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Two constants in life are death and taxes. As any semi-regular reader of my blogs knows, death has struck many times over the years, everyone from my father to my priest's wife. But when death strikes and you can't comfort the grieved, you're at a loss.
Wednesday at work, the flu infected me to a degree that even my co-workers could see the progression over a few short hours. One scurried around the office with Clorox wipes disinfecting every surface I had touched during the day. Another insisted that I go home. NOW!
It was upon checking my cellphone for urgent office email on Thursday morning that my friend's email stunned me. Her niece committed suicide on Wednesday night. The girl shot herself. Her father found her.
The time stamp on my friend's email was 2:34 a.m. She had wanted to come over for a shoulder of support. The problem is that she is also the primary caretaker of her elderly parents who suffer from dementia (her dad) and a gaging reflex that requires a feeding tube for nutrition (her dad) to pneumonia (her mom) because of a stroke (her mom). The last thing she needed was to take my flu germs back to her parents just when both of them were out of the hospital.
So she wrote a lengthy email containing her pain and anguish and despair. And I was at a loss for words.
Of the two teenage suicides from my circle of friends, they were both gunshots. There are some sights that can't be unseen. Death, especially a tragic, traumatic, bloody death, is one of them. One that no father should ever have to see.
"Any customer can have a car painted any color that he wants as long as it is black." ~ Henry Ford.
If only it was that easy! Now a trip to the grocery store leaves me mentally exhausted. There is whole milk, 2%, 1%, skim, organic, grass-fed, soy, almond, goat, unpasteurized. The cereal aisle alone takes twenty minutes alone sometimes just to find the three different brands and flavors that my family eats. It would be so much easier if there was only the equivalent of a black car in the cereal aisle. "Any customer can have whatever cereal he wants as long as it is corn flakes." Just think of the time that would save!
When Finola asked me what I thought of the SOPA legislation, I realized that even though I work on Capitol Hill I don't know enough about it to have formed an opinion on it one way or the other. Finola informed me that it would hurt smaller artists and some websites. Playing devil's advocate, my rebuttal was about intellectual property and copyrights. I knew enough to know that the recording industry and the motion pictures association support SOPA. It took Finola's reminder that SOPA stands for Stop Online Piracy Act for me to know what S-O-P-A means.
It would be so easy to just accept what people told me rather than learning about both sides of the issue. It's more than just having an inquisitive spirit. It's also having the ability to reason for myself. It's the time and effort to seek out as much knowledge on issues as I can before making a decision. There would be more time available for important decisions if there weren't so many other decision distractions.
I still don't know enough about to SOPA to have a fully formed opinion. And I'm not ready to adopt one position over another just because someone says I should. Not even if that someone is Mr. Gaelic. My independence is one of the things that attracted him to me in the first place. But that's a blog for another time.
What really depresses me is that I don't see that quest for information and knowledge very often in today's society. Or at least the level that I would expect from a first-world country. Am I the only thinking girl in America?
[Title taken from this.]
Original plans for today: Go to court to contest a traffic ticket where the officer gave me a ticket for running a yellow light that changed as I was halfway under it.
Actual events for today: Alarm goes off. "What time is it?" "6:30." "Okay . . . crap! I was supposed to meet C at 7:00!"
Skip shower. Pull hair into a bun. Dress and run out of the house with Mr. Gaelic to drop him off at the subway. Tap the ears to make sure the earrings are there which reminds Mr. G to check for his phone, billfold, belt. "Forgot the belt! Let me out here and I'll take the bus."
Arrive at meeting place. No C. "Didn't she call last week to cancel? I can't remember. I think she did." Get back in car and drive home.
Log onto office computer from home and check email. Deirdre calls and needs me to bring her literature binder to school by 11:00. Find binder in her room and place it next to my purse. Okay, traffic court is at 9:30. "I should take it before court."
Look out window at Baby, next-door-neighbor's dog, and dog from around the corner playing in yard. Baby is a 140-pound, eight-year-old Great Pyrenees. Go to front door to say hello to neighbor from around the corner. "Baby is limping? Did you know she's limping?" "I just saw her and she was fine." Sure enough, Baby is barely able to walk.
Call the vet to get an appointment as soon as possible. "We have 10:30 and 11:15." "Uh, I have a 9:30 meeting and I'm not sure when I'll be out. Do you have anything later?" "1:00." "I'll take it."
