Starting from scratch

Baby steps. I'm taking baby steps.


A woman I know once wrote "Starting from scratch" as her Facebook status. I thought it was a mysterious yet very telling statement. For some reason, it resonated with me.


As I try to resume my blogging, I'll just take baby steps. If I could figure out how, I rename this entire blog, "Starting from scratch."

Photobucket took over!

My account was inactive for 90 days, so Photobucket decided to take over? WTF? And I lost my wonderful Pixels by Pixie template!

Schadenfreude rules

Happy Friday.
Yes, it's pathetic, but sometimes I just can't help myself. Schadenfreude rules, baby. Schadenfreude rules!

And then the lights went out

As my friend Nancy says, 'Seven days without power is six and a half days too long".

Last Sunday, while the wind whipped the trees in our yard into dangerous contortions, we held our breath, hoping that one of those old trees wouldn't come down and land on the house.

And then the lights went out. It was fun for a minute or two. The kids gathered flashlights and candles and improvised a "survival kit." That evening, we played Sorry by candlelight and watched "Joe Dirt" on our portable DVD player. We had fun "roughing it", for a minute or two.

Then Monday came. The wind had wreaked havoc all over the city. Schools and businesses everywhere were closed. Generators endlessly growled throughout the neighborhood. It was an adventure, and it was sort of fun. For about a minute, maybe two.

By Monday evening the houses across the street had power. We were sure to be next. Monday turned to Tuesday, then Wednesday. There were still over a half-million people in central Ohio without power.

On Thursday we were told that there was a 95% chance our power would be restored by 11:59 p.m. Sunday evening. Sunday! Seven days after the storm. Seven days is way longer than a minute or two.

The laundry piled up. The carpet needed vacummed. The milk was sour. School was closed three days in a row. Every Gameboy and iPod in the house was out of battery, leaving the kids bored and cranky and completely on my nerves.

Sunday evening came, and power -- glorious power -- was restored. It was a long week. And it wasn't fun even for a minute or two.

How one knows she's getting old

Today I realized that I've crossed over from "older gal" to "old lady."

Here's how I knew: upon getting dressed this morning, I realized that I am more frequently letting comfort win over style. On a regular basis, I'll know something looks bad or silly or utterly awful, yet I still wear it due to sheer comfort or practicality. I'm like the old lady who wears the plastic rain hat or the grandpa whose polyester slacks are too short.

I'm like the man on vacation who wears socks with his sandals on the beach. Black socks.

I've taken to wearing these litte peds with my loafers (peds are like the little socks at the shoe store you use when you are trying on shoes, only they're not disposeable).


These peds stick out, they're ugly, and they unmistakeably qualify me as an old lady.

But they are very comfortable and without them, my feet and shoes smell awful. Okay, so the shoes themselves aren't all that hip either but they've got great arch supports, and do you know what a flat sole does to my heel spurs? Heavens to Betsy!

Fall will bring you all that you want

My friend Cyndy commented on my last post (and yes, I am well aware that post was in April).

Cyndy said, "Fall will bring you all that you want."

Well, it's Fall.

For the first time ever, I spent all summer at home with my kids. We did a whole lot of 'nuthin, and it was great. I especially enjoyed all of our lazy mornings sleeping in and my not having to be a drill seargent to get them all up, dressed, fed and on their way.

My youngest son went off to kindergarten this week; my middle son to 3rd grade, and my oldest son started high school. High school!

Back in February when I lost my job, I promised myself that I wasn't going to just jump into another company where I'd again end up a cog in the machine...in a job where I had no real pride or passion for what I was doing. I wanted to find something where I would feel I was making a difference, and ultimately doing something for the greater good.

And I meant it. But time wore on and my severance monies began to dwindle. I started to wonder if I was being unrealistic.

Throughout the summer I had a few leads. I went on some interviews. It was depressing. All I seemed to find were jobs in mega-corporations, writing the sort of stuff that wasn't really going to impact or change anyone's life.

I began to face facts: It's nice to have high aspirations for changing the world and all, but it's also nice to pay the mortgage.

