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Working from home can be either really good or really bad. Bad, as in the days that you don't shower and pad around the house in sweats and bunny slippers with a cup of coffee so old it could get up and walk. Good, as in today!
The excuse was valid. The television ordered for the office wouldn't be delivered without a signature. It came to my house because it's easier for a delivery to be made here then drive whatever was ordered into the garage rather than have to deal with the extra security checks the police make delivery folks go through.
In working from home, I saved over an hour in commute time and plowed through more work in one day than in a usual week. There were no distractions of office mates coming by my desk to talk, no phones to answer, no people stopping by the office to drop off mail or meet with the leg [pronounced ledge - short for legislative] staff. And to top it off, there even was time for a mani-pedi after I was caught up. If I could work from home one day every week, I'd be the happiest girl on the face of the earth.
If I pitch it to the chief of staff in terms of better productivity, do you think he'd go for it? Maybe on the weeks they're in recess? It's worth a shot.
[Title taken from this.]
Has anyone else noticed this?
And what does it say about our values?
[Title taken from this.]
"Pick a number between one and six then read your email," I text Mr. Gaelic.
"Four," he texts back.
Our date this weekend will be an early morning outing to watch the planes land while drinking coffee and reading to each other. He then gets to pick six books and I pick the number.
"Five," is my reply text.
We'll be reading Without Feathers by Woody Allen. Maybe there will be a cold snap by this weekend and we'll have to cuddle under a blanket on the hood of the car and drink our coffees from an old glass vacuum aluminum Thermos bottle.
What are your "date night" plans this weekend? (Doesn't everyone have date night once a week?)
[Title taken from this.]
Mr. Gaelic gets paid $5 to walk the dog for 30 minutes. Actually, there doesn't have to be a dog in the picture. Or anything else except some form of exercise for 30 minutes and his office will pay him $5.
They also give him $35 for going to his annual physical, $25 for going to the dentist. But it's not paid in cash. It's paid in gift cards. Yet there's a cap of $240 a year that he can earn.
He then can use the gift cards at a number of approved vendors from Amazon to Zappos.com. All part of his company's encouragement of their employees to be healthy. His well-being reward.
What about the rest of us? We exercise and eat healthy and visit our doctors and dentists. Why can't our companies pay us in Best Buy gift cards?
One of the vendors is a national grocery chain that sells mostly organic foods. So, let me see if I have this right. You work for a Fortune 500 company. They pay you to be healthy. Then you can use your rewards to buy organic food to be even healthier. Because you are healthier, you miss fewer days from work. Increased productivity all for as little as $240 worth of gift cards a year for being healthy.
Don't let it be forgotten that exercising also leads to fewer stress-related diseases and less depression. Aha! Happier worker bees! Happy. Healthy. Productive.
Where's the justice? How can the rest of us get such added benefits?
How do you know there's an elephant in your refrigerator?
Elephant footprints in your butter.
How do you know there are two elephants in your refrigerator?
Two sets of footprints.
How do you put a giraffe in your refrigerator?
Take out the elephants and put the giraffe in.
How do you get four elephants in a compact car?
Two in front and two in the rear.
How do you know there are four elephants in your refrigerator?
There's a compact car parked out front and a giraffe standing in your kitchen.
[Now back to your regular daily life.]
God, I love the United States Air Force! So the guys in the liaison office aren't quite as handsome as the Navy guys (oh, those blue eyes). But man! Can they make a killer margarita!
The Air Force birthday is September 18th. So the liaison office had their birthday celebration today. Having spent over 30 minutes in the back office trading war stories with the Air Force scheduler and one of the Colonels, the birthday cake and most of the food was all gone. Nothing else but beer, wine, sodas, water, and made-on-the-spot margaritas. Hey, after the week I've had, one goes straight for the tequila. That's when I noticed the chocolate Pentagon.
In chatting up the Air Force bartender, we ended up with a friendly wager of whether the chocolate Pentagon was solid chocolate or hollow.
"Solid," said I.
"Nah, it's hollow. Just use a fork to break it up," he replied.
"No, it's solid."
"Uh-uh, hollow."
"Coffee?"
"You're on!"
Guess what! It broke apart the minute the fork went in. That Air Force major is getting a free coffee next week.
Overheard at my office...
"Schools are failing our children. My granddaughter takes civics at high school. She came home and said that our country is a democracy. I told her, 'No, it's not. It's a republic.' She kept insisting that it's a democracy because that's what she's been taught at school. Can you believe what they're teaching our kids these days?"
The person saying this is running for public office. And people wonder why our democratically elected government is dysfunctional.
[Title taken from this.]
Who hasn't heard of the cupcake craze? Stores that sell cupcakes exclusively. TV shows about cupcake contests. Now, there are even eggs specifically designed for baking into cupcakes.
All in a bright pink box. Pepto-Bismol pink. No. Barbie pink. Advertising the perfect sized eggs in rags like Cosmo and selling them at your local Sainsbury.
And the woman in the ad? She looks like she just finished a shoot for an adult movie rather than baked cupcakes. Did someone photoshop a cupcake over a dildo in her hand?
She looks very Stepford-esque. Isn't that every man's secret fantasy? A woman with perfectly coifed hair, killer figure, prim dress, offering him fresh baked goods and a stiff drink when he walks in the door after a long day at the office before strapping on her knee-pads in the bedroom to help him "relax".
Where's my Stepford Husband?
[Title taken from this.]
Do you listen to your dreams? What do they tell you about yourself and your life? Inquiring minds want to know.
[Here is a dream catcher.]
