts invade my space. I am organized and dedicated to remaining so. If it can be done in less than 2 minutes, I do it. MaryLynne, my professional organizer, gave me that handy dandy trick and it's a keeper, denizens. I am relentless because the alternative is untenable. If I don't take charge, there is evil lurking, waiting to jump up and take over.
Not happening. Nope. I was in charge of my life before I was perforated... or so I thought. I've had a lot of time to think about the concept of control since last January, and I've come to a conclusion. It doesn't matter what the reality is. What matters is how I approach it. If I decide that I am in charge of my life, then I can banish the scared, scary, sorrowful, awful pieces to a back corner where, accessible if needed, they can languish and gather dust. If I decide that I am in charge of my life, then I can say no and say yes and know that it's what I want to do and that life is too short to do otherwise.
If tomorrow is not promised, then I will begin by taking charge of today.
Monday, January 2, 2012
She's Hired
JannyLou and I put away my Christmas decorations today. It was a multi-layered event in oh-so-many-many ways.
I was a packrat when it came to packaging. I held onto the boxes that were meaningful. There was the golden oval from Nieman Marcus with the sculptured floral arrangement permanently affixed to the lid. There was the carefully wrapped in 1980's paper box and the self-sticking bubble wrap that fit neatly into the plain brown box the MackenzieChilds ornament has lived in since I was there one very hot summer 2 decades ago. I saved significant shopping bags for strands of lights. The White House Commemorative Ornaments sent to us by the Hoon's for as long as I can remember each lived in its own special flat box, complete with the explanatory notes... like a record album used to have liner notes..... but I digress.
When The Big Guy realized (a year and a week ago) that he could not expect the house to miraculously clean itself nor put away the holiday cheer on its own, he handed JannyLou and Fast Eddie his house key and said "Go for it." He hadn't done that since we were first married and the Golden Gopher had his own room in our Chicago apartment for his weekly weekend escapes from Gary, Indiana. He came to the conclusion that he couldn't do it on his own.
The realization was huge for him.
Pulling out the boxes that our lovely neighbors had purchased at Lowe's and filled with my treasures was a very interesting experience. Instead of my little boxes nestled in bigger boxes I opened large, clean packages of styrofoam peanuts and ornaments sleeping amongst their softness. It was a pleasure to unpack them and place them right onto the tree. I wasn't dealing with bubble wrap or wrapping paper I'd salvaged from gift boxes to help my memory recall the wonder in the recipient's eyes. I was creating a new tree, a beautiful tree, with my own stuff in a different format.
It felt great.
The trash collectors come tomorrow and I wanted the tree to be gone. This week is going to be an emotional roller-coaster and I want to be calm and sane by the time Little Cuter and SIR arrive in town on Friday. I want everything that must be done to be done, and everything that must be considered to be considered, and everything that must be packed away to be packed away.
I started in the garage, because that's where the biggest mess existed. I opened all the doors and began a desultory examination of the task ahead of me. I was half-heartedly picking up bubble wrap and moving it all to one area of the garage when I saw JannyLou coming across the driveway.
Within minutes, she was engaged in the task. This makes two years in a row for her, since she picked up the slack for me due to my unforseen hiatus from the process last year. She showed me how to lightly layer the popcorn. She unfolded boxes and shoved them into the side of the recycling can. She corralled the bubblewrap and the popcorn. She lifted and toted and kept me company as I made executive decisions and, gradually, as the afternoon wore on, I began to see the floor.
There was more than putting away, though. We've each had a rough year in 2011 and neither of us is feeling much of a change on this first day of 2012. We both wanted something marvelous, something huge, something clarifying and cleansing and tremendously wonderful. We are both disappointed.
We laughed about that as we pondered ways to put this behind us and move forward with reckless abandon. There are decisions to be made and plans to be fulfilled for each of us.... and that thickens the plot considerably.
But I think we were mistaken to be disappointed. As I reconsider the afternoon, I think we found what we were looking for. We were picking up the pieces of the year and we were doing it together. We were listening to one another and understanding the depth of the throw-away comments we tossed around as my deocrative pillows and candle sticks made their way into cardboard homes for the next 11 months.
We have one another. My tree is at the curb. The floor is swept and there is nary a red ribbon to be found. We are moving forward.... damaged, certainly, but moving nonetheless.... because it's what we do.
I was a packrat when it came to packaging. I held onto the boxes that were meaningful. There was the golden oval from Nieman Marcus with the sculptured floral arrangement permanently affixed to the lid. There was the carefully wrapped in 1980's paper box and the self-sticking bubble wrap that fit neatly into the plain brown box the MackenzieChilds ornament has lived in since I was there one very hot summer 2 decades ago. I saved significant shopping bags for strands of lights. The White House Commemorative Ornaments sent to us by the Hoon's for as long as I can remember each lived in its own special flat box, complete with the explanatory notes... like a record album used to have liner notes..... but I digress.
When The Big Guy realized (a year and a week ago) that he could not expect the house to miraculously clean itself nor put away the holiday cheer on its own, he handed JannyLou and Fast Eddie his house key and said "Go for it." He hadn't done that since we were first married and the Golden Gopher had his own room in our Chicago apartment for his weekly weekend escapes from Gary, Indiana. He came to the conclusion that he couldn't do it on his own.
The realization was huge for him.
Pulling out the boxes that our lovely neighbors had purchased at Lowe's and filled with my treasures was a very interesting experience. Instead of my little boxes nestled in bigger boxes I opened large, clean packages of styrofoam peanuts and ornaments sleeping amongst their softness. It was a pleasure to unpack them and place them right onto the tree. I wasn't dealing with bubble wrap or wrapping paper I'd salvaged from gift boxes to help my memory recall the wonder in the recipient's eyes. I was creating a new tree, a beautiful tree, with my own stuff in a different format.
It felt great.
The trash collectors come tomorrow and I wanted the tree to be gone. This week is going to be an emotional roller-coaster and I want to be calm and sane by the time Little Cuter and SIR arrive in town on Friday. I want everything that must be done to be done, and everything that must be considered to be considered, and everything that must be packed away to be packed away.