And then, Fall.

The day before yesterday, on the very same day my kids went to school, I had two interviews. the first was for a company that outsources call center operations (read: ESL telemarketing) for large clients. The work would be documenting their processes and procedures so they can become compliant for security certifications. 'Nuff said.

The second interview was at Nationwide Children's Hospital in their Childhood Cancer Research Center. Without getting too metaphysical, let me just say that the moment I stepped out of the parking garage and into the lobby I knew that the job was exactly what I had been looking/hoping for. And then when I interviewed with the director, I was absolutely certain .

Long story short: within hours, both companies offered me a job. The job at the first company would be contract for six months and then they would hire me as a full time employee. The Children's job would be a short term contract with no guarantee of permanent employment. And it would pay quite a bit less than the other.

I start my new job at The Research Institute for Childhood Cancer at Nationwide Children’s Hospital on September 8th.

Cyndy was right about Fall.

Well, ONE of us has a job!

And the good new is, it ain't me. (Yet.)

Woohoo!

Double Whammy Kick in the Ass

Last month, I lost the job I've had for the past 11 years to "corporate downsizing". It was expected. The particular corporation I worked for has been downsizing for FIVE YEARS (I'm not even exaggerating -- which okay, I admit I do sometimes). I've made it through FIVE YEARS of Thursdays (they always do the slashing on Thursdays) of saying goodbye to friends and I've watched them pack up their stuff and do the proverbial "perp walk".

Only this time it was me. And I wasn't sad or surprised or even upset in the least. Really, I was ready. I had calculated how much money I'd get in my severance package and just how long I could push being unemployed before it started to cause issues with our finances at home. I figured I could squeeze out the summer with my kids and then start looking in the fall. Not too shabby.

My plan would have worked out perfectly had my husband - across town at the job he's had for the last eight years - not lost his job on THE VERY SAME EFFING DAY.

When I called to tell him, he paused for a moment before telling me his bad news. And right then, my thought process went all stream of conciousness and probably sounded something like this:

"This does not happen to normal people ... this is some serious bad luck .... crap, now I'm not going to get the attention and pity I deserve, because he's going to be all crybaby about losing his job and get drunk all weekend while I have to be the responsible one ... double crap, I'm now going to have to spend way too much freakin' quality time with my husband.

And then me, being all supportive and wifely and positive, pretty much shrieked at him, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME."

After the initial shock wore off, we were able to see the humor in it. Right now I can't think of any of the hundreds of funny things we've found amusing about being in this situation, so you'll have to trust me on that. But hey, dual unemployment is funny.

It seems like we've been busy, but the day goes by so quickly -- much more quickly than it ever did at work. We're looking for jobs. John is coaching second-grade lacrosse. We went to Florida for Spring Break; spent a week at my sister-in-law's beach cottage (it was warm and sunny and the water was gorgeous). Yesterday, John power-washed our deck and today he cleaned the garage. Now, if I can get a TV cabinet built and a screen porch on our deck before he finds a job, I'll swear this setback was divine intervention.

John had two interviews this week and one looks especially positive. Keep your fingers crossed.
Good night.

"Writing"

Found this photo on my new favorite blog.

The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks seriously cracks me up. People send “pictures” of signs that use gratuitous quotation “marks” to hilarious “effect”.

----------------

I'm a blogger with the idea that I shouldn't post a blog entry unless I have
some deep, meaningful thing to say or unless I have a funny story to share. I abhor reading blogs that are just one incessant blah blah blah about pretty
much nothing but the excruciating minutae of the writer's day-to-day life. And when I say day-to-day, I really mean up-to-the-minute drivel about nothing. They ate spaghetti ... had to wait an extra 15 minutes at the dentist ... the Kitty piddled on the carpet again … and on and on. (I'm not referring to the blogs of anyone who regularly visits here.)

I've been reading Madeleine L'Engle. She wrote more than 45 books, but if you haven't read any of her works or if you just need a bit of inspiration, read Madeleine L'Engle Herself: Reflections on a Writing Life. Sometimes when you read a great writer's words about writing, you just want to forget writing altogether and take up ping-pong instead. But L'Engle makes you want to start writing immediately, and to write with more passion and dedication than ever before.