Goooooood Evening, blog buddies! My Pollyanna is showing. Mostly because the stitches were removed from my back. The results came back. The spot that the doctor cut out was benign.
Let the earthquakes, hurricanes, flooding, zombie apocalypse come. I'm here and I'm cleared. Get used to it! I'm here to stay.
[Title taken from this.]
Everyone else is doing it. Might as well jump on the bandwagon. Remembrances of, thoughts about, lives changed by 9/11.
To begin, a friend and former co-worker was in a meeting at the Pentagon that fateful morning. My firefighter neighbors confirmed that he probably didn't know what was happening and that he didn't suffer.
My city has received renewed threats on this anniversary. The police and other security officials near my office have stepped up their presence. A current co-worker doesn't want to be within 200 miles of here this weekend. Not being able to decamp to our home state, she has promised her mother not to leave her apartment at all this weekend.
Yet, I'm not afraid.
Fear won't prevent me from going to the mall, or the grocery store, or the pub to watch football. I am more terrified of driving on the interstate in a deluge of a rainstorm than I am of being targetted by a terrorist. I'm more fearful of dying of cancer than of dying at the hands of some vengeful zealot hellbent on driving a figuative stake through our collective capitalist hearts.
They didn't do their job. If they were successful terrorists, they would have filled me with terror. They didn't. They didn't defeat me. Like a child who tells the monster under the bed that he is no longer afraid of it because it's not real, I have told the monster in the fertilizer-and-fuel-oil-packed rental truck that I am not afraid of him. He may kill my body, but never my spirit.
Because I am not afraid.
[Title taken from this.]
Actual email:
"The United States Navy's Office of Legislative Affairs cordially invites you to a Pizza Brief from 1200-1300 on Day, Month Date in Room XXX. Join us as S.M.I., Assistant Director, National Security Directorate, Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) provides information on NCIS. To ensure we order enough pizza, please send me a short e-mail RSVP if you think you will attend."
Yes, the real NCIS! As if they have to entice me there with free pizza. They had me with blue eyes.
[Title taken from this.]
Cue the music. In the saga of my 30-Day Non-Facebook Prose-instead-of-Pictures Challenge, it's been quite a while since my last entry. A sage once told me, when blogging, never explain your absences and never apologize for not writing. In that vein, this is my cheating entry. Knocking out the last entries because, well, it's so confining having a meme to follow. What was supposed to spark creativity has turned into a chore. Read fast, I'm going for broke...
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at - Ballet
23.A picture of your favorite book - The Six Wives of Henry VIII
24.A picture of something you wish you could change - Christmas
25.A picture of your favorite day - Snow Day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you - Genealogy
27.A picture of yourself and a family member - Me and Mr. Gaelic (sort of - I just like this clip)
28.A picture of something you're afraid of - Snakes (sorry no pics - even pictures of snakes terrify me)
29.A picture that can always make you smile - Stories I read as a child
30.A picture of someone you miss - My parents
So, yeah, I cheated. And now, let's go on with the blogs.
Next time, I'll read the entire list before I commit to an online challenge. This 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge is getting difficult. Today's challenge:
21.A picture of something you wish you could forget
Everything that has happened to me makes me who I am. Yes, even the bad stuff. Sure, there are things I'm not proud of doing or saying. But that's still part of me and lessons learned.
To me, this challenge is more about regret and shame. In my opinion, regret is the desire to do something that wasn't, while shame is about something that was. A good friend of mine says that shame is anger turned inwards. Being angry at oneself for something that one did or said. I may not be proud of some things, but without them, I would be a different person.
And since I believe that everything that has happened to me or that I've done or that I've said makes me me, my picture of something I wish I could forget would be a big black hole of nothing.
No, that's not being conceited or pretentious, just accepting of who I am.
[Title taken from this.]
Back on a roll with the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. The 20th Challenge is today:
20.A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
This challenge was already done a while back with my non-bucket-list list of sensory experiences to be had before I die. They covered sight, smell, taste, touch, and sound. But I'll still play along with today's challenge.
This may shock a lot of people, but I'd love to travel to Tanzania. Just think! A photo safari, the Maasai, and Mount Kilimanjaro all in one place! How thrilling is that? Seeing the great migration, interacting with the nomadic people, climbing the highest peak in Africa. The problem would be finding enough resources to do a trip like that. Resources of both time and money.
But today's challenge isn't about where I want to travel next month, or next year. It's simply where I would love to travel. One day. Hopefully.
[Title taken from this.]
My 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge has taken much more than 30 days. The problem is that today's challenge threw me for a loop. Day 19's challenge is:
19.A picture and a letter
A letter? As in a letter of the alphabet? Or a letter to someone? Let's go for the latter. But... Whom to write, that is the question. Whom I wanted to write isn't the problem. It's what to say and how to say it to that person. All because I wanted a free lunch a few weeks ago at work.
A non-denominational Christian group held a meeting and gave a box lunch to attendees. While waiting for the keynote speaker, the group's organizer passed the time by asking the audience two questions:
1. If you were to die tonight, do you know whether you would go to Heaven?
2. Why?
He then proceeded to tell us that only those people who accept Christ as their personal savior would go to Heaven. And that it all depended on your belief in Christ, not in your actions.
The very first thought in my mind was, "Really? So Gandhi is in Hell but there was a chance that Hitler could be in Heaven?" My spiritual beliefs were so shaken, rather than reaffirmed as the organizer had intended for his audience, that upon returning to my office I immediately emailed my priest. He emailed back, offered to come to my office later that week, and have lunch with me to talk. During our lunch conversation, he recommended three books.