The clock says 8:50. Not enough time to get to the high school and back to the courthouse by 9:30. But she needs the binder by 11:00. And, oh dear! Deirdre is driving the truck today. Baby can't ride in the car. There's not enough room for her. And the gas gauge says 11 miles to empty.
Drive to the courthouse and find two-hour on-street parking. Walk into anteroom and realize I'm the only Anglo there. How many other cases will be called before mine? How many will need interpreters? No time for this!
Find the cashier's window and pay the fine. There goes my clean driving record! And it was yellow when I when through it!
On way to car, see friend from church whom I haven't seen in months. Talk briefly. Once in car again realize Deirdre's binder is still on the kitchen counter. Lack of breakfast is catching up with me. Need coffee!
Call Mr. G for moral support. He offers to help me get Baby to the vet. Stop by house to shower, fix hair, change clothes, and retrieve binder. Drive to high school to leave binder. Gas gauge down to 3 miles to empty. Pull into gas station and, while filling up, watch verbal fight between female driver trying to pull to pump and male cabbie blocking the lane. Station manager intervenes. "Please don't let me get caught as an eye-witness to an assault." No time for that.
Swing by Mickey D's for drive-thru latte. The Starbucks across the parking lot requires getting out of car and standing in long line. No time for that. Mr. G calls to say he'll be at home subway station in 15 minutes. Stop by house to check office emails. Back in car to pick up Mr. G. On way to high school with Mr. G's truck keys, boss calls for explanation of what meetings were moved and canceled on today's calendar. He doesn't follow my explanation and hangs up. Mr. G repeats back to me what he heard and it's exactly right.
Deposit Mr. G next to truck. He offers to stop at Mickey D's for lunch. "May I have a sweet tea as well?" Back at house, type email to boss with minute detail of which meetings were moved and canceled. Mr. G arrives, takes his burger upstairs to eat as he changes clothes. Wolf down my burger standing over kitchen sink.
Together, lift Baby into back of truck. Mr. G helps me get her inside the vet's office then steps out for conference call on his cell. Vet tells me that she tore the left ACL. She tore the right ACL two years ago. As he tells me this, both of us sitting in the floor with Baby, he looks like he's about to cry. Reading his mind, ponder whether the high cost of the surgery offsets Baby's age for such a gentle giant of a dog. Immediately ask about surgery rather than any other option.
Mr. G helps me get Baby into truck again. At home, Baby refuses our help and attempts to jump out of back of truck. In jumping, she knocks the tailgate open against the side of my head. Fall into car parked behind us, then to curb. Mr. G doesn't know who to help first, Baby or me. Give Baby pain medicine. She whimpers as she sleeps. Want to cuddle her but she needs rest.
Decide to work from home rest of day as does Mr. G. At some point temperature drops. Mr. G builds fire. Heat up leftover spaghetti. Wonder if had lunch. Don't remember. Then see cup from Mickey D's.
Want to send text to Finola saying, "FML." Will recount story and she'll understand.
How does one go about putting together an intervention?
Last year at this time at a Christmas party, two friends and I were talking near the food table. One remarked that she needed to find the bar, that it had been a long week, and that she needed a drink. I cheerfully told them that I didn't drink. [However, after rejoining the paid workforce, my tee toting days quickly came to an end.]
A few days later, one of the women called me up for a coffee date. She peppered me with questions about why I stopped drinking. No, I didn't have a problem with alcohol. My doctor said my thyroid medicine would work better if I didn't drink. That was two years ago. [Well, three at this point.] In our conversation, my friend told me that she was concerned about our other friend whom she strongly suspected had a drinking problem.
After running into the second friend at a local Mexican restaurant, that assumption rings true. My friend's sentences seemed off. Her eyes looked dilated. And there were two shot glasses on the table, one empty, one full. Her dining companion was her 20-year-old daughter. Unless she's buying shots for her underage daughter, my suspicion is that she does in fact have a drinking problem.
Should I invite her for coffee and tell her that I'm worried about her? Should my first friend and I talk to her together? Should I talk to her daughter whom I watched grow up and who is a close friend of my daughter?
My timidity stems from a prior intervention that several female friends and I tried with another friend whose husband was physically abusing her. We tried to convince her to leave him. Instead she left us. They eventually divorced but the rifts between the female friends still exist.
Is speaking up the best option?
