I'm a month into the "following a budget" thing, and life is different. I no longer wake up in a panic - will I be able to pay the rent, the electric bill, my student loan? Yes, I will. I know that because I know where my money is going, and I know there's enough.
As I grow a little more confident in my abilities, I'm noticing other changes. My bank statement is really short - there are no unplanned purchases on it. No quick trips to Target or "emergency" meals out. I have enough for the things I need, and a few of the things I want. Like right now, I'm munching on a snack of roasted almonds at my desk. I keep a big container of them in my desk now, so when I need an afternoon snack I'm not running to the vending machine for an 80-cent Milky Way bar. Although that does sound delicious ...
Anyhoo, the almonds are my choice. I planned ahead, I bought a vat of almonds, and I've got snacks for several weeks. Less spendy, and better for me. Funny how that stuff works out.
Little by little, I'm learning ... becoming who I'm supposed to be.
In other news, evidently I'm also supposed to be strong. I went to the gym on Saturday (Di came along - blast!) and we did strength training and cardio classes. I don't have a single muscle that isn't crying today. Not complaining, mind you, just a little ouchie and desperately in need of a massage. Volunteers?
So it's another week in Maggie's World, with a three-day fantastic vacation at the end. I'm thinkin' this is gonna be a good week.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Lists and plans
I love making lists and I love making plans. I love planning vacations almost as much as I love taking vacations, and vacations mean lists! Things to do, things to pack, things to eat ... I love it all.
So I'm taking a vacation. It's not the island getaway I wish I could have, but it's a little something lovely in the midst of a crazy year. There isn't enough money to whisk myself away to somewhere beautiful, and I've used up all my vacation time between surgery and other required appointments, so my vacation for 2009 is happening over Labor Day Weekend.
As soon as I get done with work on Friday, September 4, I'm getting in the car and pointing it North to Wisconsin. I'm torn about my destination, for sure. It would be wonderful to head South to Jacksonville and see the Rices and the Carlsons - including my favorite Marine - but I'm feeling the need to be selfish with my time, and spend most of it with just little old me. I need to unhook a little bit from the craziness in the world and ... just ... be.
So I'm heading to Lake Geneva. I'll be staying with my friend Amber, who has a great condo in the woods. If the weather cooperates, I'll spend my days lounging by the pool. If it doesn't, I'll spend them curled up inside with a good book. My plan is to turn off the phone, and tune in to me. I'll take walks, practice yoga, cuddle the dogs, visit the lake, swim, go to karaoke, eat some delicious food and take a long bath. Maybe I'll write, maybe I'll eat a mushroom burger, maybe I'll skip stones.
But no matter what I do, here's what I promise not to do: make a list. I'm not doing it. I really am unhooking, relinquishing my grip on plans and letting things happen as they will. If I forget to pack something, oh well. I can go a few days without underwear. If I forget to do something, it won't matter. It's just me and Amber, anyway ... no big deal. So, a week from today, off I'll go on my three-day vacation. I will miss you. I will really miss Ryan, who is only in from Quantico for a quick weekend visit, and Cindy, who will celebrate her birthday on September 7. I'll miss my biological family and my friends and my cat, but I think I'm gonna have a blast, anyway.
It's only a week away. I'm gonna try not to count the days.
So I'm taking a vacation. It's not the island getaway I wish I could have, but it's a little something lovely in the midst of a crazy year. There isn't enough money to whisk myself away to somewhere beautiful, and I've used up all my vacation time between surgery and other required appointments, so my vacation for 2009 is happening over Labor Day Weekend.
As soon as I get done with work on Friday, September 4, I'm getting in the car and pointing it North to Wisconsin. I'm torn about my destination, for sure. It would be wonderful to head South to Jacksonville and see the Rices and the Carlsons - including my favorite Marine - but I'm feeling the need to be selfish with my time, and spend most of it with just little old me. I need to unhook a little bit from the craziness in the world and ... just ... be.
So I'm heading to Lake Geneva. I'll be staying with my friend Amber, who has a great condo in the woods. If the weather cooperates, I'll spend my days lounging by the pool. If it doesn't, I'll spend them curled up inside with a good book. My plan is to turn off the phone, and tune in to me. I'll take walks, practice yoga, cuddle the dogs, visit the lake, swim, go to karaoke, eat some delicious food and take a long bath. Maybe I'll write, maybe I'll eat a mushroom burger, maybe I'll skip stones.
But no matter what I do, here's what I promise not to do: make a list. I'm not doing it. I really am unhooking, relinquishing my grip on plans and letting things happen as they will. If I forget to pack something, oh well. I can go a few days without underwear. If I forget to do something, it won't matter. It's just me and Amber, anyway ... no big deal. So, a week from today, off I'll go on my three-day vacation. I will miss you. I will really miss Ryan, who is only in from Quantico for a quick weekend visit, and Cindy, who will celebrate her birthday on September 7. I'll miss my biological family and my friends and my cat, but I think I'm gonna have a blast, anyway.
It's only a week away. I'm gonna try not to count the days.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The eye of the beholder
I struggle every day with body image. It goes back ages and ages, to when the earth's crust cooled and I was born. I've never felt comfortable in my skin. I've always been embarrassed by my looks - the whole of me, big head, big butt, jiggly thighs, abundance of chins, round shoulders, the loaf of French bread that sits atop my waist band, the face only a mother could love - and sometimes she had trouble. But it's me, and I've grown to accept it. I'm never going to be the stereotypical beauty, and over time I've found gratitude for that.
Sometimes it's a battle, though. A few weeks ago, I saw myself in the window while I was out to lunch with some of my co-workers. I had to change seats; I kept catching glimpses of myself out of the corner of my eye, and I just couldn't stand to look at myself. Then last week I went with Shakespeare while she tried on dresses for a wedding she's going to be in. Have you ever been to the wedding dress store? Mirrors and mirrors and mirrors. I had to focus on my friend, because every now and then I'd see me, and I just couldn't look. I feel prettier than the girl I see, and when faced with my own reflection, I'm shocked and sad. I'd rather not look.
And then, sometimes, there are moments of true appreciation, moments when I shock myself with acceptance and even (gasp!) love. Last night, after an hour of Ninja class (I'm back to using weights for the first time after surgery, and it felt awesome!) and an hour of salsa, I stayed for yoga. I was stretching over my left leg, grasping my ankle with my right hand, and I thought to myself, "That is a pretty foot." Now I've always liked my feet, and my ankles. There's a delicate beauty to them, and maybe there's something in the way that they carry me through every day that makes me appreciate them. But there I was, in yoga class, with my brain all open and mushy as often happens when I've stretched myself both physically and mentally, and the one thought that enters my head is that my foot is pretty.
I know it's just a foot. I know I'm a far cry from feeling as whole, complete and perfect as I intellectually believe I am. But in those moments, I am so grateful to see even the tiniest part of myself as beautiful. It's a small step, but isn't that what feet are for?
Sometimes it's a battle, though. A few weeks ago, I saw myself in the window while I was out to lunch with some of my co-workers. I had to change seats; I kept catching glimpses of myself out of the corner of my eye, and I just couldn't stand to look at myself. Then last week I went with Shakespeare while she tried on dresses for a wedding she's going to be in. Have you ever been to the wedding dress store? Mirrors and mirrors and mirrors. I had to focus on my friend, because every now and then I'd see me, and I just couldn't look. I feel prettier than the girl I see, and when faced with my own reflection, I'm shocked and sad. I'd rather not look.
And then, sometimes, there are moments of true appreciation, moments when I shock myself with acceptance and even (gasp!) love. Last night, after an hour of Ninja class (I'm back to using weights for the first time after surgery, and it felt awesome!) and an hour of salsa, I stayed for yoga. I was stretching over my left leg, grasping my ankle with my right hand, and I thought to myself, "That is a pretty foot." Now I've always liked my feet, and my ankles. There's a delicate beauty to them, and maybe there's something in the way that they carry me through every day that makes me appreciate them. But there I was, in yoga class, with my brain all open and mushy as often happens when I've stretched myself both physically and mentally, and the one thought that enters my head is that my foot is pretty.
I know it's just a foot. I know I'm a far cry from feeling as whole, complete and perfect as I intellectually believe I am. But in those moments, I am so grateful to see even the tiniest part of myself as beautiful. It's a small step, but isn't that what feet are for?
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Downward dog
I went back to yoga last night. It was the third hour of my Monday night workout. Amazing.
When I left the office, I didn't think I was up to a rigorous workout ... or any workout, for that matter. I just didn't feel like making any effort. Then I realized Alisa wasn't teaching Strike (the cool kickboxing class with weighted bars that makes me feel all ninja) so I went to hip-hop instead. In case you didn't know, I am a part of the rhythm nation. It was a tough dance that made me really really think, but I felt great dancing.
Followed that up with an hour of salsa/funk, which is always awesome. Donna is just amazing; her spirit fills the room. It just always feels amazing spend that hour moving and celebrating our ability to move.
And then there was yoga. It's been a really long time! In fact, I think the last time I practiced was when Racheal and I went to class on July 4, 2008, and then followed it up with a DVD up at the lake house last summer. I'm way out of practice, but I've gotta start somewhere ... and this was the class to do it. I attended with my dear friend Linda and her sister Lorna, and the three of us had a wonderful time. I left feeling relaxed and a little emotional, and really good that I'd done it. All weird cramps and lack of flexibility aside, it will be the perfect addition to my workout routine, and one I've been trying to do since January. Sometimes, it just takes me awhile.
Like our instructor said last night, it's not about being perfect. It's about being better. So every day, I'll try to do a little bit better. Not much more we can ask, now, is there?
When I left the office, I didn't think I was up to a rigorous workout ... or any workout, for that matter. I just didn't feel like making any effort. Then I realized Alisa wasn't teaching Strike (the cool kickboxing class with weighted bars that makes me feel all ninja) so I went to hip-hop instead. In case you didn't know, I am a part of the rhythm nation. It was a tough dance that made me really really think, but I felt great dancing.
Followed that up with an hour of salsa/funk, which is always awesome. Donna is just amazing; her spirit fills the room. It just always feels amazing spend that hour moving and celebrating our ability to move.
And then there was yoga. It's been a really long time! In fact, I think the last time I practiced was when Racheal and I went to class on July 4, 2008, and then followed it up with a DVD up at the lake house last summer. I'm way out of practice, but I've gotta start somewhere ... and this was the class to do it. I attended with my dear friend Linda and her sister Lorna, and the three of us had a wonderful time. I left feeling relaxed and a little emotional, and really good that I'd done it. All weird cramps and lack of flexibility aside, it will be the perfect addition to my workout routine, and one I've been trying to do since January. Sometimes, it just takes me awhile.
Like our instructor said last night, it's not about being perfect. It's about being better. So every day, I'll try to do a little bit better. Not much more we can ask, now, is there?
Monday, August 17, 2009
Hugs and accountability
So I'm two weeks into working within an actual budget. So far, it's worked out pretty well. It's not perfect, but it's a framework. Everybody's gotta start somewhere, right?
My friend Diane and I have agreed to look over each other's finances each month, to keep each other accountable and true to our goals. Our financial pictures are vastly different - Diane is a married mother of three (four if you count Justin). Diane and Justin own their home and manage all the financial responsibilities of being parents and homeowners. I'm a single renter managing to stay afloat. And yet, our goals are remarkably similar: build savings, create opportunities to travel, and cut unnecessary spending.
It can be a little scary to lay all the cards on the table, but Di and I have zero judgement of each other. We've given each other assignments and will reconvene in about a month to see how we're doing. I've begun to realize that this is pretty powerful stuff. It's been so long since I've even allowed myself to think of how I can make money work for me, I hadn't even considered that I could set goals and eventually achieve them. Sounds foolish, but there you have it.
I have to be honest, though. The best part of my day at Chez Rand was not working through the finances. It was either squishing Koen, the newest member of Clan Rand, or the Thin Mint blizzard Meat brought for dessert. Actually, the man went out for a Blizzard buffet - a Thin Mint for me and another for Di, plus a French Silk (holy crap it's good) and Tagalong for himself and for the rest of us to sneak bites of when he wasn't looking. But that baby! He let me hold him and squish him and chew on him all day. It's hard to take yourself too seriously, or get depressed about finances, when there's an endless supply of baby giggles.