Now, halfway through my summer religious reading list, I am ready to write my letter.
***
"Are you there, God? It's me, Gaelic.
"I'm home again. I truly believe that You use the land of my ancestors to call me home. Whether it's all the way back to my Scottish roots, or just my recent ancestors in the Appalachian Mountains. It's like I'm the hillbilly Scarlett O'Hara. 'Katie Scarlett O'Gaelic, you get your strength from the green mountains of Caledonia.'
"And when I return to those mountains, I find You waiting for me. 'Welcome home,' You say with the towering peaks and winding streams. I find You in a friend's warm embrace in North Carolina. I hear Your comfort in snippets of songs that float on the warm air. '...and if our backs should ever be against the wall, We'll be together...'
"Or the cool air of a summer day, feeling so alive. And again with the music. 'I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky' or 'Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose'. You are all around. In everything. The sound of songs and mountains streams, the feel of the night closing around me, the taste of fresh-caught trout or newly-made candy, the smell of hickory fires on August nights, the sight of the low-lying clouds as if the mountains exhaled their warm breath onto the cool morning air.
"Even though You are with me wherever I go, I never feel more alive, more at peace, more joyful than when I return to the mountains that You made my home. Call me home. Then send me forth. I am refreshed."
***
And if you believe that Gandhi is in Hell because he died a Hindu, the three books on my summer religious reading list are:
The Great Divorce, by C.S. Lewis
Love Wins, by Rob Bell
The Politics of Jesus, by Obery M. Hendricks Jr.
[Title taken from this.]
In the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge, there are hard challenges and easy challenges. Today's is easy:
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
Growing up in a very small town in the South, you went to school with the same people you went to church with, did Girl Scouts with, took ballet class with, sang in the church choir with, and on and on and on. So when one girl decided to turn all the other girls against me because she didn't like me, it made for a long eighteen years. Thank God for college! And that in my graduating class only five of us went away to a four-year college. And my bête noire went to the cross-state rival. Praise the Lord!
High school. Ugh! My cousin was the fun one. My bête noire was the head cheerleader. I was the smart one. Plus, at five-ten in stocking feet, I towered over all but two boys. I also weighed in at 110 pounds soaking wet. Long and lanky. Geeky is more like it. Thank goodness I never had braces or wore glasses!
How many times did a guy from my high school ask me for a date? Zero.
How many dances did I attend where a boy asked me to dance? Zip.
Going away to college where no one knew me changed all that. There was the sorority, the fraternity where I was a little sister, the college newspaper editor who wrote a front page story about me as a way to ask me out, the month I never made it home because I had an average of five dates (with different guys) in a weekend. Yes, average.
But deep down there is still that little girl from that little town who is terrified of being alone, of not being liked. And that, my friends, is my biggest insecurity.
[Title taken from this.]
Are these getting harder or is it just me? The 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge is a real challenge. Note to self: next time try a 5 Day Challenge. As usual, here is today's challenge:
17.A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
Wow! Now that I think about it, this is quite easy. No, it's not the threat of cancer in my life. Nor the debt ceiling crisis and possible economic straits. Yes, those are huge. But too negative. Let's be positive, shall we?
In yesterday's post, the moral of the story was Carpe diem. I drew the short straw with my genetic code. The past five generations in my maternal line have lived to the ripest oldest age of 65. On my paternal line, the same number of generations provided only 84 years to the longest surviving generation. Giving me anywhere from a good 20 to 40 years left.
Carpe diem! Seize the day! Plan my dream house, my retirement house, my death-or-divorce house. (Death or divorce would be the only things that would make me permanently leave the house.)
In the process of planning the dream retirement house, we need land to build it on. Along comes Google Earth. Lo and behold, when using Google Earth, I found an actual hidden valley. A long, narrow valley. Part of the Shenandoah Valley. But world's away. My own Shangri-La. Now to find the perfect lot in the perfect valley.
The huge impact was made possible by the good folks at Google (Earth) who showed me a valley big enough for my retirement.
[Title taken from this.]
I'm getting into the groove again with the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Today's challenge:
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
Taking the easy way out isn't for me. The answer won't be Jesus, or Mother Teresa, or Gandhi. Those are all inspiring people. But too easy. To make it more difficult for myself, I remembered a sermon from several years ago about Pentecost.
What does Pentecost have to do with inspiration? "All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them" -- Acts 2:4. Spirit. Inspire. They both come from the root Greek spīrāre, to breathe. Inspīrāre, to breathe upon or into. So what breathes into me? Who makes me alive?
There are very few people who truly inspire me. Suzanne Farrell, the ballerina, for her endless love of dance to the point of destroying her hips and knees only to have them replaced with metal, for showing me that there can still be the love and desire of something so beautiful but dangerous even well into one's sixties. John Muir, the naturalist, for his devotion to nature, for teaching me that the land can be loved, and cared for, now so that future generations will be able to love it as we do. Julia Child, the early television foodie, for introducing me to roast chicken which can still be saved even when dropped on the floor in front of millions of viewers. And a friend who will remain nameless, for utterly breathing the spirit of creativity into my mind and creating new ideas and ways to view things, for making me look at myself as someone still growing, never accepting that this is all there is.
Having a friend with no name push me to push myself, to be myself, to be more than myself. That is true inspiration. The breath of life that creates new life within me.
[Title taken from this.]
Lazy usually doesn't describe me. Laziness didn't keep me from continuing my daily installments of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Terror did.
Before the explanation of how terror paralyzed my blog posts, here are the past and future (daily) challenges.