[Title taken from this.]
Recently Deirdre pulled out the photo albums in search of a baby picture for the high school yearbook. Deirdre is a senior this year and needs a "before" shot to go with her senior portrait. It's amazing how much they change. And how much they were always the same.
Out came the older albums from when Yours Truly was a baby. It's funny. Deirdre remarked that my baby pictures look like a mix of Finola and Maeve. On the next page, she claims that she's looking at herself in my baby picture.
Maybe that's why I have a difficult time remembering which our my babies' picture I'm looking at without checking the date. The females' looks in my family are strikingly similar. My children look like me. I look like my mother. My mother looked like her mother. If there were an extant picture of my great grandmother, she would probably look just like the rest of us.
A distant cousin sent me a photo he found in his mother's things. His note was short, "Guess who this is in the picture." I wrote back, "I know that's my grandfather. But based on the date, my mother wouldn't be old enough." He answered, "It's your grandmother." Once when at my maternal aunt's house, she was showing photos from some event. I swear the woman in the picture was my mother. Except that she had red hair. My mother was the one with brown hair. My aunt has red hair.
There are photos of my parents in my living room. First-time visitors always want to know at what Old Timey Photo Shop we had them taken. Now even my husband is beginning to look like my father at a younger age. There is truth to the old wives' tale that the longer people live together the more they resemble each other. And apparently their in-laws in Mr. Gaelic's case.
[Title taken from this.]
What is it about Southern Gothic? The characters are all tortured souls. It is my belief that most Southern authors are tortured souls as well. And that an author can't write well about a place until he leaves it. It's like unrequited love. There's some nagging itch of a feeling that must be put on paper or a memory stick. That need to write.
I had a need to write. I had several stories that I longed to tell. Coming of age tales, stories of love and loss, yarns of deceit and redemption. For a while, I couldn't go a day without writing. Hours would disappear as if mere seconds as the words flowed onto the pages. But then something happened.
My muse, that itch to write, vanished overnight. She had been my constant for several years. But suddenly she was gone. And the strange thing is that I don't miss her.
Her leaving coincided with the culmination of a class that Mr. Gaelic and I took. Oddly enough, it was only in learning how to truly communicate everything we needed and wanted of each other that I no longer needed an expressive outlet.
Mr. Gaelic might not appreciate my candor, but we spent almost a year with a coach doing individual and joint homework assignments in learning why and how we react to each other based on our life experiences. The homework and classwork was emotionally difficult at times. But in learning how to express ourselves in a manner that the other was receptive to, we learned that we had never really opened up to each other. Twenty years of marriage and we finally learned how to talk to each other so that the other person actually heard, not only with their ears but with their heart, what we had to say.
When you know without a shadow of a doubt that you are heard by the person you love more than life itself, finding a replacement muse is moot.
[Title taken from this.]
Comedy is funny because it has a kernel of truth in it. So when a friend posted a joke recently, it wasn't just funny. It was hilarious. Because it's so true.
It's about things women say. Through the years and different relationships, I have used the examples listed. In fact, most women have used and probably still use them. So guys, word of warning. Read this joke and know that it's funny because it hits the bull's eye of truth.
And another warning... When a woman answers "How are you?" with "Fine", it's actually an acronym for "Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional". And it usually means, "Stay the fuck away!"
Ye nevah cawll. Ye nevah wryte. Whot? Ye don' luve ye muddah?
Two things that Southern mothers and New York Jewish mothers have in common are the guilt trip and the good food. Sometimes at the same time.
Lawdy mehcy, chil'. Ya gotta eat yawr collah' greens or yaw're gonna disappeah until dey ain't nuttin' lef' o' ya but da clothes ya wearin' righ' now.
As an aside, that reminds me of when I read the Uncle Remus books by Joel Chandler Harris. One can only read them if one knows the real Southern dialect. Sort of like reading A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. It flows much better if one knows a true New Orleans accent. But I digress.
No, I didn't disappear off the face of the earth. Mr. Gaelic's annual conference was in Orlando. Piggyback on a Disney World visit and Mrs. Gaelic is out of this world. What better way to see Tomorrowland than without kids in tow! We could smile at all the beautiful babies we wanted to and then quickly find another table away from the screaming brats.