I started in the garage, because that's where the biggest mess existed. I opened all the doors and began a desultory examination of the task ahead of me. I was half-heartedly picking up bubble wrap and moving it all to one area of the garage when I saw JannyLou coming across the driveway.
Within minutes, she was engaged in the task. This makes two years in a row for her, since she picked up the slack for me due to my unforseen hiatus from the process last year. She showed me how to lightly layer the popcorn. She unfolded boxes and shoved them into the side of the recycling can. She corralled the bubblewrap and the popcorn. She lifted and toted and kept me company as I made executive decisions and, gradually, as the afternoon wore on, I began to see the floor.
There was more than putting away, though. We've each had a rough year in 2011 and neither of us is feeling much of a change on this first day of 2012. We both wanted something marvelous, something huge, something clarifying and cleansing and tremendously wonderful. We are both disappointed.
We laughed about that as we pondered ways to put this behind us and move forward with reckless abandon. There are decisions to be made and plans to be fulfilled for each of us.... and that thickens the plot considerably.
But I think we were mistaken to be disappointed. As I reconsider the afternoon, I think we found what we were looking for. We were picking up the pieces of the year and we were doing it together. We were listening to one another and understanding the depth of the throw-away comments we tossed around as my deocrative pillows and candle sticks made their way into cardboard homes for the next 11 months.
We have one another. My tree is at the curb. The floor is swept and there is nary a red ribbon to be found. We are moving forward.... damaged, certainly, but moving nonetheless.... because it's what we do.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Last Post of the Year
It seems as though I should have something profound to say.
It seems as though my thoughts should have coalesced into something meaningful.
It seems as though, having had 357 days to contemplate my fate, my brain should have come up with something.
It seems that way. Unfortunately, the truth is somewhat different.
I am no closer to understanding why or how or what if.
I have no answers.
I cannot predict my mood from day to day, or, often, minute to minute.
I have no certainty.
Instead of relaxing in retirement I am busier than I've ever been.
Instead of anonymity I am a public figure.
Instead of a baby blog I have a robust readership and, perhaps, the germ of a book.
Instead of wallowing in self pity I have picked up my big girl pants and made lemonade out of lemons.
Instead of being a part of someone else's project, I have created my own.
I have met the President and the Sheriff and the Attorney General and the Director of the FBI.
I have met Tucsonans of all ages and descriptions, and have been welcomed into their warm embrace.
I have learned to accept help with grace and to be alert to those who might need a helping hand.
I have found strength and room for growth as I watch those around me cope with my injuries.
I have rediscovered pieces of my psyche, hidden away for years, now blossoming as I open my heart to the waiting world.
I don't know what my life will look like next year or the year after that, and that is vaguely unsettling.
I do know that I am surrounded by love and compassion and kindness and generosity.
I know that I will move on, dragging baggage I never asked for, carrying dreams and plans in my gunnysack.
I know that today, and every day, is a good day because the sun came up and I was here to see it.... and you were with me, keeping me company as I figure things out.
Free Hea
It seems as though my thoughts should have coalesced into something meaningful.
It seems as though, having had 357 days to contemplate my fate, my brain should have come up with something.
It seems that way. Unfortunately, the truth is somewhat different.
I am no closer to understanding why or how or what if.
I have no answers.
I cannot predict my mood from day to day, or, often, minute to minute.
I have no certainty.
Instead of relaxing in retirement I am busier than I've ever been.
Instead of anonymity I am a public figure.
Instead of a baby blog I have a robust readership and, perhaps, the germ of a book.
Instead of wallowing in self pity I have picked up my big girl pants and made lemonade out of lemons.
Instead of being a part of someone else's project, I have created my own.
I have met the President and the Sheriff and the Attorney General and the Director of the FBI.
I have met Tucsonans of all ages and descriptions, and have been welcomed into their warm embrace.
I have learned to accept help with grace and to be alert to those who might need a helping hand.
I have found strength and room for growth as I watch those around me cope with my injuries.
I have rediscovered pieces of my psyche, hidden away for years, now blossoming as I open my heart to the waiting world.
I don't know what my life will look like next year or the year after that, and that is vaguely unsettling.
I do know that I am surrounded by love and compassion and kindness and generosity.
I know that I will move on, dragging baggage I never asked for, carrying dreams and plans in my gunnysack.
I know that today, and every day, is a good day because the sun came up and I was here to see it.... and you were with me, keeping me company as I figure things out.
HAPPY 2012, DENIZENS!
MAY IT BE FULL OF JOY AND WONDER FOR YOU ALL
Thursday, December 29, 2011
My Tripartite Life
Big Cuter left this morning. I was up early for some snuggling and knee rubbing through the grey cashmere throw Carol's Girls sent last winter; I needed as much of my boy as I could get. Went back to bed as the boys drove off to the airport and rolled over at almost 10. Facing a kid-less house was not enticing..... nope, not at all.
I mailed the 15 pounds of holiday goodies which didn't fit in his suitcase, marveling at the heft of those new t-shirts and gym clothes. I laughed as I noticed that, for the first time in a long time, I was not wearing an article of clothing I'd inherited from him..... in the 5th grade.... when we were the same size. He didn't feel so far away any more.
Not remembering that she was taking an extended holiday weekend from work, I wondered why Little Cuter wasn't answering my messages. When her reminder email arrived this afternoon, I could hear her laughing at my forgetfulness."Oh, Mama.... you are so silly... I love you." Being a source of amusement to my daughter has been a near constant certainty since she was 11 years old; it keeps me grounded. It was also exactly what I needed to get over her brother's absence.
Part one of my life - I'm a mom.
I spent the afternoon at a press conference announcing the outdoor activities planned for January 7th. I'm ambivalent about the media in general, and this afternoon in particular. "Yes, I have spoken to a therapist. No, I will not share what I learned. " I had to be polite; I wanted the publicity for my event.
People recognized me and hugged me and were glad to see me again. In my cowboy boots I was less uncomfortable than the women who had worn heels for the occasion. Sneakers would have been better, or the very comfy looking black rubber soled boots the National Parks Ranger was wearing as she eloquently described the beauty that surrounds Tucson.