The past:
1.A picture of yourself with 10 facts
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show
4.A picture of your favorite night
5.A picture of your favorite memory
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day
7.A picture of your most treasured item
8.A picture that makes you laugh
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with
11.A picture of something you hate
12.A picture of something you love
13.A picture of your favorite band or artist
14.A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without
Today:
15.A picture of something you want to do before you die
The future:
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
17.A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
19.A picture and a letter
20.A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
21.A picture of something you wish you could forget
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at
23.A picture of your favorite book
24.A picture of something you wish you could change
25.A picture of your favorite day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you
27.A picture of yourself and a family member
28.A picture of something you're afraid of
29.A picture that can always make you smile
30.A picture of someone you miss
The timing of Day Fifteen's request was poignant in that I'm still not completely cleared of suspicious cancer cells. Skin cancer. So "what do I want to do before I die?" has become a very real question.
Bucket Lists are fun to think about. But when the shit hits the fan, they're not all that realistic. Seriously? Sailing around the world? If it's really that important, make it happen now. When it can be enjoyed. Even when I posed the Bucket List question on Facebook with a caveat of only one thing, people's suggestions were too broad or grand for the immediate.
My "List" has been revamped. If you know me in real life, you've heard me say that if I were ever diagnosed with some terminal disease, I would climb Mount Everest. Because if I'm going to die, at least do something fun. But no more. I'm a wimp. I'm not an Alpinist; I have only recently rejoined the world of exercisers; and to top it off, I'd have some disease that could be a lethal burden to my fellow climbers. No, I would want to surround myself with all the love and comfort I could for as long as I could.
My "List" is quite simple. To be with the people I love in a place I love. My family, at home. No grand adventures, no thrill seeking, no fastest or highest anything. Just Mr. Gaelic, Finola, Deirdre, Maeve, Baby, Thing 1 and Thing 2.
And no regret that I never summitted Mount Everest.
[Title taken from this.]
Ring, ring. [abridged office phone call - actual lasted about 20 minutes]
Gaelic: This is Gaelic.
Caller: Hi, Miss Gaelic. This is Marcus Brown. I'm calling to tell you that you won three five five million dollars.
Gaelic: [mental alarms going off]
MB: We want to deliver the check to you today. Can I have your address?
G: Do you know who you're calling?
MB: Yes. Miss Gaelic. What is your address?
G: [decides to play along] U.S. Capitol Building, Washington, DC.
MB: I'm sorry. That's not a valid address.
G: Try this. One one zero zero Longworth Building, Washington, DC 20515.
MB: Our company will pay 99% of the tax bill. You just have to pay 1% of the tax bill.
G: Oh, really?
MB: Just send a money order to Courtney Evans, Brownstown, JAWI, St. Ann. As soon as the check is deposited I'll call you back.
G: Do you know where you're calling?
MB: Yes. Miss Gaelic. I'll call you back as soon as the check is deposited.
G: Okay, but before I go I just wanted to make sure you know who you're talking to. I work for the United States government and I've had you on the phone long enough to have this call traced.
MB: [dial tone - he hung up]
Dial, dial, dial.
Committee Staff: Financial Services Committee. How may I help you?
G: [explains preceding phone call]
CS: Just a minute. We have a Secret Service agent detailed to the committee. Let me get him.
Secret Service Agent: Can you give me all the details you have?
G: [repeats story to SSA complete with notes taken during phone call]
SSA: [finds the phone number registered as a cell phone in Sarasota, FL]
SSA: It's probably a Nigerian scam that wires the money through Jamaica.
G: But he called on my office phone.
SSA: It's probably some sweat shop where they're going down a list of numbers.
SSA: [finds address that I gave him in, wait for it... Jamaica]
SSA: There are one-star generals who have lost thousands of dollars in scams like this. It's a good thing you were smart enough not to get hooked.
G: [thinking to self - If I won $355,000,000, I don't think they'd be asking for 1% in taxes. And besides, don't people watch TV, read the paper, or listen to the radio to know about these scams?]
Just in case you didn't know about these scams or you assumed they would never call you, think again. They're out there. And you've been warned.
Oh, and if you ever do get one of these calls, take copious notes and let me know. I'll put you in touch with a really nice Secret Service agent who'll send the report to Headquarters.
First the good news. The stitches are out of my finger. Yippee! The pins are out of my finger. Yippee!! The bones are healed. Yippee!!! However... The progress on mobility backslid while my finger was in the latest bandage. The finger only bends about 60° and won't touch the palm. Yet. Give it a few weeks.
The so-so news. As you may remember from last Thursday, it was not a good evening. After calling the doctor's office this morning for the official word from my biopsy, the nurse informed me that the results came back with "suspicious cells". The doctor wants to do a more extensive biopsy at the end of August. She wants the site to heal before she takes more. Next time she'll stitch me up, that's how much she plans to take.
And the warning? It may be too late for you. According to doctors, melanoma is a young person's cancer. The damage is done when we're young. Such as the many, many sunburns (including one second-degree sunburn) growing up as a fair-complected, red-headed child spending summers on the Gulf Coast. Whose great-grandfather died of the disease.
But it's not too late to pass the warning along to others. "Dear 16-Year-Old Me" isn't meant as a "Scared Straight" admonition against tanning. Just as a friendly prodding to check yourself.
Is this how it begins? The end?
The voice on the answering machine informs me that the results of my biopsy are in. Yet the doctor's office will be closed for the four-day weekend beginning in the morning. She says to call at my earliest convenience for the results. Four days from now.