So it was quite a day, both tough and refreshing. I feel strong, capable and loved. And I have an intense craving for another blizzard.
My friend Diane and I have agreed to look over each other's finances each month, to keep each other accountable and true to our goals. Our financial pictures are vastly different - Diane is a married mother of three (four if you count Justin). Diane and Justin own their home and manage all the financial responsibilities of being parents and homeowners. I'm a single renter managing to stay afloat. And yet, our goals are remarkably similar: build savings, create opportunities to travel, and cut unnecessary spending.
It can be a little scary to lay all the cards on the table, but Di and I have zero judgement of each other. We've given each other assignments and will reconvene in about a month to see how we're doing. I've begun to realize that this is pretty powerful stuff. It's been so long since I've even allowed myself to think of how I can make money work for me, I hadn't even considered that I could set goals and eventually achieve them. Sounds foolish, but there you have it.
I have to be honest, though. The best part of my day at Chez Rand was not working through the finances. It was either squishing Koen, the newest member of Clan Rand, or the Thin Mint blizzard Meat brought for dessert. Actually, the man went out for a Blizzard buffet - a Thin Mint for me and another for Di, plus a French Silk (holy crap it's good) and Tagalong for himself and for the rest of us to sneak bites of when he wasn't looking. But that baby! He let me hold him and squish him and chew on him all day. It's hard to take yourself too seriously, or get depressed about finances, when there's an endless supply of baby giggles.
So it was quite a day, both tough and refreshing. I feel strong, capable and loved. And I have an intense craving for another blizzard.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Red freakin' flags
The past week has been full of introspection. And yes, it's the same old song - how could I marry such a dolt? He's moved on to Wife #3 (yes, that's three, for those of you playing the at-home version of our game) and will likely repeat the same pattern of love and destruction with this one. The man is a creature of habit the likes of which I've never seen.
So what's a girl to do when faced with the removal of that final veil? Look back in gratitude, and wonder how she missed so many obvious red flags. Let's take a look.
Oral hygiene. He doesn't brush his teeth. Ever. Doesn't own a toothbrush, or at least he didn't. Made his gums bleed, he said. See the dentist, I said. It hurts, he said. After awhile, you get tired of trying. And, frankly, of kissing the bodily equivalent of a garbage disposal.
Roughing it. He didn't like camping. I love camping. I do it in a luxurious way - I have to have my pillow, and my air mattress, and showers and real toilets and an iHop within a drivable distance, but I love camping. I love listening to nature as I fall asleep. I love the sound of rain against the tent. I love the way the air smells. I simply love it. His idea of roughing it was a hotel without room service. Definitely not a good combination.
'til death. He never had anything nice to say about his first wife. Now I understand that he's not gonna be her biggest fan. Nor will he be mine, for sure. But he married her, for heaven's sake. There has to be some redeeming quality, some reason for making that commitment. I guess not, for him.
A girl's best friend. He didn't care that I didn't want a diamond. I hate diamonds. They're not rare. They do nothing but line the pockets of the DeBeers family. But he insisted, telling me his first wife never let him forget that he never gave her one. (She didn't, btw.) And what's worse, he insisted I have one, but he was more than willing to let me pay for it. What a charmer. (I wanted a sapphire. I will eventually buy one for myself.)
Pickiest eater ever. Okay, he was lactose intolerant. But he also didn't eat beef or pork. Do you realize how difficult it is to find food that has none of the above in it? How do you make dumplings without milk? Mac & Cheese? Turkey burgers only go so far, and don't even get me started on how lacking in flavor pulled chicken barbecue is. (Epilogue: Near "the end", he went to White Castle with Rice and I, and ate one of my sliders. I should've stabbed him in the eye with my plastic fork. And I hope he had the shits for a week.)
The Late Chris Rathunde. He couldn't ever get his act together to be out the door at a reasonable time. It's simple, really: figure out what time you have to be somewhere, how long it takes you to get there, and back it up by that amount of time. That's when you have to leave the house, unless you happen to run on CMR time. Oy. I run late sometimes, but it's not a habit. I respect my friends and family too much to keep them waiting.
Mouth breather. He can't breathe through his nose, and won't have a doctor look at it. Which means he breathes loudly, through his mouth, all the time. Sometimes he clicked, like an 8-track tape switching tracks. It kept me up at night until I started wearing earplugs. That offended him; I couldn't win.
It was just jewelry. I love my wedding ring. Yes, I said that in the present tense; it is a thing of beauty. Engraved on it in Hebrew is the verse from Song of Solomon: "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine." It is a beautiful symbol of a love I thought would last a lifetime. However, to me, it is still only a piece of jewelry. There were times I would take it off and forget to put it back on. I never felt any less married when I didn't have it on. I get where he was coming from, but I can't be convinced that this was a punishable offense. It's one of the first things he complained about to the latest Mrs. Chris Rathunde, in the 300 pages of instant messages I procured from his computer when he wasn't looking. And let's face it, at least I didn't destroy mine by slamming in in the door. Twice. Mine is at least still round.
I should've left him there. I bailed him out of jail. Twice. Once, in fact, I had to call a friend's mother to borrow the money because I didn't have access to enough cash to spring him. Traffic violations had piled up because he was living in Arkansas (hell, that should've been a red flag, too) and it wasn't like the Illinois cops were gonna come find him. So yeah, I bailed his sorry ass out and got the car out of impound twice before that SOB cleaned up his record. Not to mention the fact that I bought the damn car to begin with because he moved into my apartment with nothing but bad taste and wrinkled clothes. Shit, now I'm pissed at myself.
16 candles. Only once in the eight years we were together did he make my birthday special. And that includes the fact that we got married on my birthday. He rarely even got me a card. My first birthday with him, though, he was creative and sweet. There were cards everywhere. In my lunch bag; in my briefcase; in the bathroom; on the coffee maker; in my car at the end of my workday. It was a simple gesture, and it made me feel like a million bucks. I was hooked. I was also a dumbass.
Temper, temper. He didn't lose his temper a lot, but it was enough. He once barked at his mother, because evidently she asked for one too many favors. Well pardon me, I guess I'll move her furniture myself, then. And then there was the time when he grabbed my nephew by the collar and told him to stop complaining. "Knock it off," I believe, were his exact words. Alex looked petrified. The jackass messed with one of my chickens, and I never looked at him the same way again.
All that being said, there were good things about him. Probably still are. Up until now, at least, he had great taste in women. (Except for the young redhead at the Roosevelt U bookstore I'm pretty sure he banged. That's another pattern - boinking the help.) He made great bread. He never once questioned my intensely close relationships with other men. He laughed at my jokes and wasn't afraid to be silly. He made an effort to enjoy spending time with my friends. He was sometimes incredibly sweet. His first gift to me, the weekend we met, was a beautiful copy of Kahlil Gibran's "The Prophet." Right away, he knew how to wow me. Over time, he forgot. I can remember praying that his heart would one day turn back to me.
But that's not what happened, and that's probably a good thing. As my friend Chris Early told me during a recent visit, "Some people belong together. You guys just ... didn't." I think it was hard for him to say, but no less true. We just didn't. And if I'd paid any attention along the way, I would have figured that out long before his old friend from high school popped back into his life, walking away with his heart.
For the record, she can have it.
So what's a girl to do when faced with the removal of that final veil? Look back in gratitude, and wonder how she missed so many obvious red flags. Let's take a look.
Oral hygiene. He doesn't brush his teeth. Ever. Doesn't own a toothbrush, or at least he didn't. Made his gums bleed, he said. See the dentist, I said. It hurts, he said. After awhile, you get tired of trying. And, frankly, of kissing the bodily equivalent of a garbage disposal.
Roughing it. He didn't like camping. I love camping. I do it in a luxurious way - I have to have my pillow, and my air mattress, and showers and real toilets and an iHop within a drivable distance, but I love camping. I love listening to nature as I fall asleep. I love the sound of rain against the tent. I love the way the air smells. I simply love it. His idea of roughing it was a hotel without room service. Definitely not a good combination.
'til death. He never had anything nice to say about his first wife. Now I understand that he's not gonna be her biggest fan. Nor will he be mine, for sure. But he married her, for heaven's sake. There has to be some redeeming quality, some reason for making that commitment. I guess not, for him.
A girl's best friend. He didn't care that I didn't want a diamond. I hate diamonds. They're not rare. They do nothing but line the pockets of the DeBeers family. But he insisted, telling me his first wife never let him forget that he never gave her one. (She didn't, btw.) And what's worse, he insisted I have one, but he was more than willing to let me pay for it. What a charmer. (I wanted a sapphire. I will eventually buy one for myself.)
Pickiest eater ever. Okay, he was lactose intolerant. But he also didn't eat beef or pork. Do you realize how difficult it is to find food that has none of the above in it? How do you make dumplings without milk? Mac & Cheese? Turkey burgers only go so far, and don't even get me started on how lacking in flavor pulled chicken barbecue is. (Epilogue: Near "the end", he went to White Castle with Rice and I, and ate one of my sliders. I should've stabbed him in the eye with my plastic fork. And I hope he had the shits for a week.)
The Late Chris Rathunde. He couldn't ever get his act together to be out the door at a reasonable time. It's simple, really: figure out what time you have to be somewhere, how long it takes you to get there, and back it up by that amount of time. That's when you have to leave the house, unless you happen to run on CMR time. Oy. I run late sometimes, but it's not a habit. I respect my friends and family too much to keep them waiting.
Mouth breather. He can't breathe through his nose, and won't have a doctor look at it. Which means he breathes loudly, through his mouth, all the time. Sometimes he clicked, like an 8-track tape switching tracks. It kept me up at night until I started wearing earplugs. That offended him; I couldn't win.
It was just jewelry. I love my wedding ring. Yes, I said that in the present tense; it is a thing of beauty. Engraved on it in Hebrew is the verse from Song of Solomon: "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine." It is a beautiful symbol of a love I thought would last a lifetime. However, to me, it is still only a piece of jewelry. There were times I would take it off and forget to put it back on. I never felt any less married when I didn't have it on. I get where he was coming from, but I can't be convinced that this was a punishable offense. It's one of the first things he complained about to the latest Mrs. Chris Rathunde, in the 300 pages of instant messages I procured from his computer when he wasn't looking. And let's face it, at least I didn't destroy mine by slamming in in the door. Twice. Mine is at least still round.
I should've left him there. I bailed him out of jail. Twice. Once, in fact, I had to call a friend's mother to borrow the money because I didn't have access to enough cash to spring him. Traffic violations had piled up because he was living in Arkansas (hell, that should've been a red flag, too) and it wasn't like the Illinois cops were gonna come find him. So yeah, I bailed his sorry ass out and got the car out of impound twice before that SOB cleaned up his record. Not to mention the fact that I bought the damn car to begin with because he moved into my apartment with nothing but bad taste and wrinkled clothes. Shit, now I'm pissed at myself.
16 candles. Only once in the eight years we were together did he make my birthday special. And that includes the fact that we got married on my birthday. He rarely even got me a card. My first birthday with him, though, he was creative and sweet. There were cards everywhere. In my lunch bag; in my briefcase; in the bathroom; on the coffee maker; in my car at the end of my workday. It was a simple gesture, and it made me feel like a million bucks. I was hooked. I was also a dumbass.
Temper, temper. He didn't lose his temper a lot, but it was enough. He once barked at his mother, because evidently she asked for one too many favors. Well pardon me, I guess I'll move her furniture myself, then. And then there was the time when he grabbed my nephew by the collar and told him to stop complaining. "Knock it off," I believe, were his exact words. Alex looked petrified. The jackass messed with one of my chickens, and I never looked at him the same way again.
All that being said, there were good things about him. Probably still are. Up until now, at least, he had great taste in women. (Except for the young redhead at the Roosevelt U bookstore I'm pretty sure he banged. That's another pattern - boinking the help.) He made great bread. He never once questioned my intensely close relationships with other men. He laughed at my jokes and wasn't afraid to be silly. He made an effort to enjoy spending time with my friends. He was sometimes incredibly sweet. His first gift to me, the weekend we met, was a beautiful copy of Kahlil Gibran's "The Prophet." Right away, he knew how to wow me. Over time, he forgot. I can remember praying that his heart would one day turn back to me.