So, I think I realize now that there must be some sort of "in-between" amidst those daily regurgitation blogs and the type of posts I want to write. L'Engle has shown me that though I've felt in the past few months I haven't had anything worthwhile to say, in reality I've really had way too much to say.

"Inspiration usually comes during work, rather than before it." --Madeline L'Engle

Good Lord, it's December!

I've been a bit out of sorts the past coulple of months. Haven't talked to my friends, haven't written in my blog (which is very much like talking to my friends), haven't even started to shop for Christmas. Is it December? What happened to November?

Everything is just a little off.

I've tried to put my finger on it. I've sort of tried to anyway -- but like everything lately, I tried half-heartedly. I've not done things I wanted to do, I've let friends get out of touch, I've missed out on auditions I had looked forward to and prepared for for months.

I never want to do anything. I have to make myself do everything, even fun things with my boys. Sometimes I can make myself get started and hope the desire will catch up to me.

To make a long and not-so-interesting story short (you can thank me later), things are still off kilter but I'm working on getting things back on track.

So here I am, trying to tell you all -- my blog friends -- that I'm back and ready to try again. It's funny, there are friends here in the blog-world whom I only know through blogging, but in some ways, I communicate more with them than my real-world ones. And since we tend to bare our souls a bit more --and way more indulgently-- here in the blog world, those ties are unbelieveably precious.

Some friends -- people like Gail and Cyndi and Mikey -- I've known for years and only wish that the business of life would allow us to spend more time together. But I know they're there and sometimes our blogs are our only constant connection. I love knowing that I can visit with them everyday or so through their blogs.

Others -- people like Jeremy and KC -- I don't really "know" in the traditional sense, but I feel I know intimately because of what they've shared in their blogs. I remember when I met Jeremy at an audition -- I just had to hug him because I felt I had known him forever; our blogs had established our "friendship".

I don't know what I mean to say tonight, other than that I've been "gone" from my blog, and "away" from my own life for awhile, too.

I'm coming back.

Friday Foto: 8th Grade Humor

My 8th grade son changed the wallpaper on our computer to this:


I thought for sure it was an edited image until I checked the West Virginia Mountaineers roster. #92 is indeed Johnny Dingle and #93 truly is Scooter Berry .

It's immature and so 8th grade boy silly -- but you just go ahead and try not to laugh!

The big lie

My husband is a little bit pissed at me. He tries to hide his irritation, but that's impossible for him, because you see, he's a big fat baby. And have I mentioned how needy he is? Geesh.

Now, I'm not one to go on about things (I'm really not), but he needs to take a tough pill and shut up already.

As wives go, I'd say I'm okay. I mean, I'm not the best looking gal out there, and I'm not always willing to drop everything to wash his socks or perform other wifely duties (if you know what I mean -- and I think you do), but I did BEAR HIS THREE CHILDREN, the last of which was WITHOUT AN EPIDURAL OR ANY MEDICATION OF ANY SORT because he just had to find a closer parking spot and stop in the gift shop for a pack of gum.

Why is he pissed at me? Why? You wanna know why?

Because I'm nice. People think I'm nice. Honest to God, that's what the man is cranky about.

He says our neighbors, the teachers, the principal, my theatre friends and the lady at Kroger all think I'm a nice person.

Oh, and his mother thinks I'm nice, too; and she thinks I'm the best thing that ever happened to him. And he's sick and tired of hearing about it.

See, I'm not always the nicest person in the world, and it's usually my husband who sees that not-so-nice side. But isn't that part of that whole "for better and for worse" thing?

It all came to a head last night.

His mother stopped over with a big casserole dish of macaroni and cheese -- at the precise moment husband was pouring himself a bowl of Life cereal. For dinner.

He used the opportunity to set his mother straight about me: "Do you see what a wonderful wife she is? Look, I'm eating cereal for dinner."