If it were benign, she would have said so on the answering machine. I don't say anything. He doesn't say anything. Then he speaks,
"I'm sure it's nothing."
Does he really believe that or is that the only thing he could think to say?
He asks if I want a beer or wine. I don't drink anymore. I ask for white wine.
Suddenly the weekend plans to drive to the mountains to look at property seem meaningless. My dream retirement home vanishes before me.
I feel scared and hollow at the same time. Is this the beginning of the end?
The good news is that all five pins were removed from my finger last week. The bad news is that the bruise covers half my palm and it's that putrid purplish-greenish color. The doctor prescribed Oxycontin. I love that man!
However, that's not what I'm addicted to. When the entire weekend is spent in bed in a drugged-up stupor, Facebook and work are prohibited on the doctor's orders. Lest I write something that I would later regret. At this point, the drugs have lessened and it's probably safe to go back in the writing pool.
Reading wasn't easy while on the heavy drugs. No concentration. Which means that movies were also too difficult to follow. Even when Mr. Gaelic queued up an old Popeye cartoon, my mind couldn't stay on the plot. Now that's saying a lot.
To occupy myself I reverted back to a deep, dark secret that only a few very close friends know about me. It's my p*rn habit. Actually, two different kinds. Because I like to spice things up a bit. My usual food p*rn websites make me hungry. But the meds kept me from salivating too much over gorgeous photos of flan and roasts and cream sauces and wine sauces and, well, you get the picture.
So instead I indulged in my other p*rn habit. House p*rn. Maybe I'm a frustrated, closet architect. Because I adore looking at house plans. And you can keep your colonial, center-stairway, ranch, split-level, saltbox, McMansions. I like modern house p*rn. Give me concrete and steel and glass and cantilevers and hearthless fireplaces.
This is one addiction that causes no harm. Until it's time for the retirement house.
There will be a short break in the challenge. After gearing up for my first motorcycle ride in almost four years, the pins in my finger were dislodged while wearing the protective gloves and spending a couple of hours on the motorcycle yesterday. The pain that had been occurring on both sides of my knuckle shifted all to one side. The knuckle looks not only massively swollen but also deformed. Even the mini Ace bandage wrapped around it to control the swelling sends me into stomping fits accompanied by more expletives than most sailors know.
Oxycontin is my constant friend until the doctor's office opens tomorrow morning. The new hand doctor (finally got to see him over three months after my original hand doctor's untimely death) said two weeks ago that his office would call me to schedule the in-office operation to remove the pins. Call me? My a$$! It reminds me of "Don't call us, we'll call you."
This has been one long weekend.
30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge:
Day 14: A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without.
Two words: Mr. Gaelic.
Lucky number thirteen. Today's challenge is:
13.A picture of your favorite band or artist
Band? Artist? Jeez, make it difficult! Which do you want? How about both?
Band? Can that be just a singer? If so, hands down, it's Johnny Cash. But then there's also Hank Williams III or Ralph Stanley and His Clinch Mountain Boys. So Ralph and the Boys is more of a band. If it's a group you're looking for, it would have to be U2, The Who, or Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.
Artist could be any number of things. But my thoughts on this are keeping it limited to paintings. In that case, there are three that require an extended viewing. John Singer Sargent, Frederick Leighton, and Gustav Klimt. My three favorites by each are here, here, and here.
There's no way to narrow it down any more. My tastes change with my moods. There's a song for every season.
Getting down to business, in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge, here are the last three.
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Yes
11.A picture of something you hate - Yep
12.A picture of something you love - Now
Another short one tonight. Mostly because of the highly stressed week in the office. And it's only Thursday. Something I love? Finola, Deirdre, and Maeve!
[Title taken from this.]
This was supposed to be another installment in the 30 Day Challenge. But a nice full belly and a set of clean sheets later and this gal is headed off on a date with Mr. Sandman.
We're now in the second third of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge and they're getting harder. Before we get to today's topic, here are the last three.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - Ναι.
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Sim.
11.A picture of something you hate - Here!
Hate is such a strong word. Believe it or not, it's not the opposite of love. Both love and hate are emotions, strong emotions. The opposite of love (or hate) is indifference. But today's post isn't about semantics. It's about something concrete. Something I hate.
Let's see now. The eulogy at my funeral will include a reference to the three people in my life - those I love, those I hate, and those I never met. Passion is a major part of me. If our paths have crossed, you fall into one of the two earlier categories. If you've never introduced yourself, please do. I don't bite. I can actually be a very nice person. Most of the time.
Sometimes people can fall into both the first and the second categories at the same time. How? My pet peeve.
Seeing as how my city has one of the worst records for traffic in the U.S., it makes sense that my pet peeve has to do with traffic. If I know and love you but you are caught in my pet peeve, that's how you'll be both loved and hated at the same time. My pet peeve?
When traffic is slow and backed up at an intersection, I don't enter the box in case the light changes and I get stuck in the box. Anyone who has driven in New York City knows about "Don't Block the Box". But there is inevitably some jerk waiting to turn right into the backed up line of traffic who uses my courtesy as an invitation to whip right on in line ahead of me even though it means that no one else can pull through the intersection before the light turns red. Oo, I hate that! It steams me! Depending on the day and my mood, the driver might get anywhere from a honk to a finger to rolling my window down and yelling at the moron.
Word of warning to anyone driving on the East Coast - if you see a redhead in a white convertible not blocking the box in heavy traffic, do not, I repeat, do not pull your car in front of me thinking that I'm letting you in line. Got it? Good. Now back to your regularly happy Mrs. Gaelic.
[Title taken from this.]