But that's not what happened, and that's probably a good thing. As my friend Chris Early told me during a recent visit, "Some people belong together. You guys just ... didn't." I think it was hard for him to say, but no less true. We just didn't. And if I'd paid any attention along the way, I would have figured that out long before his old friend from high school popped back into his life, walking away with his heart.
For the record, she can have it.
Monday, August 10, 2009
News from Updateland
My, how time flies. As of last Thursday, August 6, I've been divorced for one year. That also, coincidentally, seems to be the date my ex chose to marry his latest wife. The man has a whole lot of class. Unfortunately, it's all low.
I knew it was coming. I've asked those who know him well if he was planning wedding three, and nothing pointed to it, but it is his pattern, so it had to be in the works. Turns out, it was pretty much a secret from everyone. Most of his near and dear found out because his status on Facebook changed from "in a relationship" to "married," and his paramour's name changed from Cindy Deering to Cindy Deering-Rathunde. (Never fear; she will always be Judy the Ho to me.)
I thought I'd be more emotional when I heard the news, but what I felt was a sweet sense of relief. He is now well and truly gone from my life. He's someone else's problem now. And hopefully he's found the person who can bring him true happiness, someone who will never change from this moment on, because heaven forbid that life change a person. I'm reminded of the lyrics from Nickel Creek's song "Somebody More Like You," which seems to be what he's been looking for all along - someone more like him. My favorite passage goes like this:
I hope you meet someone your height
so you can see eye to eye
with someone as small as you
That's my wish for the man I once loved. Really ... I wish him all the happiness he deserves.
The care and feeding of the North American Maggie. Nail down the delicious food, folks, because if it's within my reach, I'm eating it. Swear to heaven, over the last three weeks I've been eating all the food that made me sick before I had the gallbladder out. If it comes dredged in butter, or in a cream sauce, or smothered in cheese or all three, I would like it, please. If it tastes good with hot fudge and whipped cream, I'll take a double scoop. So it's a damn good thing I'm back at the gym!
Hard to believe how quickly the body loses it's memory. After two weeks away, returning for the simplest cardio HURT! But it's not painful, really. It's just my body talking to me, telling me it's good to be moving again. And really, it is so good to have myself back. Now I need to lose the four pounds I've gained and get back on track!
Budgetary constraints. There's a certain amount of freedom that comes from knowing what's coming in, what's going out, and what I'm doing with what's left. I don't have an abundance of money, but I have enough. I will be able to meet my needs, and even some of my wants. I won't be buying any new fun stuff for awhile - I'll be knitting from my overflowing stash of yarn (but only after I finally finish Izzy's sweater!) and scrapbooking from my bottomless supply closet and mending or taking in the clothes that are already hanging in my closet.
I've pretty much resigned myself to a tough year, financially speaking. Just 12 months of very strict monitoring. 12 months to build good habits and become confident in my ability to manage my money. 12 months to begin anew. I'll keep you posted on my progress, in case you're interested or curious, and I look forward to seeing my financial health improve, much like my physical health has over the past two years.
That's about it from Maggie's World. Nothing else new or exciting, just the day-to-day ramblings of a girl who learns a little more every day, struggles sometimes and values her friends and family above all else. Except maybe a giant slab of cheesecake ...
I knew it was coming. I've asked those who know him well if he was planning wedding three, and nothing pointed to it, but it is his pattern, so it had to be in the works. Turns out, it was pretty much a secret from everyone. Most of his near and dear found out because his status on Facebook changed from "in a relationship" to "married," and his paramour's name changed from Cindy Deering to Cindy Deering-Rathunde. (Never fear; she will always be Judy the Ho to me.)
I thought I'd be more emotional when I heard the news, but what I felt was a sweet sense of relief. He is now well and truly gone from my life. He's someone else's problem now. And hopefully he's found the person who can bring him true happiness, someone who will never change from this moment on, because heaven forbid that life change a person. I'm reminded of the lyrics from Nickel Creek's song "Somebody More Like You," which seems to be what he's been looking for all along - someone more like him. My favorite passage goes like this:
I hope you meet someone your height
so you can see eye to eye
with someone as small as you
That's my wish for the man I once loved. Really ... I wish him all the happiness he deserves.
The care and feeding of the North American Maggie. Nail down the delicious food, folks, because if it's within my reach, I'm eating it. Swear to heaven, over the last three weeks I've been eating all the food that made me sick before I had the gallbladder out. If it comes dredged in butter, or in a cream sauce, or smothered in cheese or all three, I would like it, please. If it tastes good with hot fudge and whipped cream, I'll take a double scoop. So it's a damn good thing I'm back at the gym!
Hard to believe how quickly the body loses it's memory. After two weeks away, returning for the simplest cardio HURT! But it's not painful, really. It's just my body talking to me, telling me it's good to be moving again. And really, it is so good to have myself back. Now I need to lose the four pounds I've gained and get back on track!
Budgetary constraints. There's a certain amount of freedom that comes from knowing what's coming in, what's going out, and what I'm doing with what's left. I don't have an abundance of money, but I have enough. I will be able to meet my needs, and even some of my wants. I won't be buying any new fun stuff for awhile - I'll be knitting from my overflowing stash of yarn (but only after I finally finish Izzy's sweater!) and scrapbooking from my bottomless supply closet and mending or taking in the clothes that are already hanging in my closet.
I've pretty much resigned myself to a tough year, financially speaking. Just 12 months of very strict monitoring. 12 months to build good habits and become confident in my ability to manage my money. 12 months to begin anew. I'll keep you posted on my progress, in case you're interested or curious, and I look forward to seeing my financial health improve, much like my physical health has over the past two years.
That's about it from Maggie's World. Nothing else new or exciting, just the day-to-day ramblings of a girl who learns a little more every day, struggles sometimes and values her friends and family above all else. Except maybe a giant slab of cheesecake ...
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The heavy stuff
Life generally doesn't turn out according to plan. Sometimes it turns out better, sometimes worse, but it rarely turns out exactly the way we pictured it. It's easy when it turns out better. When loaning someone my car turns into a lifelong friendship, a week at the lake creates a family, gallbladder surgery allows for (occasional) decadent indulgence, vacations become lifetime memories and that unmarked packet of seeds turns out the most delicious tomatoes ever. The unexpected can be awesome.
It can also feel devastating. It can feel like more than you can handle. And after a few months of that, I think it's important to let you in on my big stupid secret.
The emotional fallout of my divorce was horrible. But once I healed (mostly) from that, the financial mess was even worse. After careful counsel with people I respect and admire, and after weighing all my options, I've filed for bankruptcy. I feel a little bit like General Motors, and probably just as hopeful.
I'm not proud of it. I've spent a large portion of the last few months ashamed. I have always believed that we should take responsibility for our actions, and paying our debts is part of that. I still believe that ... but there is just too much there and too little coming in to bridge the gap. I tried. I failed. And at this point, I can either chip away at the mountain well into my 80s, or I can bite the bullet, accept the consequences, and begin with a new, albeit tarnished, slate.
My fatal financial error came in trying to be a good ex-wife. I recognize that my ex can't hold all the blame, but when we parted ways, there were things I didn't consider - that I'd be essentially out of work for more than a year, and that when I found a job I would be earning considerably less than I once did. And so, in an effort to finally get something right in my relationship with this man, I accepted the lion's share of our debt. Huge mistake. One I never should have made, and one he never should have allowed me to. But what's done is done and I can't go back.
So this is the way I've chosen to move forward. I hope you can still respect me; I know it's taken me awhile to earn back my own self respect. This is not a decision I've taken lightly. I struggled, considered all my options, and chose the path that was the right move for me.
All that being said, my budget will remain tight, at least for a little while. I have to plan for life's indulgences. I'm working from a budget that has very little wiggle room, but is doable. I hope to replace my car (with something a little newer with fewer miles, but similar to what I currently drive) before the end of the year and am beginning to save for that. I'm a little frightened, because it's "do or die" time. I can't afford to screw this up, which is part of why I'm choosing to share this with all of y'all. The time to be secretive is in the past. This is where I'm at, and I have to acknowledge and accept it before I can move past it.
So anyway, that's the heavy news from my world. If you're reading this, there have likely been several times I've wanted to tell you, but it's just not the sort of thing that comes up in polite conversation. Pass the potatoes and oh, by the way, when I say I have no money, I mean I actually have less than no money. Oy.
It's a new start for me. I pulled my head out of the sand in March and began to face the music, and here I am. Whether you know it or not, your generosity of spirit and your faith in me has helped me to smile in those moments when the numbers say I'm worth more dead than alive. It's going to be tough, but I've done tough before.
Thanks for reading. Thanks for being there. Thanks for believing in me. I hope this doesn't cause you to think less of me, but I'm not going to hide the truth from people I care about. Well, anymore.
Ever forward ... tomorrow's a new day.
It can also feel devastating. It can feel like more than you can handle. And after a few months of that, I think it's important to let you in on my big stupid secret.
The emotional fallout of my divorce was horrible. But once I healed (mostly) from that, the financial mess was even worse. After careful counsel with people I respect and admire, and after weighing all my options, I've filed for bankruptcy. I feel a little bit like General Motors, and probably just as hopeful.
I'm not proud of it. I've spent a large portion of the last few months ashamed. I have always believed that we should take responsibility for our actions, and paying our debts is part of that. I still believe that ... but there is just too much there and too little coming in to bridge the gap. I tried. I failed. And at this point, I can either chip away at the mountain well into my 80s, or I can bite the bullet, accept the consequences, and begin with a new, albeit tarnished, slate.
My fatal financial error came in trying to be a good ex-wife. I recognize that my ex can't hold all the blame, but when we parted ways, there were things I didn't consider - that I'd be essentially out of work for more than a year, and that when I found a job I would be earning considerably less than I once did. And so, in an effort to finally get something right in my relationship with this man, I accepted the lion's share of our debt. Huge mistake. One I never should have made, and one he never should have allowed me to. But what's done is done and I can't go back.
So this is the way I've chosen to move forward. I hope you can still respect me; I know it's taken me awhile to earn back my own self respect. This is not a decision I've taken lightly. I struggled, considered all my options, and chose the path that was the right move for me.
All that being said, my budget will remain tight, at least for a little while. I have to plan for life's indulgences. I'm working from a budget that has very little wiggle room, but is doable. I hope to replace my car (with something a little newer with fewer miles, but similar to what I currently drive) before the end of the year and am beginning to save for that. I'm a little frightened, because it's "do or die" time. I can't afford to screw this up, which is part of why I'm choosing to share this with all of y'all. The time to be secretive is in the past. This is where I'm at, and I have to acknowledge and accept it before I can move past it.
So anyway, that's the heavy news from my world. If you're reading this, there have likely been several times I've wanted to tell you, but it's just not the sort of thing that comes up in polite conversation. Pass the potatoes and oh, by the way, when I say I have no money, I mean I actually have less than no money. Oy.
It's a new start for me. I pulled my head out of the sand in March and began to face the music, and here I am. Whether you know it or not, your generosity of spirit and your faith in me has helped me to smile in those moments when the numbers say I'm worth more dead than alive. It's going to be tough, but I've done tough before.
Thanks for reading. Thanks for being there. Thanks for believing in me. I hope this doesn't cause you to think less of me, but I'm not going to hide the truth from people I care about. Well, anymore.
Ever forward ... tomorrow's a new day.
Monday, July 27, 2009
As my world turns
Life's been crazy lately, what with trying to bounce back from surgery and trying to get back to "normal" life. Here's what's been happening lately:
I started back to work last Thursday, July 23. Office politics may kill me, and were made even worse by the fact that I really didn't feel quite ready to be back yet. I have a new mantra: "Do your job and keep quiet." Not easy for me, but necessary.