His mother replied with a lengthy dissertation about how hard I work and how difficult it is to keep a house, work full time, be a mother of three boys and still be expected to cook dinner every night. She finished her lecture with, "And you need to do more around here; she's a great mother and you are lucky to have somone so nice."

Right then, I think I saw a vein in his forehead I've never noticed in sixteen years of marriage.

Later, as I sat in bed attempting to read the newspaper in peace, he tried to extend an olive branch by starting a neutral conversation.

Husband: Did you see so-and-so at the soccer game?
Me: No, but I heard him.
Husband: Cheering for the kids?
Me: No, he was standing right behind me going on and on about all the events and activities they have to go to this week. Who the hell cares that their daughter is in ballet and it's at the same time as little Johnny's piano lesson, which ends just in time for karate? He just droned on and on throughout the entire game in that annoying voice of his about his exceptionally talented kids and their precious activities.

There was a lengthy pause.

Husband: I wish all the people who are constantly telling me how sweet and nice my wife is could hear these things. I really do. You are not a nice person.
Me: Nope.

After I finished the paper and turned off the light, he tried again.

Husband: Hey. You tired?
Me: A little.
Husband (scooting closer) : Wanna talk?
Me: Okay.
Husband (scooting even closer) : Mmmm.
Me: Hey! I thought we were going to talk!
Husband: Yeah, but I thought it would be nice to...
Me: (rolling over) : Yeah, well I'm not a nice person.
Husband: Nope.

Friday Foto: Just sayin'.

Just sayin'.

Happy long weekend, everyone!

For my friends heading to the OCTA (Ohio Community Theatre Alliance) conference: break a leg, and have fun.

I'll be thinking of you; can't wait to hear how it all turns out!

On being an inspiration

My next door neighbor and I are good friends.

Anne and I are surrogate sisters, I guess. She lost her youngest sister to suicide nearly a year ago, and I lost my only sister eight years ago to a car accident. So, even though we are very different (my sister and I were opposites in just about every way, too) and we don't spend a lot of time together, there's an underlying understanding that we care about each other and we'll always be there for each other.

The months of the past year have been awful for Anne. She's struggling with her sister's death, trying to cope with the complicated combination of grief, pain and anger. She's swimming in a sea of thick, suffocating mud. Some days seem utterly impossible.

I know how she feels. I know what it's like to wake up and just want to go back to sleep forever. I know what it's like to want to scream at anyone who will listen. I know what it's like to walk through Kroger with unexpected tears streaming down your face just because you caught a glimpse of your sister's favorite cereal.

I know that living with heartache really does mean that sometimes your heart aches.

Anne is very public about her grief and how she's struggling, and I think that's very good. She talks to me. She talks to her husband. She talks to her counselor, other neighbors, her children. And I have to think that every tear that is shed, every memory uttered, brings her closer to
learning to live healthily and happily in a redefined world. A world without her sister.

I'm not/wasn't so open about my grief. Somewhere along the line -- before my sister died, and even before my brother died, I learned to cope with life's sorrows by swallowing them deep down and burying them. It was all I could do, really. It was the only way I knew to get myself up out of the corner where I huddled and be a wife and mother and daughter and friend.

And people just seemed to like the fact that I was doing so well accepting the tragedies I'd faced -- and with such courage and grace.

It was just easier for me that way.

Which makes me feel just a little bit uncomfortable when Anne tells me and others that on her darkest days, I am her inspiration. When she says that, I want to confess that I shouldn't be her inspiration because I haven't ever really dealt with the losses I've faced. My sister and brother died just two years apart and then my mom died right after that too; there just was
no way to deal with it all, so I stuffed it away.

But I don't tell Anne that because I want to be strong for her. She needs me to be strong. I'll do anything for her and I'll be anything she needs me to be. My friend - my surrogate sister - needs to get through these dark days and I'm going to be there for her.

And if she needs me to be her inspiration, then by God, I will.

I realize that the ball of hurt and anger I've swallowed can't stay inside forever. My friend Gordon wrote about swallowing grief in one of my favorite essays, ever.