Standing on the pebbles for an hour was an exercise in not fidgeting; I am proud to say I acquitted myself admirably. I used the time to stretch out of my hip joint and fell all my foot centers and as I channeled my pilates instructors I amused myself with the notion that, in fact, not much has changed. I'm still multi-tasking, as I always did.
Part two of my life - I'm a public figure.
It was a beautiful drive to Tucson Medical Center's Labyrinth. Situated outside their in-patient hospice unit, it exuded a sense of peacefulness and exploration. I found myself gazing over at it as the afternoon wore on.
The press conference was held in the park adjacent to the labyrinth; the parking lot was on the other side. The walk from The Schnozz to the folding chairs, on a paved path, a few hundred yards at most, should have been a non-event.
Instead, I found myself shaking - literally quaking in my boots. No matter where I looked, there was not a security guard nor a police officer to be found.
I began by smiling at everyone I saw, asking "Are you a person who is in charge?" No one was in charge. No one could find my friend, the Executive Officer who has spent the last few months herding cats. No one could make me stop shaking. I found myself huddled in a corner, with a trailer behind me, my eyes darting left and right and up and down, looking for someone who didn't fit, who might hurt me. I tried to be unobtrusive, but I was shaking and it was kind of hard for people to ignore.
The ExO arrived and put me inside the trailer with a cordon of lovely women between me and the world. We were all focused outward, until the TMC angel brought their head of security to my side. He assured me that I had not created a problem, that they were glad to help, that the K-9 unit and several officers were now on site and as I began to breathe again I saw them, weaponry holstered but available, scanning the site and keeping me safe.
I thanked everyone and they said they understood. But I don't know how that can be possible. I barely understand it myself.
Part three of my life - the last time I went to an event like this I ended up with bullet holes.
I mailed the 15 pounds of holiday goodies which didn't fit in his suitcase, marveling at the heft of those new t-shirts and gym clothes. I laughed as I noticed that, for the first time in a long time, I was not wearing an article of clothing I'd inherited from him..... in the 5th grade.... when we were the same size. He didn't feel so far away any more.
Not remembering that she was taking an extended holiday weekend from work, I wondered why Little Cuter wasn't answering my messages. When her reminder email arrived this afternoon, I could hear her laughing at my forgetfulness."Oh, Mama.... you are so silly... I love you." Being a source of amusement to my daughter has been a near constant certainty since she was 11 years old; it keeps me grounded. It was also exactly what I needed to get over her brother's absence.
Part one of my life - I'm a mom.
I spent the afternoon at a press conference announcing the outdoor activities planned for January 7th. I'm ambivalent about the media in general, and this afternoon in particular. "Yes, I have spoken to a therapist. No, I will not share what I learned. " I had to be polite; I wanted the publicity for my event.
People recognized me and hugged me and were glad to see me again. In my cowboy boots I was less uncomfortable than the women who had worn heels for the occasion. Sneakers would have been better, or the very comfy looking black rubber soled boots the National Parks Ranger was wearing as she eloquently described the beauty that surrounds Tucson.
Standing on the pebbles for an hour was an exercise in not fidgeting; I am proud to say I acquitted myself admirably. I used the time to stretch out of my hip joint and fell all my foot centers and as I channeled my pilates instructors I amused myself with the notion that, in fact, not much has changed. I'm still multi-tasking, as I always did.
Part two of my life - I'm a public figure.
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| tmcaznews.com |
The press conference was held in the park adjacent to the labyrinth; the parking lot was on the other side. The walk from The Schnozz to the folding chairs, on a paved path, a few hundred yards at most, should have been a non-event.
Instead, I found myself shaking - literally quaking in my boots. No matter where I looked, there was not a security guard nor a police officer to be found.
I began by smiling at everyone I saw, asking "Are you a person who is in charge?" No one was in charge. No one could find my friend, the Executive Officer who has spent the last few months herding cats. No one could make me stop shaking. I found myself huddled in a corner, with a trailer behind me, my eyes darting left and right and up and down, looking for someone who didn't fit, who might hurt me. I tried to be unobtrusive, but I was shaking and it was kind of hard for people to ignore.
The ExO arrived and put me inside the trailer with a cordon of lovely women between me and the world. We were all focused outward, until the TMC angel brought their head of security to my side. He assured me that I had not created a problem, that they were glad to help, that the K-9 unit and several officers were now on site and as I began to breathe again I saw them, weaponry holstered but available, scanning the site and keeping me safe.
I thanked everyone and they said they understood. But I don't know how that can be possible. I barely understand it myself.
Part three of my life - the last time I went to an event like this I ended up with bullet holes.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
The Hap-Happiest Time of the Year
Television programmers channel my wishes during the period of time between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. I can turn to any of the many movie stations fiber optically sent to my cable box and find something that I really want to watch. For example:
Witness for the Prosecution was on this afternoon as Big Cuter and I returned from a fruitless attempt to secure running shoes (for him). Una O'Connor never liked him anyway, but JES enjoyed the show as I found out when I checked Facebook and found this as his status: "
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| http://tinyurl.com/755f6r7 |
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| iolakeatoncelebration.org |
 |
| imdb.com |
 |
| goodfellamovies.blogspot.com |
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| aveleyman.com |
 |
| vintageculture.net |
Two of the three Howard Hawks/John Wayne western series - Rio Bravo and El Dorado - kept me company over the weekend. It's the same movie; the actors are interchangeable drill bits. I love arguing about whether Ricky Nelson or James Caan is the better side-kick. There is no doubt, however, that Walter Brennan's Stumpy and Angie Dickinson's Feathers steal the show.
There were more, so very many more. But the kid is leaving in the morning and there is laundry to be done and packing to be considered and I haven't even checked out the tv guide to see what other gems are awaiting me.
So much to do, so little time.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Hanukah, Oh Hanukah
Amster let me use her house and her guest list. All I had to bring were the supplies. It's a shame that Little Cuter and Elizibeth aren't in town, but we somehow managed to soldier on without them. It's Hanukkah in the Old Pueblo, and I am the mistress of ceremonies.
It started innocently enough, with Amster asking if I was making latkes this year. Like most of my projects since January 8th, this party grew from family only to half the western hemisphere. I'm not complaining. I'm just sayin'.... as Big Cuter has opined from time to time this week.