My Mac crapped out. I need to take it to the Genius Bar and see if they can pull anything off of it, so everything isn't lost. It's six years old and has worked pretty much non-stop in that time, so I'm not going to complain too loudly. Mike and Rae are graciously supplying me with a loaner to get me through until I can afford to replace it. I'll be going with an iMac next time, and I'll start squirreling money away for that as soon as the car is replaced.
As for the car, it's running fine, but we turned the 200,000 mile mark last week. I don't want to drive it through another winter; that would just be too much to ask of it. So sometime between the end of September and Thanksgiving, I'll be car shopping. I hope to replace the Jeep of Love with a similar, but newer, vehicle. I want something with the same engine, because that reliable little baby has run like a dream. I'm thinking 2003 or newer Cherokee or Wrangler, 4.0 liter inline six-cylinder, not yellow. Other than that, I'm easy.
I get nauseated really easy since the surgery. If I don't have a little food in my tummy, walking to the bathroom gives me motion sickness. It's weird.
I love Indian food. I'm new to it, and I don't think I like the super-spicey stuff, but I am really enjoying every bite. Trader Joe's has some terrific simmer sauces I can make at home, and their frozen naan is food of the gods. And yes, I think of James with every bite.
I spent all day yesterday at my dad's house. It was a beautiful day. I lounged in the backyard to get a little sun, something I haven't done in about 20 years. Dad is recovering pretty well from his knee surgery (he had the second one replaced about three weeks ago) and he's at the point now where he's ready to be running around but his knee isn't ready for that. Impatience, thy name is Glenn. We celebrated my sister Jenn's birthday, and her husband made lasagna. Wow ... just delicious. Is there anything that layers of pasta and cheese with a side of garlic bread can't cure?
Doctor says I can't go back to the gym for another week. I miss it, and my friends there, terribly. I think this weekend I will at least spend some time on a lounge chair at the pool. It's not exactly a workout, but it will at least get me back in the door!
That's it from me for the time being. What's new with you?
I started back to work last Thursday, July 23. Office politics may kill me, and were made even worse by the fact that I really didn't feel quite ready to be back yet. I have a new mantra: "Do your job and keep quiet." Not easy for me, but necessary.
My Mac crapped out. I need to take it to the Genius Bar and see if they can pull anything off of it, so everything isn't lost. It's six years old and has worked pretty much non-stop in that time, so I'm not going to complain too loudly. Mike and Rae are graciously supplying me with a loaner to get me through until I can afford to replace it. I'll be going with an iMac next time, and I'll start squirreling money away for that as soon as the car is replaced.
As for the car, it's running fine, but we turned the 200,000 mile mark last week. I don't want to drive it through another winter; that would just be too much to ask of it. So sometime between the end of September and Thanksgiving, I'll be car shopping. I hope to replace the Jeep of Love with a similar, but newer, vehicle. I want something with the same engine, because that reliable little baby has run like a dream. I'm thinking 2003 or newer Cherokee or Wrangler, 4.0 liter inline six-cylinder, not yellow. Other than that, I'm easy.
I get nauseated really easy since the surgery. If I don't have a little food in my tummy, walking to the bathroom gives me motion sickness. It's weird.
I love Indian food. I'm new to it, and I don't think I like the super-spicey stuff, but I am really enjoying every bite. Trader Joe's has some terrific simmer sauces I can make at home, and their frozen naan is food of the gods. And yes, I think of James with every bite.
I spent all day yesterday at my dad's house. It was a beautiful day. I lounged in the backyard to get a little sun, something I haven't done in about 20 years. Dad is recovering pretty well from his knee surgery (he had the second one replaced about three weeks ago) and he's at the point now where he's ready to be running around but his knee isn't ready for that. Impatience, thy name is Glenn. We celebrated my sister Jenn's birthday, and her husband made lasagna. Wow ... just delicious. Is there anything that layers of pasta and cheese with a side of garlic bread can't cure?
Doctor says I can't go back to the gym for another week. I miss it, and my friends there, terribly. I think this weekend I will at least spend some time on a lounge chair at the pool. It's not exactly a workout, but it will at least get me back in the door!
That's it from me for the time being. What's new with you?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Alone?
So the gallbladder is gone. To say its removal was a bit more intense than expected would be an understatement, although I am incredibly grateful that Bex went through all the wacky stuff so I didn't have to. When my primary care physician first suggested the surgery, she said I'd go in on a Friday and be back at work on Monday, so I figured ... three days of badness, then normal life. No worries.
This is not how it worked out.
Now, don't panic. I'm fine. It just wasn't the walk in the park I thought it would be.
So Patrick picks me up on Thursday morning. There is truly no better way to go to the hospital on a warm summer day than in a convertible Mustang. Seriously ... it was a great trip. We walk in and are practically whisked away to my little private room. We sit and talk and get caught up for several hours ... they're running behind. No big deal, Patrick's mom will come later and drive me home if need be.
Eventually, it's time to head to the OR. I'm a little petrified, and then the drugs start coming. Oh, blissful narcotics, how lovely you are. I left the room around 2:30, and was back by 4. By 5, they were ready for me to leave. Ma Farbo would drive me to my dad's house, because Doctor didn't want me alone overnight. Doc also didn't want me driving for a week. This was news to me, since I'd been planning to be back at work on Monday. Aging divorcee learns new skills.
I get to Dad's and can barely move at more than a slow shuffle. I think Dad thought I was falling apart. He and Kathie were incredibly sweet to me, Kathie running off to fill my prescription for painkillers and Dad fixing me ice cream. The man truly knows his daughter! I was in bed by 9:30.
And up about every half hour. Damn, they must've pumped me full of fluids at the hospital, because I could not stop with the peeing.
Friday morning I woke up and had breakfast with Dad, Kathie and Mike. I played tough, but I felt like doody. I sat, read magazines, tried not to fall asleep, and waited for Eric to pick me up. Finally I couldn't stand myself anymore and took a shower. It was good to be clean.
Eric arrived and I was on my way, after hugs from Dad and air-kisses from Kathie. When we finally got to Chez Mags, it took forever to get me up the stairs. Lord, everything hurt. Eventually, I made it, and headed straight for bed. Eric went shopping, made me snacks and dinner and watched TV with me and let me nap. By far, this was the toughest day. I was not one with my noggin, what with the Vicodin being more powerful than my own logic. I would start talking and then completely forget why. Getting up from bed hurt. Sitting on the couch hurt. Talking louder than a whisper hurt. And my poor friend stayed until midnight, until he was sure I was out of the woods.
Saturday morning, I woke up with only a little pain, and a strong sense of my head on my shoulders. This was new. So I only took Extra-Strength Tylenol and got through the entire day that way. It was wonderful to feel one with my own thoughts again! There were moments on Friday when I wasn't sure I would ever get my brain back. Anyhoo, I was visited by Di bearing food (and lots of it) and Shakespeare bearing my errands from Target, and it turned out to be a pretty stellar day. Nap a little, eat a little, think a little, heal a lot.
Sunday was more of the same. A visit from Cute Brian followed by Linda from the Gym made for zero boredom and a ton of happiness. Brian brought waffles (who can resist a boy who brings waffles?) and Linda showered me with delicious and beautiful things, including sunflowers and Trader Joe's Sea Salt Brownies. Seriously, do not knock them until you try them; they are ambrosia.
And today I've been on my own. Curled up watching television, doing a little writing, doing a little knitting, and doing a lot of napping. It's been a good day, and I've been thinking about something Eric said to me at one of those moments when, evidently, my head was working on Friday. "This is it," he said. "This is the first big thing post-Christopher. The thing that makes you realize that you're not alone. The thing that makes you realize you don't need him to make it through." And he's right. Throughout all of this craziness, I have not for one moment felt alone. Whether it was a visit or a phone call or a Facebook comment or a happy thought you've sent my way, I know you're out there, loving me. I know I'm not alone. In fact, I'm so much better than simply not alone; I am full of life and love and people who just won't let me forget that.
So even though for the moment I have boo-boos on my belly (and blisters surrounding them because I'm pretty much allergic to everything in the world) and am missing an organ, I'm still whole, complete and perfect, just as I am. In no small part because you're along for the ride.
This is not how it worked out.
Now, don't panic. I'm fine. It just wasn't the walk in the park I thought it would be.
So Patrick picks me up on Thursday morning. There is truly no better way to go to the hospital on a warm summer day than in a convertible Mustang. Seriously ... it was a great trip. We walk in and are practically whisked away to my little private room. We sit and talk and get caught up for several hours ... they're running behind. No big deal, Patrick's mom will come later and drive me home if need be.
Eventually, it's time to head to the OR. I'm a little petrified, and then the drugs start coming. Oh, blissful narcotics, how lovely you are. I left the room around 2:30, and was back by 4. By 5, they were ready for me to leave. Ma Farbo would drive me to my dad's house, because Doctor didn't want me alone overnight. Doc also didn't want me driving for a week. This was news to me, since I'd been planning to be back at work on Monday. Aging divorcee learns new skills.
I get to Dad's and can barely move at more than a slow shuffle. I think Dad thought I was falling apart. He and Kathie were incredibly sweet to me, Kathie running off to fill my prescription for painkillers and Dad fixing me ice cream. The man truly knows his daughter! I was in bed by 9:30.
And up about every half hour. Damn, they must've pumped me full of fluids at the hospital, because I could not stop with the peeing.
Friday morning I woke up and had breakfast with Dad, Kathie and Mike. I played tough, but I felt like doody. I sat, read magazines, tried not to fall asleep, and waited for Eric to pick me up. Finally I couldn't stand myself anymore and took a shower. It was good to be clean.
Eric arrived and I was on my way, after hugs from Dad and air-kisses from Kathie. When we finally got to Chez Mags, it took forever to get me up the stairs. Lord, everything hurt. Eventually, I made it, and headed straight for bed. Eric went shopping, made me snacks and dinner and watched TV with me and let me nap. By far, this was the toughest day. I was not one with my noggin, what with the Vicodin being more powerful than my own logic. I would start talking and then completely forget why. Getting up from bed hurt. Sitting on the couch hurt. Talking louder than a whisper hurt. And my poor friend stayed until midnight, until he was sure I was out of the woods.
Saturday morning, I woke up with only a little pain, and a strong sense of my head on my shoulders. This was new. So I only took Extra-Strength Tylenol and got through the entire day that way. It was wonderful to feel one with my own thoughts again! There were moments on Friday when I wasn't sure I would ever get my brain back. Anyhoo, I was visited by Di bearing food (and lots of it) and Shakespeare bearing my errands from Target, and it turned out to be a pretty stellar day. Nap a little, eat a little, think a little, heal a lot.
Sunday was more of the same. A visit from Cute Brian followed by Linda from the Gym made for zero boredom and a ton of happiness. Brian brought waffles (who can resist a boy who brings waffles?) and Linda showered me with delicious and beautiful things, including sunflowers and Trader Joe's Sea Salt Brownies. Seriously, do not knock them until you try them; they are ambrosia.
And today I've been on my own. Curled up watching television, doing a little writing, doing a little knitting, and doing a lot of napping. It's been a good day, and I've been thinking about something Eric said to me at one of those moments when, evidently, my head was working on Friday. "This is it," he said. "This is the first big thing post-Christopher. The thing that makes you realize that you're not alone. The thing that makes you realize you don't need him to make it through." And he's right. Throughout all of this craziness, I have not for one moment felt alone. Whether it was a visit or a phone call or a Facebook comment or a happy thought you've sent my way, I know you're out there, loving me. I know I'm not alone. In fact, I'm so much better than simply not alone; I am full of life and love and people who just won't let me forget that.
So even though for the moment I have boo-boos on my belly (and blisters surrounding them because I'm pretty much allergic to everything in the world) and am missing an organ, I'm still whole, complete and perfect, just as I am. In no small part because you're along for the ride.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The unmitigated gall!
Sometimes, it seems nothing goes smoothly. This is one of those times.
As you already know, since about last November my gallbladder and I haven't been getting along. I had scheduled surgery to have the sucker removed this Friday. I was nervous - hey, anesthesia is a scary thing - but I was pretty sure I'd be fine. It's a common operation, zip in, zip out, done. All was rosey in my world.
Until last Friday when the surgeon's office called. He's not available on the July 17; we can either make it July 16 or 24.
