So, I guess that most of you guys were too chicken to comment in public. My hubs and I had a little bet going as to what kinds of comments my last post would get, and whether or not they would be divided along the gender line. So, you peeps are costing me a full body massage, I'll have you know. Go back and comment, darnit!
We drove to the beach today (5 hours), through thunderstorms and tornado warnings, but it is BEAUTIFUL now. This is the place we stay every time I come to the beach (I worked here in high school-- Chubby Checker, remember?). Usually, I'm rushing in during the busy season, for a high school reunion or quickie visit, and we get stuffed into whatever little room they have available. And when the Christy family stays in other hotels, it's usually on a long road trip, when we're just too tired to drive anymore, and it's a crappy four-hour-sleep kind of hotel. So, since I've been out of the business world where I traveled, we haven't done nice hotels very much, or at least not nice rooms in the nice hotels.
And it's free, right? And I'm the kind of person who is simply grateful for whatever I get, so I wasn't expecting much... Just a couple of beds, a TV, and a bathroom. We walked into our 12th floor room today, and my 9 year old grumbled, "Oh, great. No beds." That was when we realized we were standing in the living room. We're in a super-fly suite that has a living room, dining room, and kitchenette, and hubs and I have our own room separate from the kids. Yeah, baby! ;-) And we have TWO-- count them-- 1, 2-- balconies overlooking the ocean. Holy snot, folks-- I'm overwhelmed. I think maybe my old friend heard my desperation yesterday morning when I called to ask for a room-- "I need a break, really bad. We just need to get away..." He certainly delivered, and it will take everything I have not to throw myself at his feet when we get to see him tomorrow.
So, I'm sitting here at the hotel business center, just because I wanted to tell my blogpals that I am the happiest and most relaxed I've been in a long time, and that it will only be getting better over the course of the weekend. Fifteen feet away from me is the hotel lounge, where some drunk weirdo is singing "Strokin'" by Clarence Carter-- heck yea, KARAOKE, baby! I'm in weirdo heaven! After I go back upstairs and get the munchkins to sleep, I might be down here singing "Strokin'" before the night is over. Or "Like a Virgin." Or "Lady Marmalade." Or any number of my karaoke standards (yes, I am that big of a nerd). And tomorrow during the day-- little sis is taking me shopping to buy some sexy club clothes for our dance outing tomorrow night (she's taking me to the hottest new clubs here). DO YOU PEOPLE REALIZE HOW LONG IT'S BEEN SINCE I BOUGHT A SEXY GARMENT OF ANY KIND?!?!?! HMMMMMMMMM?????????? And then hubs and I are going to spend the day playing on the beach (the weather is gorgeous), playing laser tag with the kids, and generally having a better time together than we've had in a long time. And then tomorrow night-- GIRLS' NIGHT OUT. My little sister's man might come over to knock back a few with hubs, while the girls are out cavorting all over Myrtle Beach. I'm giddy like a schoolgirl, if you can't tell. I need to get out more often, yeah, I know. But three kids... Priorities shift.
I may not be able to do this very often, but you better believe I'm going to get enough of it out of my system to get me through to the next time, just in case it's another 2 years. ;-)
Later, gators. Clarence Carter is calling out my name... He says Christy... Christy... Christy... LOL
Friday, January 13, 2006
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Dweeby Married Guys
So, I've been thinking that this fall, I need to go to Podcast Expo. For starters, I could use some guidance, ideas, and networking to help me improve and promote my podcast. Secondly, it would be fun, particularly since I've never been to California. I experienced it indirectly, through all my sister's Tahoe snowboarding videos, showgirl stories, and inability to speak the English language without excessive word ups, gnarlys, and peace outs (P.S. I found a pic of her to link to with clothes on). And I was at least close when we went to Sedona, Arizona, on our honeymoon. But I've never been there. Finally, I'm such a people person that it drives me ABSOLUTELY INSANE that I don't know what half my podcaster acquaintances look like. Grrrrrrr! (If any of you are reading, email a picture, just so my mental processes can be a little more well-rounded when I'm listening to you.) It drives me just as nutty when I don't know what my blogger friends look or sound like (skype, anyone?). I'm the kind of person who as I'm reading or listening to something, develops an intricate accompanying experience in my mind, complete with sound, visuals, and emotions. And I'm not much for mysteries. So, finally meeting some people I've come to like, admire, and enjoy having as a part of my life would be pretty cool.
However, the Christy family is not particularly wealthy, and I wonder if we'd be able to afford to get both me and my hubs out there. So, last night, I brought up the possibility of me going it alone, and the ensuing discussion was an interesting peek into the bizarre dynamics of my relationship with my husband. Here is my retelling of the incident. It isn't particularly accurate, partly because I can't remember word for word, and partly because, hey, it's my blog. I'll tell it how I want to.