Costco made dinner and provided the potatoes and the vegetable oil and I brought the cuisinart and the plastic bowl and every Hanukah decoration in my possession. It filled the back of the Schnozz.
Chanukah-themed Go-Fish, thanks to a timely gift from FAMBB, was a big hit. G'ma and the Littlest Little One kept one another amused while I peeled and sliced and shredded and Amster pretended to take the day off from work. Neither player was quite sure of the rules. There was much discussion over whose turn it was at any particular moment. G'ma was quite willing to share the colors in her hand and her opponent had no compunctions about indulging her generosity. It was lovely.
By the time the guests arrived the oil was heating and the dinner was nearly warmed through. I was happily making a mess that someone else would clean up and Amster was merrily hostessing. Wines were poured - I had three different glasses on the counter before me - and Kinect took over the living room.
Big Cuter showed up and found Mr. 8's chess game much improved. Learning to recover from his mistakes is an issue in life as well as on the chessboard these days for Mr. 8; he's very much a work in progress. The seriousness with which they approached the game warmed the cockles of my heart. This will be a tradition for the two of them from now til forever; I can hardly wait until Mr. 8 can really compete.
After an hour or so of dreidle spinning there were cookies and there were latkes. Oh, my, were there latkes. Applesauce and raspberry applesauce and sour cream and a smoked salmon spread were arrayed on the table atop Hanukah placemats . Only the jelly donuts were missing.... I just couldn't drive all the way to Krispy Kreme.
There were kids of all ages and few of them were familiar with the dreidle or the menorah or the whole small-band-of-cave-dwelling-Jews-fighting-Greeks-on-elephants backstory to the miracle of the tiny bit of pure oil which burned for 8 days and nights until more could be prepared to permanently rekindle the Eternal Light. I sent the two littlest girls out to look for the first star and when they returned, beaming and spinning and delighted that they had seen not one but two stars in the sky , it was time to begin.
The lights were dim and everyone was hugging or sitting on someone's lap or leaning onto a shoulder and my heart was overflowing. I told them about my father's many cousins and the big holiday parties I'd attended when I was a little girl as I walked around the table making sure that everyone had a shamash (the beadle - to light the other candles and then take pride of place on the top) and then we did the math to figure out how many years ago this all occurred. The story was told and the miracle recounted. I promised to say the prayers in English and then in Hebrew. We could sing the dreidle song..
It was time to light the menorahs. There were seven of them. It was the 7th night of the holiday so each candelabra held 8 candles. It's a good thing that Amster's love is a firefighter.
The big kids retired to the living room. Beautiful Annie, mother of two wonderful boys, happily skipped down the hall with the Littlest Little One, returning after a while with their faces made up in the girliest of girly ways. The grown-up conversation covered warfare with elephants from India to Hannibal through Alexander. It was a fascinating night.
The children all came to say a proper good-bye, replete with thank you's and hugs or handshakes. Several offered kisses, and no one forgot G'ma. Then a special little girl sidled up to my chair with a request - would I tell her if the miracle happened and the candles kept burning even when they were done after she left?
It was a serious request and required a serious answer. Certainly I would inform her in the unlikely event that the miracle happened again. But it seemed to me that there was a miracle more likely to occur. She might come upon a situation where it felt like she was fighting elephants. If she remembered that small band of warriors, retreating to caves and then bursting forth with strength, then, in that moment, if she felt powerful, she was her own miracle.
I'd never had that thought before, but it felt right and she was listening so intently and then her mom picked it up and we were enveloped in the sense that even the smallest of girls might someday be a hero, might someday be braver than she imagined she could be.
There are all kinds of miracles. Last night I created my own. I wish you all could have joined us, denizens.
It started innocently enough, with Amster asking if I was making latkes this year. Like most of my projects since January 8th, this party grew from family only to half the western hemisphere. I'm not complaining. I'm just sayin'.... as Big Cuter has opined from time to time this week.
Costco made dinner and provided the potatoes and the vegetable oil and I brought the cuisinart and the plastic bowl and every Hanukah decoration in my possession. It filled the back of the Schnozz.
Chanukah-themed Go-Fish, thanks to a timely gift from FAMBB, was a big hit. G'ma and the Littlest Little One kept one another amused while I peeled and sliced and shredded and Amster pretended to take the day off from work. Neither player was quite sure of the rules. There was much discussion over whose turn it was at any particular moment. G'ma was quite willing to share the colors in her hand and her opponent had no compunctions about indulging her generosity. It was lovely.
By the time the guests arrived the oil was heating and the dinner was nearly warmed through. I was happily making a mess that someone else would clean up and Amster was merrily hostessing. Wines were poured - I had three different glasses on the counter before me - and Kinect took over the living room.
Big Cuter showed up and found Mr. 8's chess game much improved. Learning to recover from his mistakes is an issue in life as well as on the chessboard these days for Mr. 8; he's very much a work in progress. The seriousness with which they approached the game warmed the cockles of my heart. This will be a tradition for the two of them from now til forever; I can hardly wait until Mr. 8 can really compete.
After an hour or so of dreidle spinning there were cookies and there were latkes. Oh, my, were there latkes. Applesauce and raspberry applesauce and sour cream and a smoked salmon spread were arrayed on the table atop Hanukah placemats . Only the jelly donuts were missing.... I just couldn't drive all the way to Krispy Kreme.
There were kids of all ages and few of them were familiar with the dreidle or the menorah or the whole small-band-of-cave-dwelling-Jews-fighting-Greeks-on-elephants backstory to the miracle of the tiny bit of pure oil which burned for 8 days and nights until more could be prepared to permanently rekindle the Eternal Light. I sent the two littlest girls out to look for the first star and when they returned, beaming and spinning and delighted that they had seen not one but two stars in the sky , it was time to begin.
The lights were dim and everyone was hugging or sitting on someone's lap or leaning onto a shoulder and my heart was overflowing. I told them about my father's many cousins and the big holiday parties I'd attended when I was a little girl as I walked around the table making sure that everyone had a shamash (the beadle - to light the other candles and then take pride of place on the top) and then we did the math to figure out how many years ago this all occurred. The story was told and the miracle recounted. I promised to say the prayers in English and then in Hebrew. We could sing the dreidle song..