Great. Making arrangements wasn't easy in the first place. I have people taking off of work to take care of me, and now I have to re-arrange their schedules and my own. Thankfully, I have wonderfully flexible friends. But that's not where the headaches end. While I was on the phone with the surgeon, I asked them (for the second time) if I would need any pre-op testing to be done, and I was told the hospital would contact me but any testing would likely be done the day of surgery. It didn't seem right, but it's not like I was going to convince them otherwise.
Then I got the call from the hospital yesterday, confirming my surgery for Friday. No, I said, it's been rescheduled for Thursday. Well that will be fine, the OR is free, and as long as you've already had your blood work done ....
Wait, what?
Yeah, it should've been done last week or at the latest yesterday, in order for the results to come back in time for the re-scheduled procedure. And to top it all off, the referral I have from my primary doc is good for the admission date of 7/17 ... so before I let anyone cut into me, I figure I'd better get an updated copy, otherwise I really don't have a leg to stand on if the insurance questions anything.
Needless to say, I headed to Aurora this morning to have blood drawn and pick up a copy of the referral. Sounds like a simple thing, and it should've been, but the freakin' vampire who took my blood didn't believe me when I told her my veins can sometimes be challenging. Only after three tries and literal weeping (me, not her) was she able to get enough blood for the tests they need to run.
I am now out of patience. I look like a human pincushion, or a really messy addict. But my sister has assured me that on the day of surgery I'll get good drugs that will put me in a happy place.
As long as they can get the damn IV in, that is!
As you already know, since about last November my gallbladder and I haven't been getting along. I had scheduled surgery to have the sucker removed this Friday. I was nervous - hey, anesthesia is a scary thing - but I was pretty sure I'd be fine. It's a common operation, zip in, zip out, done. All was rosey in my world.
Until last Friday when the surgeon's office called. He's not available on the July 17; we can either make it July 16 or 24.
Great. Making arrangements wasn't easy in the first place. I have people taking off of work to take care of me, and now I have to re-arrange their schedules and my own. Thankfully, I have wonderfully flexible friends. But that's not where the headaches end. While I was on the phone with the surgeon, I asked them (for the second time) if I would need any pre-op testing to be done, and I was told the hospital would contact me but any testing would likely be done the day of surgery. It didn't seem right, but it's not like I was going to convince them otherwise.
Then I got the call from the hospital yesterday, confirming my surgery for Friday. No, I said, it's been rescheduled for Thursday. Well that will be fine, the OR is free, and as long as you've already had your blood work done ....
Wait, what?
Yeah, it should've been done last week or at the latest yesterday, in order for the results to come back in time for the re-scheduled procedure. And to top it all off, the referral I have from my primary doc is good for the admission date of 7/17 ... so before I let anyone cut into me, I figure I'd better get an updated copy, otherwise I really don't have a leg to stand on if the insurance questions anything.
Needless to say, I headed to Aurora this morning to have blood drawn and pick up a copy of the referral. Sounds like a simple thing, and it should've been, but the freakin' vampire who took my blood didn't believe me when I told her my veins can sometimes be challenging. Only after three tries and literal weeping (me, not her) was she able to get enough blood for the tests they need to run.
I am now out of patience. I look like a human pincushion, or a really messy addict. But my sister has assured me that on the day of surgery I'll get good drugs that will put me in a happy place.
As long as they can get the damn IV in, that is!
Friday, July 10, 2009
Paralysis
It happens, sometimes. That "stuck-in-a-rut" feeling that feels impossible to shake, when doing the things you know will make it better seem far too difficult to even try.
I've been that way with money. I used to manage it really well, and then I turned it over to my ex. When he left, it was like I just didn't know how any more.
I've been that way with people. When it's been awhile (years, sometimes) it can be hard to make that phone call, no matter how much I want to hear Julianne's voice at the end of the line.
And I've been that way with my health, and that's what petrifies me the most. It is so easy to slip back into my old habits, to let the comfort of a sedentary life lead me to time on the couch. It feels like paralysis, like I just can't do it. I can know beyond a shadow of doubt how much better I'll feel if I just get to the gym, or walk around town, or even vacuum really fast, but there I sit.
Yesterday was my first time back at the gym since June 30. That's almost two weeks, and for someone like me, that is not okay. I had my reasons, believe me. Last week the gallbladder spoke to me pretty loudly. I had a couple of days when only the Vicodin kept me from performing surgery myself. Never missed work (although I'm real happy I didn't get picked for a random drug test) but it was tough to get to the gym. Then it was 4th of July weekend, and I had lots of good food to eat and sleep to catch up on and fun to have. And then Monday, work came at me like crazy. Deadlines and blamestorming was the theme of the week, and I got caught in the crossfire. Un-fun. So I worked late Monday, which stretched into Tuesday, and by Wednesday I just wanted to go home and eat an entire pizza.
I could've done so many things differently. I could've tried taking a little walk when the gallbladder hurt, just to see if moving around helped at all. Hey, circulation is a good thing, right? I could've gone to the gym after work, regardless of how late I was stuck at the office. I could've shaken my groove thing on the elliptical or the treadmill instead of in class, since class and I couldn't coordinate our schedules. I could've done a lot of things, but instead I let myself wallow a little. I went home, ate delicious food, spent a lot of time in the bath. See, it's not like I spent my nights with my good friends Ben and Jerry; on the contrary, I still ate rather healthfully and deliciously. It was the moving my body that was missing.
So last night, I hit the gym again. Thursday night Salsa/Funk, surrounded by friends. In the middle of the last song (which incidentally helps us all tap into our inner pole dancer) it began to wash over me ... it's as much about working my soul as it is about working my body. I come here to sweat, and to get fed. So many good people, standing at the ready to shower one another with inspiration and encouragement, how could you not move? How could you not want to just let your body go and dance the hour away?
I'm not foolish enough to think that one night has put me back on track. And I'm a little nervous, because next weekend I have the whole surgery thing and that will require me to take things a little easier, at least for a few days. But I reminded myself of some important stuff last night: my connection to my friends (I love my John and Linda and Donna!) matters more than calories burned. The post-workout shower feels better than any other clean routine. And my body is meant to move.
So you have my word that I'm not gonna let paralysis take me over again. And when I feel it coming on, I'll call ya, or text ya, or e-mail ya. I'll let you kick me in the tail so one night doesn't turn into two weeks, because I know I'm worth it. And I know you think so, too.
I've been that way with money. I used to manage it really well, and then I turned it over to my ex. When he left, it was like I just didn't know how any more.
I've been that way with people. When it's been awhile (years, sometimes) it can be hard to make that phone call, no matter how much I want to hear Julianne's voice at the end of the line.
And I've been that way with my health, and that's what petrifies me the most. It is so easy to slip back into my old habits, to let the comfort of a sedentary life lead me to time on the couch. It feels like paralysis, like I just can't do it. I can know beyond a shadow of doubt how much better I'll feel if I just get to the gym, or walk around town, or even vacuum really fast, but there I sit.
Yesterday was my first time back at the gym since June 30. That's almost two weeks, and for someone like me, that is not okay. I had my reasons, believe me. Last week the gallbladder spoke to me pretty loudly. I had a couple of days when only the Vicodin kept me from performing surgery myself. Never missed work (although I'm real happy I didn't get picked for a random drug test) but it was tough to get to the gym. Then it was 4th of July weekend, and I had lots of good food to eat and sleep to catch up on and fun to have. And then Monday, work came at me like crazy. Deadlines and blamestorming was the theme of the week, and I got caught in the crossfire. Un-fun. So I worked late Monday, which stretched into Tuesday, and by Wednesday I just wanted to go home and eat an entire pizza.
I could've done so many things differently. I could've tried taking a little walk when the gallbladder hurt, just to see if moving around helped at all. Hey, circulation is a good thing, right? I could've gone to the gym after work, regardless of how late I was stuck at the office. I could've shaken my groove thing on the elliptical or the treadmill instead of in class, since class and I couldn't coordinate our schedules. I could've done a lot of things, but instead I let myself wallow a little. I went home, ate delicious food, spent a lot of time in the bath. See, it's not like I spent my nights with my good friends Ben and Jerry; on the contrary, I still ate rather healthfully and deliciously. It was the moving my body that was missing.
So last night, I hit the gym again. Thursday night Salsa/Funk, surrounded by friends. In the middle of the last song (which incidentally helps us all tap into our inner pole dancer) it began to wash over me ... it's as much about working my soul as it is about working my body. I come here to sweat, and to get fed. So many good people, standing at the ready to shower one another with inspiration and encouragement, how could you not move? How could you not want to just let your body go and dance the hour away?
I'm not foolish enough to think that one night has put me back on track. And I'm a little nervous, because next weekend I have the whole surgery thing and that will require me to take things a little easier, at least for a few days. But I reminded myself of some important stuff last night: my connection to my friends (I love my John and Linda and Donna!) matters more than calories burned. The post-workout shower feels better than any other clean routine. And my body is meant to move.
So you have my word that I'm not gonna let paralysis take me over again. And when I feel it coming on, I'll call ya, or text ya, or e-mail ya. I'll let you kick me in the tail so one night doesn't turn into two weeks, because I know I'm worth it. And I know you think so, too.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Policies
So yesterday at the office, we were provided with our Social Networking Policy. In it, we learn ...
"Employees are prohibited from using the name ... in any online social networking and blogging activities without express permission" from the undisclosed company for which I work.
Additionally, even while we are forbidden to name said company, we are prohibited from posting material that is "obscene, vulgar, defamatory, threatening, discriminatory, harassing, abusive, hateful or embarrassing to another person or entity."
So let me get this straight: I can't tell anyone where I work (which, incidentally, is not the CIA) but I also can't make fun of anyone or use the eff word? Seriously?
In an effort to comply, I have removed the name of the undisclosed company for which I work from this here blog and my social networking activities. But yikes, it seems a wee bit Big Brother-ish to me. Here's my favorite line in the policy:
"Employees have no right to absolute privacy when they post on a social networking site, regardless of where the employee accesses the Internet."
Except when they wrote it, it wasn't punctuated quite as well.
Not meaning to complain too much here. I still love my job. But isn't it enough that I occasionally pee in a cup for them? Doesn't my pride in my company preclude their fear that I might say "company name" and "did you see the way she tucked her skirt into her panties?" in the same body of work? These are the questions that keep me up at night. Those, and "Why is the cat standing on my chest?"
Hope my undisclosed company has an answer for that, too.
"Employees are prohibited from using the name ... in any online social networking and blogging activities without express permission" from the undisclosed company for which I work.
Additionally, even while we are forbidden to name said company, we are prohibited from posting material that is "obscene, vulgar, defamatory, threatening, discriminatory, harassing, abusive, hateful or embarrassing to another person or entity."
So let me get this straight: I can't tell anyone where I work (which, incidentally, is not the CIA) but I also can't make fun of anyone or use the eff word? Seriously?
In an effort to comply, I have removed the name of the undisclosed company for which I work from this here blog and my social networking activities. But yikes, it seems a wee bit Big Brother-ish to me. Here's my favorite line in the policy:
"Employees have no right to absolute privacy when they post on a social networking site, regardless of where the employee accesses the Internet."
Except when they wrote it, it wasn't punctuated quite as well.
Not meaning to complain too much here. I still love my job. But isn't it enough that I occasionally pee in a cup for them? Doesn't my pride in my company preclude their fear that I might say "company name" and "did you see the way she tucked her skirt into her panties?" in the same body of work? These are the questions that keep me up at night. Those, and "Why is the cat standing on my chest?"
Hope my undisclosed company has an answer for that, too.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Holiday week
This is one of my favorite weeks of the entire year. It ranks right up there with Christmas, and My Birthday Week. Independence Day, Fourth of July, the halfway point of summer ... good times, for sure.
It dates back to my childhood, when the neighbors would host a huge block party and everyone would come together for potato salad, relishes, deviled eggs and Toots' famous fruit salad. We'd graze all day long, play games on the grass and as the sun dipped into the horizon we'd light sparklers and shoot off fireworks while Mom played vinyl recordings of Sousa marches on the stereo, the speakers propped up in the windows so we could all hear.
