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The hall runner, the front and back indoor mats, and the bathroom rug have been pressed into service between the rugs on any exposed wooden floor. Baby came home from the hospital and can't walk well on slick surfaces. Chairs block the doorways to the kitchen, having long ago outgrown the need for baby gates. She is limited to only leashed potty breaks outside. No walks, no jumping, and NO licking of the incision site.
The never-ending yapping of the neighbors' dog reverberates in one ear. The drone of a television show insults the other. Vehicular traffic is constant. Baby tries to sleep but whimpers and whines for lack of a comfortable position.
If she were healthy, she would be heading to the farm for the day. It may be just as well that she must stay in the city. Someone needs to stay to apply ice packs periodically, assist with potty breaks, stretch her legs muscles. Mostly, she is my excuse to spend the afternoon napping rather than scraping up floor tile and aiding Mr. Gaelic by holding facia boards in place under the eaves while he nails the fresh wood to the outside of the cabin. For a rare weekend, we will be at our suburban home rather than our country home.
Every weekend since Thanksgiving, we've been working on fixing up the cabin which had been neglected for the better part of 15 years. Combined with the end-of-the-year flurry of activity at both Mr. G's and my jobs, exhaustion has set in. Thanks in large part to Wednesday's unscheduled adventures.
Part of me wants the escape to the quiet and dark of our hidden valley. Part of me wants the comfort of my familiar bed. Once the cabin has been refurbished, I won't have to choose. By then, Baby should be able to jump into the back of the truck. And the only noise that will interrupt our silence will be the neighbor's cows who have wandered up to the devil's rope separating our land from his.
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.
He didn't seem interested in what the tourguide had to say. The earphones covered his ears, but whether the volume was up is another story. In his hands was his iPhone, thumbs tapping away at a game on the screen. He didn't hear the gentleman approach him. He didn't know anyone was talking to him until the gentleman touched his arm.
"Hi, I'm Congressman X. How would you like to join me and my staff on a Dome Tour?"
The boy backed away, probably only hearing "Hi, I'm Congressman X..." before thinking he was in trouble for doing something he wasn't supposed to. The boy found his mother in the crowd of tourists and quickly accepted the offer to climb to the top of the Capitol dome with seven other people he had never met.
It's the equivalent of 18 stories. Most of the tour is on old cast iron staircases. The first stop is on the windowed balcony just above the frieze. After a quick stop to look at the frieze up close and the Civil War graffiti scratched on one of the windows, the stairs lead inside the dome to the balcony just below the Apotheosis of Washington. Everyone is warned not to drop anything over the railing.
From the Apotheosis, it's a quick climb to the top of the dome. The door opens to a small walk just below the statue of Freedom. It's a beautiful 360 degree view. Magnificent on a clear day. Much better in the spring or fall than the summer or winter.
Standing outside at the top of the dome, the boy says that it is his first trip to the nation's capitol. What a story he'll have to tell his friends when he returns home!
All because there was an extra space available on the Dome Tour and the congressman didn't want it to go unfilled.
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.]
If ever there was a day when this gal needed some Shania Twain, it was today. My horrid habit of eating the ice from my drinks caused a filling to crack. The dentist said it was in need of a crown. My first crown. No one told me exactly what to expect.
The appointment was just after the dentist's office opened. The idea was to go straight from there to my office. My nice pashmina protected my arms and shoulders from the chill in his office while the heating ramped up.
Barely after reclining in the chair, he stuck a huge needle in my gum. "Little sting." Little sting, my ass. Those needles weren't that big before. When did they get so big?
But the anesthesia worked. My lip and tongue tingled until they felt as large as a lemon. By that time, the tingling had subsided and there was no feeling. That's when the worst of the whole procedure began.
It's that smell. Like burning flesh. Like hair caught in a candle. And it doesn't stop. Because he just keeps on and on and on until my tooth is ready for the temporary crown.
Woah, woah, woah. Temporary? You mean I have to come back for more? Heaven help me.
And THEN... the anesthesia wears off. Can someone just hit me over the head with a bat and knock me out until morning? Somehow, miraculously, the end of the workday arrived.
On the drive home, the day was cooling into evening. But, hey! If I can stand the pain in my mouth, I sure as hell can stand a little chill. The convertible top went down, the seat heater went on, and the pashmina wrapped around my head and shoulders to keep my hair from tangling in the wind. Throw on some shades and I'm ready for my closeup, dahling.
Yesterday's work day was thirteen and a half hours long, not including drive time. Is it any wonder when eight o'clock in the evening rolls around that I'm studying the inside of my eyelids? Surely there's got to be a way to stay awake for the late news without using toothpicks to prop open my eyes.
[Title taken from this.]
Spending 14 years as a full-time mother spoils a person. No boss to answer to, no office politics, self-determined schedules. Ah, what a life!
My duck feathers are losing their oils. It's getting harder for things to roll off my back. I've noticed that my jaw is clenched tightly during the day and doesn't completely relax while at home. Perhaps some football player can help me pick out a mouth guard to protect my teeth.
Who knew a duck had teeth?
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.]
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?
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.]
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.]
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.]
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.
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.
Two words. Boombox scene. Okay here's another two words. Lloyd Dobler. Do you know the reference?
Swooning over John Cusak and a boombox was part of coming of age in the '80s. Who wouldn't give her right arm to have the man she loves serenade her with Peter Gabriel outside her window? Come closer and I'll tell you a secret.
We would still give our right arms for a serenade outside our windows.
Most often, rather than being serenaded, we have relationships without such drama until the flame goes out. The disappointment can be felt whenever a man leaves us. Or at least that's the way it feels to me.
What's odd is that feeling of loss and disappointment is rearing its head in my life again. No, it's not Mr. Gaelic. What's weird is feeling a major loss because the Legislative Director in my office quit. Our relationship is strictly professional. But he's the rock in the office. The sure foundation of my professional life. My boat has come unmoored and I feel adrift.
*Title inspired by this.
There has been no exercise regimen in my life since Christmas. No ballet. No swimming. No free weights. No Pilates. Nada. Nil. Nothing. Zip. Zero.
But my doctor and my health coach (she comes with the health care plan at Mr. Gaelic's office) want me to exercise to help reduce my cholesterol. It's above the normal range. Plus my LDL cholesterol is too high and my HDL is too low.
The health coach calls me every three weeks to discuss my plan. The first homework was to come up with a plan to exercise. The next homework was to start implementing the plan. My plan, it turns out, was overly ambitious. It fell flat just two days into it. Actually it fell into the couch halfway through the 15-minute exercise DVD along with my assertions of "I'm gonna die. I can't breathe. She's trying to kill me."
Today's plan was to take a nice slow-paced bike ride along the bike trail into the city. The problem was all the rain last night created a very humid morning. Riding next to the river and the low-hanging fog made it all the worse, bordering on Amazonian-rain-forest humidity.
It wasn't until the bike route turned away from the river that the perspiration on my arms, and tummy, and back, and forehead, and you get the picture, began to dry. By the time I reached the office garage, it was like riding on a nice spring day. No more feeling like a draught horse tied to a plow.
Sixteen hours! In one day!
Yep, that's right. My day began on Friday morning at 8:30 a.m. It ended at 12:30 a.m. Saturday. The airline reservations were confirmed at 12:15 a.m. This is how work weeks creep above 60 hours. With early mornings (like Tuesday at 7:30) and late nights (like tonight).
I'm about to do an impression of a bear during winter. My cave-bed is calling. There's nothing on my calendar until church on Sunday morning. Of course, there's always the Sunday 5:00 p.m. service. It would allow for several more hours of hibernation.