[Happy Birthday to anyone born today!]
Moving on with today's entry in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge and recapping the last three.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Da.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - Si.
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Here!
As you can guess from the title, I don't need anyone to help me in finding f***ed up things. But, in my defense, I'm not the instigator either. I'm the lone wolf who does an excellent job in f***ed up activities all by my lonesome. But my f***ed things skirted the rules.
In high school as the good girl, it wasn't until the day before graduation that I broke the mini-skirt rule. In royal style to boot. As the valedictorian, I was seated on the stage on the 50-yard line in the football stadium. To the graduation run-through the day before, I sported a navy leather mini-skirt. What were they going to do? Not let me graduate? Take away my valedictory speech like they took away all but one of the top academic awards? "You scored the highest in every class. But we need to spread the awards around. So you're only getting one. Which one would you like to be recognized for?"
My fearlessness increased with age. Even today, bungee jumping doesn't seem like too big of a deal. Except I probably wouldn't do it for the same reason I gave up roller coasters. Headaches from being thrown around in the seat. Sigh.
Sure, wearing a mini-skirt to graduation practice and bungee jumping aren't f***ed up by lots of people's standards. But getting sloppy drunk and ending up, as Laoch said to one of his friends, "sun soaked, covered in beer and strippers, and not knowing where my wallet or my car is" isn't my kind of f***ed up. I prefer meeting four men on the beach of Puerto Rico and having dinner with them, followed the next day by meeting one man on the beach and having afternoon tea with him, followed by meeting two men on the beach the next day and having drinks with them. All while vacationing by myself.
As I said, a lone wolf who can find plenty of f***ed up things all by myself. Yep, I am my own worst enemy.
Rule #1: Never blog under the influence. I only drink on special occasions. Last night with the gals from the office was a special occasion. But the beer tainted my words. Perhaps what was said should have remained unsaid. Before moving on here are the last three topics in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Oui.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Ja.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - You're reading it.
This one is E-Z. This is the person who was with me during my mother's diagnosis of a brain tumor. The one who wiped my tears when she died. Who wrote her obituary. The one who held my hair back during a total of six months of morning sickness. (Two full months of "morning sickness" which was really "all-day sickness" times three pregnancies equals six months.) The person who sat with me as I watched my father die. Who wrote his obituary. The one who keeps me grounded but inspires me to soar.
Mr. Gaelic, of course.
Title taken from this.
Yesterday's blog was a crap out. It was supposed to be Day 8 of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Instead, my brain wouldn't come up with anything. Before heading into today's blog, let's recap the last three.
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - Yep
7.A picture of your most treasured item - TWO nights ago
8.A picture that makes you laugh - At Last!
Tonight after work, the Press Secretary had all the gals in the office over for Girls' Night. The conversation ran the gamut from genealogy to why some American men have a yen for Asian women. Beer and wine flowed freely. It's nice to kick back after a long week at the office.
So what part of that makes me laugh? Our Legislative Correspondent. She's the youngest of all the women in the office. During the past six months, her confidence level in herself as a person has really increased. During the first few weeks together as a new office, she tried to stifle her laugh. It's not a girly giggle. It's a snort. Her self-consciousness got in the way of truly expressing herself.
But her self-confidence has blossomed. She no longer holds back on her laughs, and snorts when she finds something really funny. Her laugh, uh, snort, is infectious. Hearing her makes me laugh. Well, maybe not laugh out loud, but smile broadly. At the same time, it makes me sad.
If my co-workers were to know that I'm even the slightest bit purple, they would probably not be as open and friendly as they currently are. I feel like I can't be myself around them. I'm hiding a major part of myself in order to keep a job. Although only one person in the office is openly hostile to people of the other party.
I wish I could tell them, "Hey, I'm not really a [insert party name]. I'm more of a liberal conservative or a conservative liberal or a Blue Dog [insert other party name]." But I feel like I would need to follow up with, "But I'm not a spy or a mole or a saboteur." I have a good friend who worked on the legislative staff of a member of the other party. Actually, I know several people like that. Of course, that was before 1992 when the climate on the Hill changed drastically. Until then, there had been comity and relationships across party lines. My former office was close to our next door neighbor who was of the other party.
Shortly after 1992, my former boss retired from Congress, as did his counterpart on their shared subcommittee. Neither of them liked the new atmosphere on the Hill. Things have only gotten worse over the last 20 years. People are more polarized and quick to judge others based on their political beliefs.
Even as the LC's snorting laugh makes me smile and laugh, not being able to fully share who I am keeps a cloud over that smile. As with most things in life, it's bittersweet.
Title taken from this.
I got nuttin'. After an incessantly long day of vouchers, accounts payable, payroll, and my regular scheduler responsibilities, my brain checked out at 5:00 today. Even reclining on the couch for an hour hasn't revived it.
Let's call this my Seventh Inning Stretch in the Challenge.
Three guesses what the most treasured item is for a genealogist and family historian. Go ahead. Before you read any further. Make your guesses. The most treasured item is today's entry in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. As usual, here are the last three.
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Done.
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - Check.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Here!
It took me a while to figure this one out. Family heirlooms crossed my mind. Photos from the present to almost the earliest photographs. It was hard to narrow the list to one until I asked myself what one item I would save if the house was on fire.
So what are your guesses? An old portrait of a Civil War soldier in his dress greys? My grandfather's dog tags from World War I? A pocket watch? How about a Bible?
The answer is my great-grandparents' Bible. There are six generations recorded on the pages between the Old and New Testaments. Being my great-grandparents' Bible, they listed themselves on the main lines and both of their parents under, well, Bride's and Groom's Parents. As the children came along, they filled in the names and birth dates. And in some cases, death dates. They listed marriages and the in-laws' names.