As I got older, it became a time of road trips with friends or vacations with family. It was always different, but it was always wonderful. There is magic to this time of year, if you ask me. There was the time Kelly, Patrick, Kristi and I piled into Patrick's two-door Escort and followed a battery in the area surrounding Black Earth, Wisconsin. There was the weekend I met my ex, which was a great weekend even though it resulted in heart-shattering love. There was the blistering sunburn from a canoe trip that wouldn't end, Disney World with the family, and South Haven, Michigan with my family who isn't my family.
This year I'm staying home, curling up with friends, taking the train into Chicago and letting the magic happen. With each year, I get a little further away from the fragile girl who once loved an unworthy boy and get a little closer to the strong woman who can kickbox with the best of 'em and still cries at that one Folger's commercial where the older brother comes home from college at Christmas.
Last year at this time, Chris was filing the divorce papers. This year, I'm a happy divorcee, with so much love in my life I can't even begin to measure it. It's a holiday week, stretching out before me, waiting for me to dive in.
Sploosh.
It dates back to my childhood, when the neighbors would host a huge block party and everyone would come together for potato salad, relishes, deviled eggs and Toots' famous fruit salad. We'd graze all day long, play games on the grass and as the sun dipped into the horizon we'd light sparklers and shoot off fireworks while Mom played vinyl recordings of Sousa marches on the stereo, the speakers propped up in the windows so we could all hear.
As I got older, it became a time of road trips with friends or vacations with family. It was always different, but it was always wonderful. There is magic to this time of year, if you ask me. There was the time Kelly, Patrick, Kristi and I piled into Patrick's two-door Escort and followed a battery in the area surrounding Black Earth, Wisconsin. There was the weekend I met my ex, which was a great weekend even though it resulted in heart-shattering love. There was the blistering sunburn from a canoe trip that wouldn't end, Disney World with the family, and South Haven, Michigan with my family who isn't my family.
This year I'm staying home, curling up with friends, taking the train into Chicago and letting the magic happen. With each year, I get a little further away from the fragile girl who once loved an unworthy boy and get a little closer to the strong woman who can kickbox with the best of 'em and still cries at that one Folger's commercial where the older brother comes home from college at Christmas.
Last year at this time, Chris was filing the divorce papers. This year, I'm a happy divorcee, with so much love in my life I can't even begin to measure it. It's a holiday week, stretching out before me, waiting for me to dive in.
Sploosh.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Life in the tropics
Ahh, summer. Sometimes it seems to come overnight. Sometimes, it actually does come overnight.
See, a week ago, it was in the 60s. We had what felt like three months of April. Rain, chilly temps, and only an occasional bout of sunshine to lull us into a false sense of security. Then last week the mercury started to rise and BAM, summer slammed into us like the ball hits the fat kid in dodgeball. Our forecast? High 80s, low-to-mid 90s for two weeks straight. Don't know when it will break, because we can't forecast out that far. But I'm not complaining, seriously. I complain all winter long, and give up my bitching rights during the summer. I'm reveling in it.
Sure, I have no A/C in the car, but I can undo the duct tape and get some wind blowing while I drive. Sure, I can cool my apartment with one window air conditioner, even though I have a second one, because plugging both of them means I blow a circuit. Love me, love my wiring.
Anyway, so it's hot. Big deal, it's summer in Chicago - the perfect time to just shut up and enjoy it! And that's exactly what I'm doing.
Last weekend, I had a house full of love. Chris and Janie Early and their little spud Liam stayed with me for a few nights, and we had a blast. Didn't do much, honestly. Went out to breakfast, sat, talked, ate good food, sat and talked some more. My favorite activity with them is just the three of us adults and coffee. On their last morning with me, Janie got up, started the coffee, and brought me a cup. Such a simple, beautiful luxury - receiving coffee in bed from someone who loves me. I'm still smiling about it now.
I wasn't prepared for how empty my home would feel when they left. No more baby giggles, or stories to read, or conversations that flow into the night. They left a little love behind, though - scratch paper so I wouldn't need to write notes on coffee filters, ink for my printer because I was out, a rug to go by the litter box and an array of things that smell pretty. Maggie treats, really - things I wouldn't buy myself but make me smile every time I use, smell or see them. Good friends know that it's the little things that keep you smiling weeks after they leave.
Speaking of people I love, there's a lake house in North Carolina full of them! Clan Rice/Carlson/Bathje's annual beach sojourn landed in NC this year, to dovetail off of Mike and Rae's GeekCon and spend time with Grandma. Yes, I'm jealous. Yes, I miss them. Knowing they are all there, except for me, Chunk and Ryan makes me sad for me but happy that they're all there. And I know they'll keep posting photos and fun stuff as the week wears on, right? RIGHT!
And things continue to bump along in my life. I have a disgusting summer cold so I sound like I smoke three packs a day and ought to be at the senior center playing canasta. Still hitting the gym regularly, although I slowed down a little this week with the feeling like crap thing and all. My deal with myself, though, is that if i go on Saturday mornings and I do my strength training and cardio, I get as much time by the pool as I want. Hard work followed by luxury is a very good idea!
Long story short, life is grand, summer is wonderful and the only thing between here and perfection is being able to breathe clearly. But I'm sure that'll happen soon.
See, a week ago, it was in the 60s. We had what felt like three months of April. Rain, chilly temps, and only an occasional bout of sunshine to lull us into a false sense of security. Then last week the mercury started to rise and BAM, summer slammed into us like the ball hits the fat kid in dodgeball. Our forecast? High 80s, low-to-mid 90s for two weeks straight. Don't know when it will break, because we can't forecast out that far. But I'm not complaining, seriously. I complain all winter long, and give up my bitching rights during the summer. I'm reveling in it.
Sure, I have no A/C in the car, but I can undo the duct tape and get some wind blowing while I drive. Sure, I can cool my apartment with one window air conditioner, even though I have a second one, because plugging both of them means I blow a circuit. Love me, love my wiring.
Anyway, so it's hot. Big deal, it's summer in Chicago - the perfect time to just shut up and enjoy it! And that's exactly what I'm doing.
Last weekend, I had a house full of love. Chris and Janie Early and their little spud Liam stayed with me for a few nights, and we had a blast. Didn't do much, honestly. Went out to breakfast, sat, talked, ate good food, sat and talked some more. My favorite activity with them is just the three of us adults and coffee. On their last morning with me, Janie got up, started the coffee, and brought me a cup. Such a simple, beautiful luxury - receiving coffee in bed from someone who loves me. I'm still smiling about it now.
I wasn't prepared for how empty my home would feel when they left. No more baby giggles, or stories to read, or conversations that flow into the night. They left a little love behind, though - scratch paper so I wouldn't need to write notes on coffee filters, ink for my printer because I was out, a rug to go by the litter box and an array of things that smell pretty. Maggie treats, really - things I wouldn't buy myself but make me smile every time I use, smell or see them. Good friends know that it's the little things that keep you smiling weeks after they leave.
Speaking of people I love, there's a lake house in North Carolina full of them! Clan Rice/Carlson/Bathje's annual beach sojourn landed in NC this year, to dovetail off of Mike and Rae's GeekCon and spend time with Grandma. Yes, I'm jealous. Yes, I miss them. Knowing they are all there, except for me, Chunk and Ryan makes me sad for me but happy that they're all there. And I know they'll keep posting photos and fun stuff as the week wears on, right? RIGHT!
And things continue to bump along in my life. I have a disgusting summer cold so I sound like I smoke three packs a day and ought to be at the senior center playing canasta. Still hitting the gym regularly, although I slowed down a little this week with the feeling like crap thing and all. My deal with myself, though, is that if i go on Saturday mornings and I do my strength training and cardio, I get as much time by the pool as I want. Hard work followed by luxury is a very good idea!
Long story short, life is grand, summer is wonderful and the only thing between here and perfection is being able to breathe clearly. But I'm sure that'll happen soon.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Random accidents of kindness
I'm crazy.
But then, you already knew that.
It's been a little bit of a freak-out day, but I made myself take a step back and chill. There's lots of good stuff, too, in addition to the freaking, so let's learn to take the good with the not-so, okay
Okay.
The not-so: my gallbladder. But it's coming out, so no big, right? Well, one would think, but it's a bit of a logistical nightmare. See, my Patrick was going to pick me up and run me home afterward, but the surgery is scheduled for July 17 ... which just happens to also be the day he opens Guys and Dolls at the Paramount Arts Centre in Aurora. Very slim chance that he'll be able to get me home and get back to the theater in time for curtain.
So I've called in reinforcements - which I hate to do because I totally suck at asking for help - and a couple awesome people agreed to take the second shift on the Maggie Surgery Shuttle Schedule (not to be confused with the Space Shuttle Schedule; please don't send me that far away.) But here's where I got caught up in the vicious circle of dread (which is vicious and dreadful and, somehow, circular): I was never supposed to be here. I was never supposed to be weak or fragile or in need of someone's help. I'm the one who helps, not the one who needs.
This is one of those times when I curse the comfort I felt when I was married. I'd never have to worry about this stuff, because someone promised to care for me when I couldn't care for myself. And now I'm in a position where I feel like a burden to people who didn't sign on for this. When you go ice skating at age 16, or stay up talking until the sun comes up, you don't look at the person you're with and think, "hey, in 20 or 30 years, I'll be watching someone wheel her into surgery."
But that's where we are. We're in a place where things just aren't working out the way I thought they would, back when I used to play this movie in my head. Aging divorcee learns flexibility, right? Instead, I'm going to do my level best to just be grateful that I have friends who are so willing to help out, who don't even blink when I have a need that they can fill.
So you're on notice. On July 18 and 19, I'll be home. I might need something. I might just want you to check on me. I might need pancakes. So, you should feel free to stop by.
Now, on to the good: people. You amaze me. On Saturday at the gym, after the 8:15 class of Pam Hates Us and the 9:30 Salsa/Funk, Linda and I spent a little time talking to Donna. Donna is a bundle of energy. She's beautiful in every sense of the word. She personifies confidence. She's singularly ... Donna. So when she stopped me to tell me I remind her of her sister, because we have similar energy, enthusiasm and spirit, I was overcome. I'm just me, and most of the time I don't think that's anything to write home about. Turns out, there are people who don't agree. There are people who think I remind them of some of their favorite people.
Then, there are those to whom I am one of their favorite people. Take, for example, when my Wicked Step Mother emailed me earlier this week in a last-ditch effort to wrangle my ass to North Carolina. "Take the train to Springfield and we'll pick you up there," she said. "I'll even spring for the ticket." I cried like a baby when I emailed her back that I couldn't, work wouldn't let me off the hook, but I love that she wanted me there. I love that everyone in Clan Rice/Carlson/Bathje would move mountains if it would mean having me join them for Lake House II: the sequel. I also love that, unless it's planned for the week of my work's national conference next year, I will be there.
There are also those who have been there all along, save for a long-ish hiatus. My friend Eric and I were as close as two peas in a pod back in the early 90s, before my Second Act. But then I went back to school and built this new life and left a lot of the old behind. Some of it was easy to recapture - it's tough to stay clear of Kelly and Patrick for long - but others required Facebook to realign us as we're meant to be. And it became clear last Friday, sitting on the stage at the Geneva Underground Playhouse, following a hysterical night of sketch comedy ... we are still the people we've always been. Eric held court, surrounded by lovely artists (and me) and the snappy patter flowed. His little sister (and biggest fan) and I laughed and joked until our sides hurt. His wife and I traded barbs as if we've known each other for years. His friends treat me like one of their own. They share their peanut M&Ms and their leftover Chinese food with me. What could be better than that?
There are simple phrases people use with me, like "You've gotta cut that shit out," and "Stop apologizing for my choice to be your friend," and "Are you gonna eat that?" It all means "I love you" in the language of my friends. There are those who meet me for a night of theater or a morning of breakfast, who know it's fine to drop by and eat my food, who grill chicken and vegetables so I can eat and enjoy without worry, who let the wine flow freely, who sit with me in the dark, who call when the rescue a turtle from certain death, or for no reason at all ... and there are those who share their chocolate. They have no idea the profound effect they have on my life ... or at least they didn't until they read this.