I'll paraphrase, but it goes something like this:

There, in the pit of your stomach, grief becomes an emotional bezoar, knotted and tortured and matted with undigested sorrow. But grief will not be denied. Sorrow will not go away but will remain in your belly, a tumor that no doctor can feel.

And someday you will have to cough that fucker up.

And when that happens for me, Anne will know it. Maybe by then she will be in a place where she can help me wade through that sea of suffocating mud, and help me learn to live healthily and happily in a redefined world.

Maybe, just maybe, Anne will be my inspiration.

After all, that's what sisters are for.

_________________________________________________

Friday Foto: This isn't very, um, professional.

Made me laugh!

I was going to title this post "Only in America" but it turns out this is a London-based company. Cracked me right up. I'm just so tempted to call them just to hear someone cheerily answer, "Good Morning. Stiff Nipples , how can I help you" or, "Hello, Stiff Nipples! Ready when you are!"

Stay cool, dear friends! Keep that AC crankin'!

Sand Dollar Memories

Every time we walk along a beach
some ancient urge disturbs us
so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments
or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers
like the homesick refugees of a long war.
Loren Eiseley

As we walked the in the sand our first night at the beach, I noticed broken sand dollars dotting the sand everywhere I looked. Beautiful, large sand dollars had washed onto the beach, but must have broken as the tide tried to sweep them back out to the sea.

As we enjoyed the evening air and the mixture of melancholy and inspiration that only the seashore brings, I was taken back to a time when I was a girl, visiting the same coast.

I had forgotten how enthralled I had been with collecting sea shells, and how I considered finding a sand dollar the best treasure of all.

Every day that summer years ago, I'd scan the printed tides tables for the precise hour and minute of low tide, and then force my grandparents to adjust our plans so that I could be on the beach, searching for treasures.

But I don't remember seeing so many broken sand dollars when I was there as a child. I only remember searching the beach at low tide and coming away with beautiful treasures.

Like those days long ago, on each day of this recent vacation I woke my two youngest boys at dawn's low tide. We'd find our flip flops, don our hats, and tiptoe out of our hotel room to scour the beach like paupers searching for food.

Our morning ritual made me wistful about my children and the memories they'll someday have - not only about this vacation - but their childhood memories in general. It occurred to me that while there are many childhood experiences we adults vow we'll never allow our own children to experience, there are other things that we feel our children must experience or somehow their childhood days just won't be complete.

I found that ironic as I walked along the foggy beach each morning with my boys zig-zagging beside me in the sand.

The funny thing is, I wasn't a very happy child. As a kid I encountered some fairly earth-shattering experiences (I mention this only to illustrate a point) and yet I have a lot of trouble remembering details about any one of those bad things that happened to me. Just as I don't remember so many broken sand dollars along the shore.

But if asked about my childhood days at the beach, a trip to visit my favorite aunt in Madrid, or treasured trips to the movies with my older cousins, I remember it all with great detail and with sincere passion.

I hope my children remember our vacation and our mornings together searching for sand dollars.

I hope they remember the closeness we shared those mornings - and not the complaining they did when I woke them too early.

I hope they remember the excitement of looking to see if anyone else was out there as early - and not my grousing about putting on hats.

I hope they remember the aroma of the morning sea air and the feel of the cold, wet sand under their feet.

I hope they remember a mother who scooped them up and embraced them out there next to the sea, holding them a little too tight and a little too long.

I hope they remember searching the beach at low tide and coming away with beautiful sand dollars, and I hope they too forget seeing the broken ones along the way.

Vacation!

(W)Holes is over. I was going to say, "(W)Holes closed on Saturday" but that just sounded weird.

(W)Holes was a grand experience and I won't even try to tell you all how good it felt to laugh and play with those people. I gotta say -- we were a funny bunch, we were. My God, I haven't laughed that hard in a really long time.

From Cyndy's "Oscar" to the infamous "DI, YOU WERE MARRIED? HOW LONG WERE YOU MARRIED?" and rubbernecking at the "Botox Bar"...it was really, really fun. And of course, since "there is no room for cattiness in theatre" I'll (ahem) quit right now.