It was time to light the menorahs. There were seven of them. It was the 7th night of the holiday so each candelabra held 8 candles. It's a good thing that Amster's love is a firefighter.
The big kids retired to the living room. Beautiful Annie, mother of two wonderful boys, happily skipped down the hall with the Littlest Little One, returning after a while with their faces made up in the girliest of girly ways. The grown-up conversation covered warfare with elephants from India to Hannibal through Alexander. It was a fascinating night.
The children all came to say a proper good-bye, replete with thank you's and hugs or handshakes. Several offered kisses, and no one forgot G'ma. Then a special little girl sidled up to my chair with a request - would I tell her if the miracle happened and the candles kept burning even when they were done after she left?
It was a serious request and required a serious answer. Certainly I would inform her in the unlikely event that the miracle happened again. But it seemed to me that there was a miracle more likely to occur. She might come upon a situation where it felt like she was fighting elephants. If she remembered that small band of warriors, retreating to caves and then bursting forth with strength, then, in that moment, if she felt powerful, she was her own miracle.
I'd never had that thought before, but it felt right and she was listening so intently and then her mom picked it up and we were enveloped in the sense that even the smallest of girls might someday be a hero, might someday be braver than she imagined she could be.
There are all kinds of miracles. Last night I created my own. I wish you all could have joined us, denizens.
HAPPY CHANUKAH !
Monday, December 26, 2011
To Sum Up
We were happy to share Little Cuter and SIR with his family, though we missed her reading The Night Before Christmas last night.
Using pre-printed holiday boxes leaves a much neater living room on Christmas morning, although they present fewer opportunities for ridiculous wrapping by the boys of the family and thus fewer opportunities for giggles by the girl(s).
Holiday breakfasts of multi-grain french toast and crispy bacon are things of the past. My guys heated up a frozen pizza and were quite pleased with themselves.
G'ma enjoys gifting more than anyone I have ever known. The 25 decorated candy canes for the caregivers at the pod castle were dispensed with such glee, such joy, such love and connection that I had a hard time not tearing up.
Asking for something you'd like to see me wear results in a full day of "Doesn't she look great?!" This is a prompt I will remember for next year and anon.
Hoarding empty boxes for the might-someday-be-purchased-gift-of-an-unusual-size results in a full cedar chest and much aggravation. Recycling them (thanks JannyLou and Fast Eddie for the use of your container) takes up a lot of space for Waste Management, but makes the storage chest a much more pleasant place.
Socks are wonderful gifts, but polka dot socks do not go well with polka dot sneakers. Yes, I made myself pink polka dot sneakers. I'm just that kind of a girl.
Finally, because the season and a bottle of wine (thank you, Rillito Nursery) has addled my brain, I stop typing and leave you with this picture of my girl and her nephew-to-be. To me, this is what the holiday is all about - birth, love, family, children and love.
Happy Happy Joy Joy!
Using pre-printed holiday boxes leaves a much neater living room on Christmas morning, although they present fewer opportunities for ridiculous wrapping by the boys of the family and thus fewer opportunities for giggles by the girl(s).
Holiday breakfasts of multi-grain french toast and crispy bacon are things of the past. My guys heated up a frozen pizza and were quite pleased with themselves.
G'ma enjoys gifting more than anyone I have ever known. The 25 decorated candy canes for the caregivers at the pod castle were dispensed with such glee, such joy, such love and connection that I had a hard time not tearing up.
Asking for something you'd like to see me wear results in a full day of "Doesn't she look great?!" This is a prompt I will remember for next year and anon.
Hoarding empty boxes for the might-someday-be-purchased-gift-of-an-unusual-size results in a full cedar chest and much aggravation. Recycling them (thanks JannyLou and Fast Eddie for the use of your container) takes up a lot of space for Waste Management, but makes the storage chest a much more pleasant place.
Socks are wonderful gifts, but polka dot socks do not go well with polka dot sneakers. Yes, I made myself pink polka dot sneakers. I'm just that kind of a girl.
Finally, because the season and a bottle of wine (thank you, Rillito Nursery) has addled my brain, I stop typing and leave you with this picture of my girl and her nephew-to-be. To me, this is what the holiday is all about - birth, love, family, children and love.
Friday, December 23, 2011
My Wishes for You
Shining lights reflecting the love in someone's eyes.
Twinkling lights illuminating ornaments hung with care.
Fragrant smells that evoke G'ma's kitchen.
Sweet treats made with you in mind.
Smiles and laughter and love.
Peace on earth and in your heart.
Kind words and warm thoughts directed your way.
Whatever you are celebrating, I wish you love and joy and gladness.
Fondly,
Ashleigh
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Good Folks
It must be the holiday spirit. I cannot seem to find an unpleasant employee or an unresponsive business today.
The lower rack of our dishwasher has the most inefficient set of wheels in existence today. Held on by puny plastic clips, they tilt and swivel and collapse and fall off with alarming regularity. They are found in the cavity of the machine as often as they are found sitting upright on their posts on the rack. TBG is not amused. Since he has taken over the chore of filling the machine and emptying the machine he has daily interactions with this damn rack. It has begun to annoy.
Finding myself with a spare moment and needing to be at home to meet the window washer and the HVAC guy, I called GE. Voicemail hell sent me to Monica. Monica did not ask me to repeat anything I had already punched into the keypad. Monica did not read from a prepared script. Monica was there to help me. She really was.
Unfortunately, her good intentions and amazing investigative skills were not backed up by the authority to solve my problem. She had to send me along to Customer Service, armed with the fact that I had an extended warranty. Of course, that warranty, like all good warranties, seemed to have expired last month. Wishing me luck, she transferred the call.
Sharon answered and was even better than Monica. She agreed with me. She understood me. She was surprised and intrigued and annoyed with exactly the same things with which I was surprised and intrigued and annoyed. She laughed with me about the broken-just-as-the-warranty-expires nature of my call, and wondered aloud why the wheels weren't attached to the new rack she was going to send to me. We knew that my rack was functional; we are hoping that an entirely new assembly will somehow solve the problem. The rack cost about $150 retail, $90 wholesale, $68 through their discounted promotion, but Sharon is sending it to me for free. She's also sending clips and wheels. She's not even asking me to pay for the shipping.