It really is no accident, the manner in which your kindness has changed my life. My life is better because you are in it, and in the dark moments - both literal and metaphoric - you carry me through.
But then, you already knew that.
It's been a little bit of a freak-out day, but I made myself take a step back and chill. There's lots of good stuff, too, in addition to the freaking, so let's learn to take the good with the not-so, okay
Okay.
The not-so: my gallbladder. But it's coming out, so no big, right? Well, one would think, but it's a bit of a logistical nightmare. See, my Patrick was going to pick me up and run me home afterward, but the surgery is scheduled for July 17 ... which just happens to also be the day he opens Guys and Dolls at the Paramount Arts Centre in Aurora. Very slim chance that he'll be able to get me home and get back to the theater in time for curtain.
So I've called in reinforcements - which I hate to do because I totally suck at asking for help - and a couple awesome people agreed to take the second shift on the Maggie Surgery Shuttle Schedule (not to be confused with the Space Shuttle Schedule; please don't send me that far away.) But here's where I got caught up in the vicious circle of dread (which is vicious and dreadful and, somehow, circular): I was never supposed to be here. I was never supposed to be weak or fragile or in need of someone's help. I'm the one who helps, not the one who needs.
This is one of those times when I curse the comfort I felt when I was married. I'd never have to worry about this stuff, because someone promised to care for me when I couldn't care for myself. And now I'm in a position where I feel like a burden to people who didn't sign on for this. When you go ice skating at age 16, or stay up talking until the sun comes up, you don't look at the person you're with and think, "hey, in 20 or 30 years, I'll be watching someone wheel her into surgery."
But that's where we are. We're in a place where things just aren't working out the way I thought they would, back when I used to play this movie in my head. Aging divorcee learns flexibility, right? Instead, I'm going to do my level best to just be grateful that I have friends who are so willing to help out, who don't even blink when I have a need that they can fill.
So you're on notice. On July 18 and 19, I'll be home. I might need something. I might just want you to check on me. I might need pancakes. So, you should feel free to stop by.
Now, on to the good: people. You amaze me. On Saturday at the gym, after the 8:15 class of Pam Hates Us and the 9:30 Salsa/Funk, Linda and I spent a little time talking to Donna. Donna is a bundle of energy. She's beautiful in every sense of the word. She personifies confidence. She's singularly ... Donna. So when she stopped me to tell me I remind her of her sister, because we have similar energy, enthusiasm and spirit, I was overcome. I'm just me, and most of the time I don't think that's anything to write home about. Turns out, there are people who don't agree. There are people who think I remind them of some of their favorite people.
Then, there are those to whom I am one of their favorite people. Take, for example, when my Wicked Step Mother emailed me earlier this week in a last-ditch effort to wrangle my ass to North Carolina. "Take the train to Springfield and we'll pick you up there," she said. "I'll even spring for the ticket." I cried like a baby when I emailed her back that I couldn't, work wouldn't let me off the hook, but I love that she wanted me there. I love that everyone in Clan Rice/Carlson/Bathje would move mountains if it would mean having me join them for Lake House II: the sequel. I also love that, unless it's planned for the week of my work's national conference next year, I will be there.
There are also those who have been there all along, save for a long-ish hiatus. My friend Eric and I were as close as two peas in a pod back in the early 90s, before my Second Act. But then I went back to school and built this new life and left a lot of the old behind. Some of it was easy to recapture - it's tough to stay clear of Kelly and Patrick for long - but others required Facebook to realign us as we're meant to be. And it became clear last Friday, sitting on the stage at the Geneva Underground Playhouse, following a hysterical night of sketch comedy ... we are still the people we've always been. Eric held court, surrounded by lovely artists (and me) and the snappy patter flowed. His little sister (and biggest fan) and I laughed and joked until our sides hurt. His wife and I traded barbs as if we've known each other for years. His friends treat me like one of their own. They share their peanut M&Ms and their leftover Chinese food with me. What could be better than that?
There are simple phrases people use with me, like "You've gotta cut that shit out," and "Stop apologizing for my choice to be your friend," and "Are you gonna eat that?" It all means "I love you" in the language of my friends. There are those who meet me for a night of theater or a morning of breakfast, who know it's fine to drop by and eat my food, who grill chicken and vegetables so I can eat and enjoy without worry, who let the wine flow freely, who sit with me in the dark, who call when the rescue a turtle from certain death, or for no reason at all ... and there are those who share their chocolate. They have no idea the profound effect they have on my life ... or at least they didn't until they read this.
It really is no accident, the manner in which your kindness has changed my life. My life is better because you are in it, and in the dark moments - both literal and metaphoric - you carry me through.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tidbits
I've been hitting the gym as if my life depended on it these days. Back to lifting weights, and some pretty heavy cardio. Add to that the tremendous calorie burn I get from jumping to conclusions and I'll be buff in no time. But for the moment, I'm perpetually sore. I can't wait for Saturday's workout, though. At 8:15 a.m. I'll report to Studio One for Strictly Strength with Pam, who will kick my ass. Then at 9:30, Laura will teach Salsa/Funk, which will also kick my ass. Then, if the weather holds, I will put on my bathing suit and head out to the pool, where I will spend the rest of the day. Guess which is my favorite part of that plan!
I'm a little melancholy over missing the Rice/Carlson vacation this year. Last year was such an amazing experience ... really, I feel like I brought my very best self home after that trip. I know staying back is the smart thing to do, financially speaking, but that doesn't mean I won't miss being with some of my favorite people in the world! Please please please have fun on my behalf, guys! Eat great food, relax, read, squish the babies and love each other a little extra to make up for my absence.
My dad turned 80 last week, and his part was last Sunday (in case you missed my previous post.) I had a wonderful time sitting next to my cousin and catching up. My father is an extraordinary man. It was amazing to spend an evening with so many people who love him.
Yesterday, I met with the surgeon who will be taking out my gallbladder. The surgery isn't scheduled yet, but will probably be by the end of the week. Yes, I will let you know. I'm a little nervous, but I felt better when he said I will probably go home by the end of the day. I hate hospitals, so this is good news. Consider yourselves notified: I may need those of you in geographic proximity to check in on me, and/or bring me movies or books or love.
On January 20, I get to squish a two-year-old. My friend Chris and Janie and their adorable little guy, Liam, will be staying at the Bieritz Rathunde B&B for a few days. Back when Christopher and I lived in a studio apartment in Oswego, Chris and Janie stayed with us. It's funny to me how a home expands to allow in as much love as possible. I can't wait!
That's it from me. What's new with you?
I'm a little melancholy over missing the Rice/Carlson vacation this year. Last year was such an amazing experience ... really, I feel like I brought my very best self home after that trip. I know staying back is the smart thing to do, financially speaking, but that doesn't mean I won't miss being with some of my favorite people in the world! Please please please have fun on my behalf, guys! Eat great food, relax, read, squish the babies and love each other a little extra to make up for my absence.
My dad turned 80 last week, and his part was last Sunday (in case you missed my previous post.) I had a wonderful time sitting next to my cousin and catching up. My father is an extraordinary man. It was amazing to spend an evening with so many people who love him.
Yesterday, I met with the surgeon who will be taking out my gallbladder. The surgery isn't scheduled yet, but will probably be by the end of the week. Yes, I will let you know. I'm a little nervous, but I felt better when he said I will probably go home by the end of the day. I hate hospitals, so this is good news. Consider yourselves notified: I may need those of you in geographic proximity to check in on me, and/or bring me movies or books or love.
On January 20, I get to squish a two-year-old. My friend Chris and Janie and their adorable little guy, Liam, will be staying at the Bieritz Rathunde B&B for a few days. Back when Christopher and I lived in a studio apartment in Oswego, Chris and Janie stayed with us. It's funny to me how a home expands to allow in as much love as possible. I can't wait!
That's it from me. What's new with you?
Monday, June 8, 2009
The Ripple Effect
On June 2, 1929, a pebble was dropped into the ocean. That pebble produced ripple upon ripple, changing the earth forever.
That pebble had a name: Glenn William Bieritz.
Yes, it's true ... on June 2 of this year, my father became an octogenarian, which I think is Latin for "Dude who's been around for 80 years." He's seen a lot, my dad. He grew up mostly without a father, was captain of the football team AND played in the band, served in Korea, got his pilot's license, survived a divorce, helped my mother battle cancer once and win and a second time and lose, helped four daughters grow up, worked 46 years for the same company (the last 16 without a single sick day) and is my brother's best friend and caregiver.
Last night, about 80 of my dad's best friends gathered in Naperville to celebrate this man. Ten tables of people who, for one reason or another, love my dad. Each table told a story of how Glenn has touched their lives. There were those who've been adopted into the family, those whose houses he helped build, those who have looked to him for guidance and those who simply admire his faith. Everyone in that room has been changed because they have known my dad.
I am awestruck by him. He is not perfect, and has never required that others be. He has never judged me, and I am sure the same can be said of most everyone he's ever met. He is simply an amazing man.
He is the most generous person I know, in every way. He listens. He supports. He shares is inimitable spirit with anyone who will share theirs with him. He cares equally for everyone. He gives of his time, his talents, his experience and his wisdom to everyone, without reservation. That is just who he is.
My dad has often referred to me as a "free spirit." I haven't always been sure of what that meant, but I have always had the feeling that he means it as a compliment. This is a man who can disagree completely with my opinions, but still give me time to explain them. As the tree-hugging hippy among a more straight-laced family tree, still he never wavered in treating my beliefs with respect, listening to my point of view even while he thinks I'm, frankly, nuts.
I admire a great many people in this world, but none more than my father. If you have someone like Glenn Bieritz in your life - or if you're lucky enough to have the genuine article - you know as well as I do that the world is a better place because he's here. The world could use more like him.
This pebble in the ocean, this man admired by so many, is the finest man I have ever known. Happy birthday, Dad.
That pebble had a name: Glenn William Bieritz.
Yes, it's true ... on June 2 of this year, my father became an octogenarian, which I think is Latin for "Dude who's been around for 80 years." He's seen a lot, my dad. He grew up mostly without a father, was captain of the football team AND played in the band, served in Korea, got his pilot's license, survived a divorce, helped my mother battle cancer once and win and a second time and lose, helped four daughters grow up, worked 46 years for the same company (the last 16 without a single sick day) and is my brother's best friend and caregiver.
Last night, about 80 of my dad's best friends gathered in Naperville to celebrate this man. Ten tables of people who, for one reason or another, love my dad. Each table told a story of how Glenn has touched their lives. There were those who've been adopted into the family, those whose houses he helped build, those who have looked to him for guidance and those who simply admire his faith. Everyone in that room has been changed because they have known my dad.
I am awestruck by him. He is not perfect, and has never required that others be. He has never judged me, and I am sure the same can be said of most everyone he's ever met. He is simply an amazing man.
He is the most generous person I know, in every way. He listens. He supports. He shares is inimitable spirit with anyone who will share theirs with him. He cares equally for everyone. He gives of his time, his talents, his experience and his wisdom to everyone, without reservation. That is just who he is.
My dad has often referred to me as a "free spirit." I haven't always been sure of what that meant, but I have always had the feeling that he means it as a compliment. This is a man who can disagree completely with my opinions, but still give me time to explain them. As the tree-hugging hippy among a more straight-laced family tree, still he never wavered in treating my beliefs with respect, listening to my point of view even while he thinks I'm, frankly, nuts.
I admire a great many people in this world, but none more than my father. If you have someone like Glenn Bieritz in your life - or if you're lucky enough to have the genuine article - you know as well as I do that the world is a better place because he's here. The world could use more like him.
This pebble in the ocean, this man admired by so many, is the finest man I have ever known. Happy birthday, Dad.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Ten on Tuesday
The Say it's Your Birthday, or another trip around the sun
Today is my mom's birthday. I got her the same thing this year as I got her last year. It's funny ... my mom and dad's birthdays are exactly one week apart, and growing up I always remembered Dad's, because I always forgot Mom's. One year, when I was away at college, my sister Jenn called to tell me it would "beehoove me" to call my mother and wish her a happy birthday. But I haven't forgotten it once since she died. Something about the melancholy that makes me remember, I suppose.