After my great-grandparents' death's, the Bible became my grandfather's. He recorded the birth of his daughter and passed it along to her. My mother recorded my sister's and my births. She recorded our marriages and the in-laws' names. And she passed it along to me. Mostly because my sister had no children. I recorded the births of my children and am awaiting the times I will write the marriage dates and their husbands' names. Sadly, the job of noting my parents' deaths fell to me as well.
But that's what life is. It's cyclical. We are born, give birth, and die. And new generations replace us. I am a generation to be noted, just like my parents, and my grandparents, and great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents. I have given life to the next generation who will bring forth the next.
Just one big circle of life.
What would you need to know about someone to switch places with them for a day? The great thing about the loss of privacy in the past 40 years is so much is known about so many people that there is not a single person I would want to switch places with today. In all of history is a different matter entirely.
The sixth day of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge delves into the question, but doesn't limit the answer to someone alive today. In case you missed any, the last three challenges were:
4.A picture of your favorite night - Check
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Check
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - This is it
It's a good thing this is my Prose-Instead-of-Picture Challenge. There are two people I'd love to switch places with for a day. The problem is no picture exists of either of which I'm aware.
The first would be my 11th great-grandmother, Mary Horsemanden Byrd. She was only two years older than I am now when she died on November 9, 1699. To know how people lived back then, the mundane stuff, the boring! How exciting that would be! Yes, it's official. I am weird. I get excited over boring details like what she ate for breakfast or drank with supper or how she put her children to bed at night. Why her and not any of my other ancestors? With her, things are tangible. I've walked the banks of the river that she called home, put flowers on her grave, read her husband's diary. For someone 400 years gone, she has a real presence in my life.
The other person from history to switch places with? Her presence in my life has lingered as a question of who she was and what motivated a simple act of kindness. Her name is unknown to me. As is the town she lived in or when she was born or whether she had children. All that is known to me is that on December 24, 1944, she offered an American soldier supper and took him to church. From old memories, I feel certain she was married and might have had children. But those stories weren't recorded except as tales told at my childhood bedside. For one day (Christmas Eve of 1944) I would like to be that woman in the French countryside. The one who offered hospitality to my daddy.
[Title taken from this.]
When the house is full of noise, and the kids are asking "Why" and "What" and "Who", and the dishes need washing, escaping to a favorite memory would be like a trip to a tropical island paradise. Favorite memory is today's challenge in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. In an effort to keep you up to date, here are the last three challenges.
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show - Check
4.A picture of your favorite night - Check
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Today
So come escape with me. Imagine being on the island of Puerto Rico. The turquoise Caribbean Sea rolling onto the white sand. The warm sun (even in November) caressing your skin. The shadows of the palm leaves dancing across the pages of your book as the breeze gently moves them. And huge iguanas scurrying underneath your hammock. Nobody on the beach but me.
It was my first sabbatical after becoming a full-time mother. Time away just for me. Alone. No kids, no husband, no dishes to wash, clothes to iron, carpool to drive. Just me and my book and the beach.
Typing this tonight, Finola was reading over my shoulder about today's topic.
"Mom, do any of your favorite memories involve us?" she looked up at me from the floor where she lay petting Thing 1.
My mind raced through all three of their births and how happy I was. I paused and heard the other two and Mr. Gaelic arguing about who ate the ice cream. The brand new container that was full last night but was now half eaten. Out of the container itself!
I looked lovingly into Finola's eyes and assured her, "Not right now."
She rolled her eyes at me.
*Title taken from this.
Welcome to the fourth installment of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. To keep the list from getting too long, there will only be three previous challenges shown on each day's post.
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest -- Check
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show -- Check
4.A picture of your favorite night -- This is it
How the night began is foggy in my memory. Perhaps it was with dinner and a movie. Perhaps we had been hanging out with a group of friends at a local watering hole. That part's not too terribly important to the story. The important part was my suggestion to take a bottle of bourbon and sit on the roof of my apartment building.
The roof was not intended to be a deck. It was just a flat roof on an older apartment building in the direct landing pattern for the airport. Watching planes' headlights approach from the south upped the heart rate until the planes banked with the bend in the river. The planes looked as if they would fly straight into us. Soon the planes ceased arriving due to restrictions on when planes can arrive and depart. Yet the party at a close-by townhouse continued to drone on into the night.
We sat on the edge of the roof, drinking bourbon straight from the bottle. The conversation ebbed and flowed. Quietness was filled with vain attempts to find stars in the metropolitan light-polluted sky. Soon voices from the townhouse party ceased. What time was it?
Whose suggestion it was to stay up on the roof until sunrise I don't remember. In the relative silence, staying awake became more difficult as our conversation ebbed more than flowed. Sitting on a hard, flat roof with no back support made me crave my soft bed just below us. Soon we were headed towards the stairs.
The length of time on the roof must have been several hours. The before and after are lost in the cobwebbed, unused stacks of my mental library. But my night on the roof with Matt is by far one of my favorite and most memorable nights.
*Title taken from this.
Today is the third installment of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. If you haven't been keeping track, here is the list so far.
1.A picture of yourself with 10 facts -- Check
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest -- Check
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show -- You're reading it
For someone who doesn't watch TV, today's is quite a difficult challenge. Not because of a lack of subject matter, but because of too many favorites from which to choose. The first thing that crossed my mind regarding "favorite show" was stage production. The second thing was whether "cast" meant of which I was a part.