She is authorized to be good to customers who deserve it. It felt good to be included in that cohort, a fact which I mentioned on her supervisor's voice mail as I left a complimentary message. Notice should be taken.
I need t-shirts for the Stroll and Roll and Jenn at CrossFit Now sent me to Starbuck Design . They helped her last year when she created a fun run in 11 days. They are doing the same for me, even reassuring me that I have plenty of time between now and January 7th. In fact, Andrew thanked me for placing an order during their slowest time of the year. After thanking me, he then agreed to comp some of the design costs. He doesn't need all the information until next Friday, giving me the gift of time and the opportunity to solicit more major supporters. He told me yellow is the most transparent of colors and the hardest to work with in printing but that if we added black around the edges.... well, you get the picture. I just had to tell him my ideas and he's going to do all the rest.
He helped me with quantities and sizes and gave me a go-cup on my way out.... in my favorite color. There was no attitude, no sense of being too busy to help, no intimation that my requests were more than he could handle. He just kept smiling and saying "Okay."
I was in and out of his shop in thirty minutes, with a gift and a plan and no worries. It was simply amazing.
I dropped brownies off at G'ma's gerontology office and the women behind the desk were as warm and effusive as ever. We shared January 8th stories and G'ma stories and sure, we'll ask the docs if they will suppor the Stroll and Roll and then it was off to the grocery store where the stock clerk reached the box on the top shelf for me and the deli lady took me to the cold case to show me exactly which products she thought were better than the ones she had spied in my cart while creating my order.
I got home to a phone call from Little Cuter, wondering why MOTG had received 2 bouquets of Christmas flowers, each bearing the identical note, each sent with love from me. I opened my email to follow the trail and found a note offering 20% off on my next order because they had made a mistake. A phone call brought me to Tom, who was certain that he could help me, even if I couldn't bring up the order amidst the chaos that was my inbox. It seems that someone entered the wrong sku number and FedEx had noticed the discrepancy and alerted ProFlowers where another employee sent the correct bouquet on its way.
It's no wonder that MOTG and family were confused. But Tom and I had the same advice - re-gift the tulips or put one bouquet in another room and feel the love that came with solving a problem before we even knew that one existed.
I was 5-for-5 and, if I add in the charming HVAC mechanic and Ernie and his fellow window washers I'm 7-for-7 in the perfect business department. It's a lovely way to spend a day.
The lower rack of our dishwasher has the most inefficient set of wheels in existence today. Held on by puny plastic clips, they tilt and swivel and collapse and fall off with alarming regularity. They are found in the cavity of the machine as often as they are found sitting upright on their posts on the rack. TBG is not amused. Since he has taken over the chore of filling the machine and emptying the machine he has daily interactions with this damn rack. It has begun to annoy.
Finding myself with a spare moment and needing to be at home to meet the window washer and the HVAC guy, I called GE. Voicemail hell sent me to Monica. Monica did not ask me to repeat anything I had already punched into the keypad. Monica did not read from a prepared script. Monica was there to help me. She really was.
Unfortunately, her good intentions and amazing investigative skills were not backed up by the authority to solve my problem. She had to send me along to Customer Service, armed with the fact that I had an extended warranty. Of course, that warranty, like all good warranties, seemed to have expired last month. Wishing me luck, she transferred the call.
Sharon answered and was even better than Monica. She agreed with me. She understood me. She was surprised and intrigued and annoyed with exactly the same things with which I was surprised and intrigued and annoyed. She laughed with me about the broken-just-as-the-warranty-expires nature of my call, and wondered aloud why the wheels weren't attached to the new rack she was going to send to me. We knew that my rack was functional; we are hoping that an entirely new assembly will somehow solve the problem. The rack cost about $150 retail, $90 wholesale, $68 through their discounted promotion, but Sharon is sending it to me for free. She's also sending clips and wheels. She's not even asking me to pay for the shipping.
She is authorized to be good to customers who deserve it. It felt good to be included in that cohort, a fact which I mentioned on her supervisor's voice mail as I left a complimentary message. Notice should be taken.
I need t-shirts for the Stroll and Roll and Jenn at CrossFit Now sent me to Starbuck Design . They helped her last year when she created a fun run in 11 days. They are doing the same for me, even reassuring me that I have plenty of time between now and January 7th. In fact, Andrew thanked me for placing an order during their slowest time of the year. After thanking me, he then agreed to comp some of the design costs. He doesn't need all the information until next Friday, giving me the gift of time and the opportunity to solicit more major supporters. He told me yellow is the most transparent of colors and the hardest to work with in printing but that if we added black around the edges.... well, you get the picture. I just had to tell him my ideas and he's going to do all the rest.
He helped me with quantities and sizes and gave me a go-cup on my way out.... in my favorite color. There was no attitude, no sense of being too busy to help, no intimation that my requests were more than he could handle. He just kept smiling and saying "Okay."
I was in and out of his shop in thirty minutes, with a gift and a plan and no worries. It was simply amazing.
I dropped brownies off at G'ma's gerontology office and the women behind the desk were as warm and effusive as ever. We shared January 8th stories and G'ma stories and sure, we'll ask the docs if they will suppor the Stroll and Roll and then it was off to the grocery store where the stock clerk reached the box on the top shelf for me and the deli lady took me to the cold case to show me exactly which products she thought were better than the ones she had spied in my cart while creating my order.
I got home to a phone call from Little Cuter, wondering why MOTG had received 2 bouquets of Christmas flowers, each bearing the identical note, each sent with love from me. I opened my email to follow the trail and found a note offering 20% off on my next order because they had made a mistake. A phone call brought me to Tom, who was certain that he could help me, even if I couldn't bring up the order amidst the chaos that was my inbox. It seems that someone entered the wrong sku number and FedEx had noticed the discrepancy and alerted ProFlowers where another employee sent the correct bouquet on its way.
It's no wonder that MOTG and family were confused. But Tom and I had the same advice - re-gift the tulips or put one bouquet in another room and feel the love that came with solving a problem before we even knew that one existed.