You know all those guides with suggested touring plans for each of the Disney parks? Don't use them. We tried using one the first two days and realized that we would have more fun if we didn't try to do and see everything. Just be and enjoy. Sheer bliss. Do you know how refreshing it is to have Fastpasses in hand to both Soarin' and Test Track and decide that you'd rather go back to the hotel and take a nice long bath?
And a word to the wise... Just because the resort bar has signature drinks on the menu doesn't mean that you have to try one. Save your money and your taste buds. Stick with what you know. Some of those signatures are ghastly!
There was no lunch. No food. Only a cup of coffee. All because of wanting some kind of religious grounding and centering in my workaday life.
There is a group near my office that has a short chapel service every Wednesday. The group is part of one of the mainline Protestant denominations. In their office building is a small chapel complete with Bibles and hymnals. Why did it take me this long to find such a respite?
After the 30 minute service, one of the staff members whom I had exchanged emails with about the service took me on a tour of the office building, introduced me to other staffers, got me a cup of coffee in their break room, and talked with me for over an hour in their library. He is an ordained minister with an extremely similar upbringing as mine. I could have talked to him all afternoon had it not been for the daily fires that I deal with in my office.
Just walking into the chapel and sitting in the stillness and quiet was enough to wash away any burden from my shoulders. The words of the prayers were reminiscent enough of my Episcopal parish to soothe my soul. The only dissonance was a hymn that I know by heart but the music was completely foreign. Oh well, I can deal with that.
Skipping food for lunch instead to be nourished and nurtured was well worth it. My body my not be able to live by coffee alone; but my soul can flourish with bread and wine. Go in peace to love and serve the lord. [Title and last sentence explained here.]
"I'm not joining today."
"But why, my child? I've prepared the feast just for you."
"I have anger issues that I haven't finished dealing with."
"I know. I know everything about you. You even admitted your anger a few minutes ago. But I forgive you. All I ask is that you forgive."
"But she hurt Deirdre with that letter she sent. She blamed Deirdre for her bad decisions and didn't accept any responsibility for her actions."
"I know. I know Deirdre's pain. You're like the lioness protecting her cubs. I chose a good mother for Deirdre. Perhaps it's yourself you need to forgive. Now come to my table."
"I thought that if I partake when you and I aren't in communion that the bread and wine can do more harm than good."
"That's an intriguing thought."
.
.
.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Aren't you supposed to tell me what to do?"
"You already know."
.
.
.
"I'll come to the table but not partake."
"Go on."
"Today."
"And?"
"I'll come to your feast next week."
"Is that all?"
"Who are you? The Wizard of Oz and I'm Dorothy? And 'if I ever go looking for my heart's desire, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with!'"
"Hahaha. But you didn't finish."
"I know. My work as a mother isn't finished. It will continue. Your task for me is to raise Deirdre with an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works."
"Yes. I chose Deirdre's mother very well. See you next week?"
"See you next week."
.
.
.
"One other thing."
"Don't worry. I'll be beside you tomorrow too."
"Even if I don't remember to talk to you?"
"Even when you refuse to talk to me. You'll never work alone. Because I love you."
[Title taken from this.]
George Washington was giving a talk behind the Governor's Palace at Williamsburg and opened the floor, um ground, for questions. One man tried to get the general to agree to Second Amendment gun rights. The general reminded the man that currently, in General Washington's present day, he, the general, had no idea what the Second Amendment was because the date was 1780.
But the general didn't let the man off the hook that easily.
As he pointed out, all men between the ages of 16 and 60 were required to serve in the militia. Also, due to inadequate supplies, men were required to bring their own muskets from home as part of their militia duty. These were muzzle-loaded muskets. Rifling, which increases the accuracy of bullets, did not become widespread until the 19th century. And pistols were flint-locks, used almost exclusively by the wealthiest in duels to settle gentlemanly arguments, and also lacked accuracy thereby almost guaranteeing survival of both parties to a duel. (Just don't tell Alexander Hamilton that.)
The man questioning General Washington walked away in disgust at not being vindicated.
What would the Second Amendment arguments look like today if we still had to live with the conditions in the late 18th century? All men from 11th grade to almost-retirement would serve in the militia, not just the 1% of today's men and women. A hunter would have to be very skilled to down anything. And only hedge-fund managers and corporate CEO's could afford a pistol.
You want to know my question of the general? "Did Mrs. Washington accompany you on every campaign as she did during the winter in Valley Forge?" Heads turned and eyebrows furrowed, their thoughts written on their faces, Martha Washington was at Valley Forge!?!?