Walk Like a Man, or a second helping of melancholy
Yesterday, my friend Eric's dad died. Eric is an old and wonderful friend who knew Maggie 1.0 ... the version before college, before marriage, before responsibility. And now we're back in each other's lives, and I'm able to offer him a spongey shoulder through what is certainly a tough time. It's the ultimate in paying it forward, I think. When I was losing Mom, Mike was there for me, having been through it before. And now, with that experience under my belt, I'm able to to offer some small measure of comfort, if for no other reason than because I understand a tiny bit what he's going through. I hate it. I hate watching people I love hurt over losing someone. I want to make it better, and I can't. I can just be here when the tears come, baking cookies and buying oranges and listening to the stories. This is what friends gear up for, after all. (For the record, the song title here is the Springsteen song, not Motown. Don't know it? Clicque vous the title. The song has always reminded Eric of his dad, the inimitable Ward Schwartz. It speaks volumes about the man he was.)
Walk Right In, Sit Right Down, or but it's not all sadness
Later on this week, my friend Emily will be staying with me for a few nights. She wants to move here from Champaign, and she's going to be up here looking for work and a place to live and stuff. I really enjoy having friends stay with me, because they leave a little of the love behind when we say goodbye.
Sleep Like a Baby, or an Early visit
Emily won't be my only houseguest, either! One of my favorite families, Chris, Janie and Liam Early from Oregon, will be here in June. I have never met Liam, but I know Chris and Janie are completely awesome so I can't imagine their two-year-old son being anything but! I can't wait to bake them cinnamon rolls and show them my town and play with Liam and soak up every bit of love the three of them have to offer. They are amazing people with beautiful hearts, and it has been far too long since I've seen them. June 20 can't come soon enough!
Stop and Smell the Roses, or plenty of joy to go around
This weekend is the art festival in my town, and it's always awesome. I'll be wandering around looking at things I can't afford and admiring the handiwork of incredible artisans. You should come visit! (Amber, this means you!) Then the following weekend, my cousin Laura is getting married and my father's 80th birthday shindig will be hoppin'. See? So much to celebrate. In the midst of that which scares us or makes us sad, there are always reasons to move forward.
Life Less Ordinary, or sometimes it turns on a dime
My favorite Marine, Second Lieutenant Ryan I. Carlson, was to report to The Basic School in Quantico, VA sometime this fall. October rings a bell. Plenty of time to allow the family to get used to the idea. Plenty of time for him to make me fettuccine Alfredo. Plenty of time for me to visit him in Champaign again before he headed out to begin his Real Life. But as luck would have it, the U.S. Marine Corps (and for those of you playing at home, the "s" is still silent) had other ideas. He will now report to Quantico on June 2. He's got everything he needs - the love of his family, the credentials of an officer, and a killer tattoo - but I'm still not quite ready to let him go. However, if I correctly remember a conversation he and I had about a month ago, this might well mean he'll be home for Christmas. Maybe that's a fair trade. At any rate, he's my brother, my friend and my Marine.
The Glamorous Life, or my day as a Beverly Hillbilly
So on Saturday, my friend Linda and I visited the Vernon Hills Lifetime Athletic Club, a branch of our gym. This facility, however, is uber-posh. Glass doors on the showers. Luxurious poolside setting. Three-story rock wall. Spa-like yoga studio. Seriously, I couldn't get over myself. And Linda and I took advantage of everything, sunning poolside on padded teak chaise lounges and looking quite like movie stars. We earned it - after all, we did two hours of cardio with Donna - but man, did we feel pampered. I will go back every chance I get!
Beach Baby, or tie-dyed skin
Speaking of the gym, I went on Sunday, too. Back to my "home gym" in Schaumburg, to lay by the pool and spend a little time with Shakespeare. It was only about 70 degrees, but the sun was still doing its thing, so I sprayed on the sunscreen. And proceeded to miss about half of my exposed skin. I look sort of ridiculous. I feel completely stupid. Note to self: be sure you're covered! Pink is not a "healthy glow."
Puppy Love, or oh, for the love of Jane
Shakespeare was puppy-sitting over the weekend, and now I'm in love with a puggle named Jane. Even though she peed on my foot and stuck her tongue up my nose, I find her irresistible. Sweetest puppy ever. She's back with her "real" family now, and I miss her.
Doctor, My Eyes, or yes, I've made the appointments
On Thursday I consult with the doctor about the gallbladder. I'm hoping to get that sucker out sooner rather than later, but we'll see. Then next week (on my dad's birthday) I have the mammogram. Annual joy, what fun! This is just me, being accountable. I'll let you know what I learn. And while I'm on the subject (again) of modern medicine, this Saturday my sister Jenn begins chemo. If anyone can kick leukemia to the curb, it's Jenn, but any happy thoughts you'd care to send her way would certainly be appreciated.
Today is my mom's birthday. I got her the same thing this year as I got her last year. It's funny ... my mom and dad's birthdays are exactly one week apart, and growing up I always remembered Dad's, because I always forgot Mom's. One year, when I was away at college, my sister Jenn called to tell me it would "beehoove me" to call my mother and wish her a happy birthday. But I haven't forgotten it once since she died. Something about the melancholy that makes me remember, I suppose.
Walk Like a Man, or a second helping of melancholy
Yesterday, my friend Eric's dad died. Eric is an old and wonderful friend who knew Maggie 1.0 ... the version before college, before marriage, before responsibility. And now we're back in each other's lives, and I'm able to offer him a spongey shoulder through what is certainly a tough time. It's the ultimate in paying it forward, I think. When I was losing Mom, Mike was there for me, having been through it before. And now, with that experience under my belt, I'm able to to offer some small measure of comfort, if for no other reason than because I understand a tiny bit what he's going through. I hate it. I hate watching people I love hurt over losing someone. I want to make it better, and I can't. I can just be here when the tears come, baking cookies and buying oranges and listening to the stories. This is what friends gear up for, after all. (For the record, the song title here is the Springsteen song, not Motown. Don't know it? Clicque vous the title. The song has always reminded Eric of his dad, the inimitable Ward Schwartz. It speaks volumes about the man he was.)
Walk Right In, Sit Right Down, or but it's not all sadness
Later on this week, my friend Emily will be staying with me for a few nights. She wants to move here from Champaign, and she's going to be up here looking for work and a place to live and stuff. I really enjoy having friends stay with me, because they leave a little of the love behind when we say goodbye.
Sleep Like a Baby, or an Early visit
Emily won't be my only houseguest, either! One of my favorite families, Chris, Janie and Liam Early from Oregon, will be here in June. I have never met Liam, but I know Chris and Janie are completely awesome so I can't imagine their two-year-old son being anything but! I can't wait to bake them cinnamon rolls and show them my town and play with Liam and soak up every bit of love the three of them have to offer. They are amazing people with beautiful hearts, and it has been far too long since I've seen them. June 20 can't come soon enough!
Stop and Smell the Roses, or plenty of joy to go around
This weekend is the art festival in my town, and it's always awesome. I'll be wandering around looking at things I can't afford and admiring the handiwork of incredible artisans. You should come visit! (Amber, this means you!) Then the following weekend, my cousin Laura is getting married and my father's 80th birthday shindig will be hoppin'. See? So much to celebrate. In the midst of that which scares us or makes us sad, there are always reasons to move forward.
Life Less Ordinary, or sometimes it turns on a dime
My favorite Marine, Second Lieutenant Ryan I. Carlson, was to report to The Basic School in Quantico, VA sometime this fall. October rings a bell. Plenty of time to allow the family to get used to the idea. Plenty of time for him to make me fettuccine Alfredo. Plenty of time for me to visit him in Champaign again before he headed out to begin his Real Life. But as luck would have it, the U.S. Marine Corps (and for those of you playing at home, the "s" is still silent) had other ideas. He will now report to Quantico on June 2. He's got everything he needs - the love of his family, the credentials of an officer, and a killer tattoo - but I'm still not quite ready to let him go. However, if I correctly remember a conversation he and I had about a month ago, this might well mean he'll be home for Christmas. Maybe that's a fair trade. At any rate, he's my brother, my friend and my Marine.
The Glamorous Life, or my day as a Beverly Hillbilly
So on Saturday, my friend Linda and I visited the Vernon Hills Lifetime Athletic Club, a branch of our gym. This facility, however, is uber-posh. Glass doors on the showers. Luxurious poolside setting. Three-story rock wall. Spa-like yoga studio. Seriously, I couldn't get over myself. And Linda and I took advantage of everything, sunning poolside on padded teak chaise lounges and looking quite like movie stars. We earned it - after all, we did two hours of cardio with Donna - but man, did we feel pampered. I will go back every chance I get!
Beach Baby, or tie-dyed skin
Speaking of the gym, I went on Sunday, too. Back to my "home gym" in Schaumburg, to lay by the pool and spend a little time with Shakespeare. It was only about 70 degrees, but the sun was still doing its thing, so I sprayed on the sunscreen. And proceeded to miss about half of my exposed skin. I look sort of ridiculous. I feel completely stupid. Note to self: be sure you're covered! Pink is not a "healthy glow."
Puppy Love, or oh, for the love of Jane
Shakespeare was puppy-sitting over the weekend, and now I'm in love with a puggle named Jane. Even though she peed on my foot and stuck her tongue up my nose, I find her irresistible. Sweetest puppy ever. She's back with her "real" family now, and I miss her.
Doctor, My Eyes, or yes, I've made the appointments
On Thursday I consult with the doctor about the gallbladder. I'm hoping to get that sucker out sooner rather than later, but we'll see. Then next week (on my dad's birthday) I have the mammogram. Annual joy, what fun! This is just me, being accountable. I'll let you know what I learn. And while I'm on the subject (again) of modern medicine, this Saturday my sister Jenn begins chemo. If anyone can kick leukemia to the curb, it's Jenn, but any happy thoughts you'd care to send her way would certainly be appreciated.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Summer volume
I sing a lot. It's what I do. Especially when I'm home alone (which is a lot), I tend to crank the tunes and let it fly. I'm not bad, actually. In fact, a dear friend recently said "you have the voice of an angel." And while I don't agree with that assessment, I do acknowledge that I know where the tune is, and generally I can carry it.
So last night when I got home from work, I opened all the windows, jumped in the shower, and afterward hung out in my towel for awhile, tidying up Chez Mags and rocking to the tunage.
Alicia Keys' "No One" came up on the rotation. I wailed. Again, it's what I do.
I have zero reservations about singing. I figure I am no worse than the thumping-bass-jackass in the hoopty driving in the next lane, so I tend to be unabashedly vocal when in the confines of my own home.
"No one, no one, no one ... can get in the way of what I feel for you ... "
Just as I'm finishing the song, I look out the window. There are two people across the street, staring up at my window. Either they're wondering who is begin tortured up there, or they're trying to figure out who's singing so loudly. I giggled, went to the window (again, clad only in my towel) and waved down to them. I refrained from taking a bow.
So consider this your fair warning: if you're wandering the streets of Arlington Heights on a warm summer day, I won't apologize for what you might hear. And if you really love me, you'll let me buzz you in so we can do a duet.
So last night when I got home from work, I opened all the windows, jumped in the shower, and afterward hung out in my towel for awhile, tidying up Chez Mags and rocking to the tunage.
Alicia Keys' "No One" came up on the rotation. I wailed. Again, it's what I do.
I have zero reservations about singing. I figure I am no worse than the thumping-bass-jackass in the hoopty driving in the next lane, so I tend to be unabashedly vocal when in the confines of my own home.
"No one, no one, no one ... can get in the way of what I feel for you ... "
Just as I'm finishing the song, I look out the window. There are two people across the street, staring up at my window. Either they're wondering who is begin tortured up there, or they're trying to figure out who's singing so loudly. I giggled, went to the window (again, clad only in my towel) and waved down to them. I refrained from taking a bow.
So consider this your fair warning: if you're wandering the streets of Arlington Heights on a warm summer day, I won't apologize for what you might hear. And if you really love me, you'll let me buzz you in so we can do a duet.
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