I was 5-for-5 and, if I add in the charming HVAC mechanic and Ernie and his fellow window washers I'm 7-for-7 in the perfect business department. It's a lovely way to spend a day.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Ellfing
Elfing
I have no classes this week. Rome has
fallen and Consciousness has been explored and the next month is
filled with free time and the reading of novels.
Ah, would that that were true.
I arose this morning with the sun,
checked emails and spoke to Little Cuter to ask about her comment on
Tuesday's post. By 9 I was going full steam ahead, damning the
torpedoes of aches and stiffness to power through the last of my
elfing tasks. The tree is decorated and the detritus of that job is
stowed in the third bay of the garage, awaiting the refilling and
shelf stacking which will come all too soon. The Hanukah box is
located and has been evaluated and the menorahs will be atop the
counters come sunset. I have just enough candles to get the three of
us through tonight's blessings, each with our own Hanukiah (the real
name for the candelabra Jews light for the eponymous holiday).
There were dozens of brownies in snack
bags awaiting their packaging and addressing. There were boxes
awaiting shipping labels. There was cash to be gotten for the
cleaning lady and laundry to be done to cover the boys' nakedness,
but those tasks didn't fall under “Holiday Chores” and so were
easily pushed aside. I was in full elf mode, and I was loving it.
I packed. I wrapped, I wrote. I
padded and moved styrofoam peanuts from one box to another. Big
Cuter was sleeping so I kept the holiday music to a dull roar, but
Santa and Rudolph and the Little Drummer Boy kept me company as I
worked.... albeit more softly than I would have liked. Little Cuter
and SIR had another box of goodies to be shipped; I was less than
creative with the gift tags this year. I hope they understand.
I usually amuse myself by carrying
towers of flat rate USPS boxes from the kitchen to the desk where I
create the mailing labels on the computer. I try to carry a taller
stack with each trip, giggling as I teeter and the boxes totter as we
cross the living room and turn the corner to the library. This year,
sadly, my treks were constrained by my disability. Balancing boxes
came after balancing myself.... and balancing myself was no mean
feat.
Tree trimming and gift wrapping and
house decorating have taken their toll. My hip is alive with the
sound of crackling and creaking. Bending is more challenging and
toting weight is becoming impossible. By 10 o'clock even reaching to
the other side of the table for the packing tape elicited an
expressive display of displeasure.
Still, I carried on.
The notes were already written and all
the supplies were there. It was the assembly that was taking its
toll. Twelve boxes and envelopes later, twelve printed shipping
labels afterward, twelve stacked packages were ready to be delivered.
I put the ones to be mailed into the big red bag and off I went.
I drove across Skyline and left goodies
with Nancy's sister, then continued further east to Colonel Bill and
Sallie. We hugged and chatted and I saw his trophies and medals and
read the kind words which those who honored his heroism had written
on plaques and in articles. There was laughing and story telling and
many many hugs and then off I went, back to my Schnozz-sleigh. There
was more to drop off.
Heading north on Oracle to Rancho
Vistoso, I followed the they-all-look-the-same streets to Judy's
house. There, we commiserated. Neither one of us is as healthy or
fit as we were last year at this time, and that is really too bad.
She's being treated and I am engaged in therapies and we both hope
for the best but are aware of the worst, lurking in the distance.
Neither of us can understand why others think we are remarkable; what
else can we do but go on? I listened to her stories of
administrative incompetence and oversights and she heard me out on
family and friends. We would usually have these conversations on the
hiking trail; it was a little sad to be doing it seated in her living
room instead.
After inviting her to the Pity Party
JannyLou and I host for those who need to whine about the unfairness
of life but don't want to burden their loved ones, I hit the road
again. Further west on Tangerine to a Meritage development and Donna
and Ron's house. He's been ill and she went from caring for me to
caring for him. I was looking forward to complimenting him on his
recovery and to sharing brownies with her but, alas and alack, there
was no one at home when the UPS guy and I arrived at their driveway.
I left the bag of goodies inside their security gate and sighed.
I wonder if Santa feels the same way
when he leaves the gifts but doesn't get to see the joy on the faces
of the recipients. Poor Santa.
Then it was south on Thornydale to the
post office at Magee. Unlike last Friday, when the line was out the
door for both the counter and the Automated Postal Center, the scene
was relatively serene. Parking wasn't an issue and other patrons
held the door for me and my gigantic sack and even bigger box as we
struggled through the door and into the lobby. An employee was
assisting with the APC, but Randy, a fellow January 8th
shootee, was there and flummoxed so I was his personal elf,
explaining the screen and the prompts and ushering him through the
experience in a flash.
We adjourned to the parking lot where
we shared interview stories for a while and wondered when the
interest in our intersection with bullets would subside. I invited
him to the Stroll and Roll and agreed that January 9th
cannot come soon enough and then we hugged and went our separate
ways.
I should have gone to the used
bookstore and the grocery store and I ought to get up and walk to the
mailbox and see who sent us some more love. I should and I ought but
I'm not. My gifts are mailed. My brownies are delivered. Family
presents still must be wrapped, but that's a joy and not a chore.
I'm going to sit here on the couch and listen to seasonal music
thoughtfully provided by Comcast on my television set. I'm going to
watch the sun cross the sky and remember that 11 months ago this day
would have been impossible. I'm going to bask in the love I shared
and received today. I'm going to smile at my son and let him rub my
arm and tell me he loves me. I'm going to share dinner with my boys
and not worry about a thing.
It's the holidays and I am ready to
enjoy them.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Praise or Dollars
Back in 1981, TBG and I received our evaluations and raises on the same day. He, working at Goldman Sachs (when it was an admirable place of employment), earned 10 times what I did at the hospital as a social worker. We explained it thusly - HE was greed; I was social conscience. It made for a perfectly lovely lifestyle. We had enough to live on and extra to give away. Good causes and dear friends and family were the beneficiaries of our munificence, and we smiled and expected nothing except the same in return. It worked for us.
I always expected to live modestly. Growing up, I knew no one who had more than anyone else. My town was solidly middle-class, and while some had less no one had lots. My dad owned his own business, so I never heard discussions of evaluations or compensation reviews or bonuses denied or delivered. As long as people were buying his wedding dresses we had food on the table. When they stopped, the business folded, but I was in college at that time so I missed the conversations about being an employee as he found other ways to support 3 kids and a wife. I went into review season in 1981 without preparation.