And the show closed just in time, because we five are headed to the sea. Several months ago, my enterprising husband acquired some very, very, cheap air tickets (Skybus rocks, by the way) to Seattle.

We're leaving Monday and will be gone for eight days. Eight glorious days in a place not my house and not Ohio. I say "glorious" NOW, because I'm oh-so-selectively not thinking about the reality of traveling with a needy husband and three almost as needy children.

Four and a half hours on a plane, then eight days in cramped hotel rooms and driving around in a (gasp! forgive me!) minivan. God help me. Please God, I beg you to help me. And God, while I have your attention, I'm really sorry about the minivan.

But it's all going to be worth it because after a night in Seattle, we're going to the sea.

First, we're going here and staying here. So, despite the air travel and the rental transportation, the trip definitely has possibilities.

We'll spend several nights at Cannon Beach, and then move on to Ocean Shores, Washington, where we're staying here.

I'm looking forward to (and will need, no doubt) the therapy-by-default that comes with being at the ocean. Both of our hotel destinations (excepting Seattle) are at oceanfront hotels. That was my only wish when we made the plans.

I need it. I'm tired. I'm emotionally walking on thin ice these days. I need to be at the sea with my family. All annoying five of us -- together. The little ones whining, the teenager griping, my husband harping at them for whining and griping.

And me - just sitting back, reading a grocery-store novel.

We'll go to see Mt. Rainier and Mount St. Helens, and Olympic National Park. We may go on a whale watching excursion and we're also going to maybe see a show here.

But the highlight of the trip for me will be going Roslyn, Washington to see this and have a beer here. (Roslyn is where the best TV show OF ALL TIME was filmed and from what I hear, the town is pretty much exactly the same as when the show was in production.)

So, I'm off to the Pacific Northwest to stand at the edge of the sea, explore, climb, hike, and be free with nature.

In a minivan.

God help me.

Eleven Super Important Things You Should Know

1. I can't fill in the "Title" box for this post. It's supposed to be titled "Ten Super Important Things You Should Know". Hence, the title change.

2. The first weekend of (W)Holes is over.

3. I'm tired.

4. I mopped my kitchen floor last night. At midnight.

5. Kevin said, "Goddammit, I forgot my share toy," in the car on the way to daycare this morning.

6. Kevin is four.

7. I almost wrecked the car.

8. I don't talk that way at home. (Okay, so maybe I talk that way at theatre parties, but I don't talk that in front of my children, I promise.) Don't hate on me.

9. I have several tomatoes growing in my washtub garden. I also have two kinds of peppers and a couple of eggplants.

10. I didn't plant the eggplants.

11. This is the type of post you write when you don't have much to say but want to annoy your friends just the same.

Hee hee.

It's a feel good place...

The best part of being involved in theatre is the rehearsal process, I think. I dunno -- there's just something about the energy and excitement around trying new things, seeing what works, laughing with friends.

We're finally into the "real" rehearsals for (W)Holes (the show I'm in). Since it's a show made up of a series of monologues, up to now we've just had one-on-one rehearsals with the director.

My character is fun. At first, I just didn't think I liked her much -- and I thought she was a bit cartoonish. But I'm inside her now, and I'm growing to love her. That all sounds sorta bullcrappy-ish and schlock-"method", I know. I can see you rolling your eyes right about now, too. That's okay.

I forgot how much I miss Rene, how much I love Cyndy, and how utterly wonderful Mikey is. This just feels good. And Thea is a delight.

(W)Holes is an odd little show. It's a beautiful, quirky, heart-wrenching, funny, strange little show.

It's one of those shows where you wonder if you weren't IN the show if you would like to WATCH the show. I really don't know. But as my character says, "it's a feel good place, just like the kitchen table...with a pot of coffee and good friends to keep you company."

Good night.

Lillies

I had a birthday this week so my sister-in-law brought me this bouquet of lillies.








I just wish you could smell them; they're intoxicating!