The general looked at me, "Yes, she did. As did many women who accompanied their husbands."
We shared a knowing smile. It pays to know history.
[Title taken very loosely from this.]
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.]
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.]
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.
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?
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.
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.
The following is not original material. It was plagarized from Becca. Play along on your own blog if you like.
NICKNAMES: Yes, I have two. One my husband calls me. One my father took to his grave with him.
BIRTHDAY: The anniversary of the first atomic bomb that was dropped. Yep, that pretty much describes me, too.
HEIGHT: 5'10"
EYE COLOR: Hazel
HAIR COLOR: Red, strawberry blonde, titian, I'm not really sure
HANDED: Bats left, throws right
FROM: American by birth, Southern by the grace of God!
PETS: One dog, two cats
PERSONALITY: Leo
HOBBIES: genealogy, hiking, backpacking, reading
LIKES: How long do you have?
DISLIKES: See last answer.
FAVORITE ACCENTS: Coastal Georgia, South Carolinian Low Country, Cajun, Scottish
FAVORITE COUNTRY: Other than my own, Scotland
FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK: Friday, Friday!
FAVORITE DRINK: Old Fashioned, Dirty Martini with bleu cheese stuffed olives, sweet iced tea, seltzer water
FAVORITE FLOWER: Orange Gerbera daisies
FAVORITE FOODS: Soft-shell crab, beets, creme brulee, gazpacho
FAVORITE GIRLS NAMES: Caroline, Rebecca
FAVORITE NUMBER: 1
FAVORITE PLACE TO HANG OUT: My own backyard
FAVORITE SHOES: Anything with a heel over 3 inches high
FAVORITE SPORT: Tennis to play, Football to watch
THREE THINGS THAT SCARE ME
1. Snakes
2. Serpents
3. Reptiles without legs
THREE THINGS I'D LIKE TO LEARN MORE OF:
1. Arabic
2. Shuttle tatting
3. Rock climbing
*See Emily Dickinson.
Us versus them. Regardless of what the issue is. We'll take a side because being undecided is anathema to most people. Or so I have come to believe.
The office staff assistant attended the cross-state rival of my university. He always rags me for my choice of colleges. Last week I told him of a couple we know who are in a mixed marriage. She went to the cross-state rival; he attended the neighboring state school, still in the same football-great conference.
"Not only that, they're also a mixed marriage because he's a Democrat and she's a Republican."
"I could never date a Democrat."
"Look at Mary Matalin and James Carville."
"But how could anyone date a Democrat? Their moral standards are appalling. They have no moral standards at all."
I thought to myself: 'Really? Are you serious? I call myself a moderate Democrat. I've been married to one man, and only one, for 20 years. I have three daughters. We are all very active in our church, Girl Scouts, and the neighborhood. I'm active in the Junior League, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and my sorority alumnae chapter. Mr. Gaelic and I both served on the vestry at our church; I taught Sunday School; organized the teenage-equivalent of Vacation Bible School; Mr. G organized an overflow winter shelter for the homeless. Oh, and I stayed home to raise my children rather than abdicate the role of mother to a childcare provider or the nearest relative.'
At this point in the conversation my tongue was bleeding, which it had to if I want to keep my job.
I must be the most naive person on the face of the earth. Or else I'm that rarest of all creatures, one that has rarely been spotted in the last twenty years, leading many people to assume our extinction. I'm a person who will associate with both Jew and Gentile, Democrat and Republican, state college and cross-state college. I'm a person who asks campaign workers on election day to convince me why I should vote for their candidate (only done when I can find representatives of all candidates in one place and has driven all over town to find them). I'm a person who visited a mosque because I wanted to see firsthand what their worship is like. I'm a person who rooted for the... oh, nevermind... I never rooted for the cross-state rival. I'm not as independent as I thought I was.
It used to be that the word liberal meant open-minded. Now it's a pejorative for anyone too far to the left. Yet I know just as many left-of-center folks who are as stubbornly set in their ways as an equal number of right-of-center folks. That, to me, is not being open-minded. It's as closed-minded as the left considers the right.
So what are we rarest-of-the-rare independent creatures to do? Those of us who consider the whole of the situation without letting our prejudices weigh us down.
Hello??? Is there anybody out there? Is there anyone home?