I'd been disappointed before in the matter of raises; my first job out of graduate school was with an agency headed by a man who ended up in prison for embezzlement. His assurance that my 1% raise was what my colleagues had received was shown to be a lie by lunchtime - his secretary revealed that her raise was 3% and that the assistant director's salary bump was 7%. Of course, he was sleeping with the AD, so that may have entered into it. I was planning to leave the job a few months later, so I didn't complain. The annoyance remained.
In 1981, though, I was working for a well-respected institution which had resources adequate to compensate its employees fairly. Or so I thought. Clearly, Goldman, Sachs & Co. had no restrictions on the number of dollars they were free to dispense to their favored employees, of whom my dear husband was one. We were looking forward to a wonderful holiday season, financed by our employers.
We arrived home from work at the same time. Zanner, our old friend, was waiting for us in our living room. We were frowning when we walked through the doors.
Why? He'd gotten a 30% raise on an already enormous salary, but no one had said a word about his performance. The money spoke for the firm. I had gotten a 3% raise on a miniscule salary, but I had heard glowing words and high praise from my supervisor. I was poor but knew I'd been doing good work. He was rich but knew not what his superiors thought. We were both uncomfortable.
I felt under-valued. He did too. The words I heard, while thoughtful and kind, did not make up for the fact that I could not live the life-style I loved without my husband's contribution. Sure, we had a joint bank account and all our money was considered our money, but most of me wanted to be an equal contributor. A smaller piece of me was happy to spend what he earned, don't get me wrong. But most of me knew that the inherent inequality of our incomes was bothersome.
He was delighted to have enough to pay down some of our mortgage and take a great vacation and help out his sister while feeling unloved and disrespected at the same time. He wondered if anyone noticed the changes he'd implemented and the good hires he'd made. He didn't know if his work was valued or if he, himself, was, either.
And so, sitting at the dinner table, he looked at me and said, "I'd have taken less money and more commentary. You are so lucky! You know you are doing well."
I could only smile. I think that I would've been very happy to have received a 30% increase. I would have managed to convince myself that they loved me because they were paying me what they thought I deserved. My supervisor had assured me that if more money had been available I would have received it..... but I knew he wasn't talking about 30% more money.
When I hear about the discrepancies between the pay of CEO's and those on the line, when I listen to NPR recounting the bonus amounts dispensed on Wall Street, when I think about the salaries our teachers and our fire fighters draw, I go back to my dining room table on that wintry day 30 some years ago.
Some things never change.
What to do? The only thing we can do. Take some time this holiday season to write and tell a teacher or a social worker or a nurse or a police officer just how important she is to you. Hug a crossing guard as you thank him for keeping your kids safe as they cross the street. Remind the school secretary that her cheery greeting makes your morning more complete.
It's not much, but it's something.
I always expected to live modestly. Growing up, I knew no one who had more than anyone else. My town was solidly middle-class, and while some had less no one had lots. My dad owned his own business, so I never heard discussions of evaluations or compensation reviews or bonuses denied or delivered. As long as people were buying his wedding dresses we had food on the table. When they stopped, the business folded, but I was in college at that time so I missed the conversations about being an employee as he found other ways to support 3 kids and a wife. I went into review season in 1981 without preparation.
I'd been disappointed before in the matter of raises; my first job out of graduate school was with an agency headed by a man who ended up in prison for embezzlement. His assurance that my 1% raise was what my colleagues had received was shown to be a lie by lunchtime - his secretary revealed that her raise was 3% and that the assistant director's salary bump was 7%. Of course, he was sleeping with the AD, so that may have entered into it. I was planning to leave the job a few months later, so I didn't complain. The annoyance remained.
In 1981, though, I was working for a well-respected institution which had resources adequate to compensate its employees fairly. Or so I thought. Clearly, Goldman, Sachs & Co. had no restrictions on the number of dollars they were free to dispense to their favored employees, of whom my dear husband was one. We were looking forward to a wonderful holiday season, financed by our employers.
We arrived home from work at the same time. Zanner, our old friend, was waiting for us in our living room. We were frowning when we walked through the doors.
Why? He'd gotten a 30% raise on an already enormous salary, but no one had said a word about his performance. The money spoke for the firm. I had gotten a 3% raise on a miniscule salary, but I had heard glowing words and high praise from my supervisor. I was poor but knew I'd been doing good work. He was rich but knew not what his superiors thought. We were both uncomfortable.
I felt under-valued. He did too. The words I heard, while thoughtful and kind, did not make up for the fact that I could not live the life-style I loved without my husband's contribution. Sure, we had a joint bank account and all our money was considered our money, but most of me wanted to be an equal contributor. A smaller piece of me was happy to spend what he earned, don't get me wrong. But most of me knew that the inherent inequality of our incomes was bothersome.
He was delighted to have enough to pay down some of our mortgage and take a great vacation and help out his sister while feeling unloved and disrespected at the same time. He wondered if anyone noticed the changes he'd implemented and the good hires he'd made. He didn't know if his work was valued or if he, himself, was, either.
And so, sitting at the dinner table, he looked at me and said, "I'd have taken less money and more commentary. You are so lucky! You know you are doing well."
I could only smile. I think that I would've been very happy to have received a 30% increase. I would have managed to convince myself that they loved me because they were paying me what they thought I deserved. My supervisor had assured me that if more money had been available I would have received it..... but I knew he wasn't talking about 30% more money.
When I hear about the discrepancies between the pay of CEO's and those on the line, when I listen to NPR recounting the bonus amounts dispensed on Wall Street, when I think about the salaries our teachers and our fire fighters draw, I go back to my dining room table on that wintry day 30 some years ago.
Some things never change.
What to do? The only thing we can do. Take some time this holiday season to write and tell a teacher or a social worker or a nurse or a police officer just how important she is to you. Hug a crossing guard as you thank him for keeping your kids safe as they cross the street. Remind the school secretary that her cheery greeting makes your morning more complete.
It's not much, but it's something.
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