Really good Broadway shows aren't big-name vehicles. Will "The Addams Family" continue its run after Nathan Lane or Bebe Neuwirth leaves? What happened to "Spamalot" after Tim Curry, Hank Azaria, and David Hyde Pierce left? Who were the big names in "A Chorus Line"? But stage productions are so much more than Broadway. "The Fantasticks" holds the record for the world's longest running stage show at 42 years -- Off-Broadway, no less. There are also ballets, operas, plays (as opposed to musicals), etc.
Do movies count as shows? Weren't they once referred to as moving picture shows? Whoa! Too many choices. It's making my head spin.
As for the cast, well, should it include me? My parents introduced me to the theatre at the age of five. They were on the Board of Directors of my hometown Civic Theatre. My roles included everything from Ngana in "South Pacific" as a five-year-old (my red hair wasn't anachronistic, was it?) to a chorus line nurse in a different production of "South Pacific" as a high school senior.
Narrowing the list is harder than anticipated. But there is one that affected me like no other.
On a couple's weekend to New York City several years ago, we ended up seeing a total of five shows -- "Wicked", "Hairspray", "Fiddler on the Roof", "Chicago", and "La Bohème". Of those five, one was the sexiest show I've ever seen and one was the most romantic. "Chicago", hands down, is the sexiest. "La Bohème", the most romantic.
Oh. My. God. Nothing has ever touched me as fully as seeing it live on stage did. Even though I've seen it live on stage before, there was something about that production. Even though I know the story backwards and forwards, Mr. Gaelic had to give me his handkerchief during the last scene. I was sobbing. After the last round of applause and the house lights came up, older ladies puzzled at me, sitting there crying, dabbing my eyes.
"Baz Luhrmann's La Bohème" only ran for a few short months on Broadway. But, for me, nothing can ever hold a candle to that one show. Vive la vie bohème!
*Title taken from this.
The second installment of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge is here. Before we get to today's topic, there needs to be some clarification about the daily requirements.
1.A picture of yourself with 10 facts -- Check
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest -- You're reading it
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show
4.A picture of your favorite night
5.A picture of your favorite memory
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day
7.A picture of your most treasured item
8.A picture that makes you laugh
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with
11.A picture of something you hate
12.A picture of something you love
13.A picture of your favorite band or artist
14.A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without
15.A picture of something you want to do before you die
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
17.A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
19.A picture and a letter
20.A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
21.A picture of something you wish you could forget
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at
23.A picture of your favorite book
24.A picture of something you wish you could change
25.A picture of your favorite day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you
27.A picture of yourself and a family member
28.A picture of something you're afraid of
29.A picture that can always make you smile
30.A picture of someone you miss
Yesterday's blog contained ten facts. Today's blog is about the person I've been closest with the longest. Family members won't count for me. Too easy.
We met when we both were 14 or 15. August in the mountains of North Carolina at the Southeastern YMCA Leaders' School. He was from east Tennessee. I was from Alabama. Two southern kids with a passion for physical education and leadership.
Our friendship was immediate. For one week every year during high school, we were inseparable. We took classes together, sat together each night at vespers, hiked to the top of the mountain to watch the sun rise, shared a banana split on my birthday. (My birthday fell during the week-long Leaders' School every year.) And hugged and cried and hugged some more at the end of our yearly week together. It was the most physical platonic relationship anyone has ever had. He is my T and I am his Red.
During college, he was a varsity cheerleader for an SEC school. I was the sorority girl at a different SEC school who visited him during spring training. But things got in the way. Significant others took up all of our time. Slowly we began to lose touch.
Until we reconnected on Facebook.
We rarely comment on each other's status or pictures. Occasionally we'll email each other. Recently he was in town for a conference and we had lunch. It was as if not a day had passed. The conversation was easy and relaxed. We kidded each other, talked about our spouses and children, brought each other up to date on life in general. And reminisced about a photo he took of me our last summer together before graduation.
He caught me off guard early one morning before breakfast. Seated in an old rocking chair on the porch of the main hall overlooking the mountains, my face bore a look of concentration usually reserved for church services or SATs. The shutter clicked before his footsteps tore me from my thoughts. Back in Tennessee, the photo was entered in a contest, unbeknownst to me. It took first prize. He later sent me a copy of the picture with a sincere note of gratitude for helping him win the photography contest.
He's my oldest, dearest, closest guy friend. Through thick and thin. I'll always love him.
[*Title taken from this.]
Thief! Again with the plagarized material. This time it's the (infamous) 30-Day Facebook Picture Challenge. Only without pictures. If a picture can paint a thousand words then why can't I paint you? Whoa! Already off on tangents and the first paragraph isn't finished yet. It's going to be a long, disjointed blog. So hang on.
Day 1. A picture of yourself with 10 facts: Here goes.
Red hair, hazel eyes, 5'10", classic curves. Eh... If you want the real picture, go reread all of my blogs. As for ten facts, what don't you know about me?
1. Born and raised in the heart of Dixie.
2. My granddaddy lived with us until he died.
3. Competed in a few junior beauty pageants as a child.
4. My first camping experience was with a canvas pup-tent held up with wooden poles.
5. Filed my first 1040 when I was 12.
6. Play the piano when bored.
7. Won scholarships to five colleges in a pageant as a high school senior.
8. Can never keep my Lenten discipline all the way to Easter.
9. My picture can be found in the dictionary next to the word "stubborn".
10. Want to live high on a mountaintop.
#8 and #9 seem to be contradictory. Let's see which one wins out in the quest for the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Who's with me?