I don't like the idea of you going out there alone.
Why not? What's the deal?
I don't know. I just don't like it.
So, you don't think I'm capable of going somewhere without you, successfully navigating the city, and not getting mugged, killed, or seduced in the process?
No, it's not that. It's just... just... I don't like the idea of you out there with all those computer geek guys.
It's not just guys, you know.
(glares at me) You're the one that told me the other day that you got an email from one of them that he sent to the podcasters in his address book, reading "Lady and Gentlemen."
Well, if you think they're all computer geeks, then what are you worried about?
You like geeky guys, for starters. (Faking a girly voice:) "Smart guys turn me on, ooh ahh," remember? Half the guys you've ever dated have been 34 year old geeks, even when you were 18.
So, you don't trust me?
No. I trust you.
Most of the podcaster guys I know are married anyway.
So. You know as well as I do that being married doesn't always stop guys from being stupid.
Apparently not.
Shut up.
I can't believe you don't trust me.
I DO trust you. I don't trust THEM.
You don't even know any of them.
No, but I know YOU. And I know geeky guys. And it just doesn't sit well with me.
What do you mean, (faking my best dorky man voice:) "I KNOW YOU"?
You're hot, for starters, easy to talk to, sweet, friendly, thoughtful, loving, lovable, beautiful, voluptuous, gorgeous, a genius, with irresistible blue eyes and keen wit to spare. (Okay, so I made up part of that. But he really did say some of it.) You make people feel special, and that really plays well to the geeky guy crowd.
Okay, what if I got V-dogg (my sister) to go with me?
(*crickets* *crickets*)
Seriously, hon. What if V went with me?
That's the making of a reality television special, there.
Don't be an ass. It would be fun. You don't even like going out, dancing, any of that. At least if I took V, I'd have someone to go out with. I haven't been out dancing in years (this is, sadly, a true statement). Hey, I haven't even been to karaoke in over a year, now. If V went, I'd have someone to go enjoy the nightlife with.
That's what I'm afraid of. I love your sister, but you going to California with her makes me even more nervous than you going alone.
Old fart.
Party animal.
(crickets chirp outside, as we both sit there, staring away from each other, like a couple of two-year olds in timeout for fighting over a toy.)
Tomorrow, I'm going to blog about what a dork you are.
I don't care.
(More silence...)
Seriously, man, you can't really be this big of a dork!
Well... I guess if you had to go alone, or if you went with your sister, it would be okay. I wouldn't like it or anything, and I'd worry about you while you're gone. It's a man thing, you know, and I can't protect you if I'm not there with you.
One wrong move on the part of anyone out there stupid enough to mess with me, and I'll break out some of those martial arts skills-- a bit of Pitida Fu would put him soundly in his place.
Now who's a dork?
Whatever. Anyway, it's still several months away...
...............
And that was the end of the conversation. So, if any of you have any ideas for comebacks, pleading my case, or whatever, should the issue be addressed again in the near future, send them my way. :-)
*Edited 2:00 pm to add: In his defense, we've never really been much for doing things that aren't family-oriented. Homeschooling hippies, remember? Anyway, I spent my first night away from my children EVER in June of 2004, and have only done it twice since then. And my first night away from everyone-- kids and family-- was in October of 2004, when I went back down to Florida for a quickie visit to perform a funeral for a good friend's grandmother. My friend's mom had specifically requested me, back before I left my ministry position, to do the funeral for her ailing mother, and I also married both of her children, so it seemed the right thing to do and I kept my commitment even though I had moved out of state in the between time. I spent 17 hours traveling by bus to get there, about 4 hours there, and then another 19 hours to get home. I haven't spent the night away from my husband in our entire marriage, except for the two nights I spent sleeping on that bus. So, for all you well-traveled geeks out there wondering what the big deal is, this isn't a typical thing for us.
In other news, it's amazing what a good night's sleep can do for a foul mood. I need to get away this weekend, and since the convent wasn't an option, I went to plan B. An old friend, mentor, and previous employer from my childhood and teen days now owns a good number of hotels, timeshare, and condos in Myrtle Beach (where I grew up). I have an open invitation anytime I want to go visit to stay, for free, in one of his properties. So, I called him this morning, and my family will be checking into an oceanfront hotel tomorrow evening to stay for the weekend. Excellent. ;-)
However, the Christy family is not particularly wealthy, and I wonder if we'd be able to afford to get both me and my hubs out there. So, last night, I brought up the possibility of me going it alone, and the ensuing discussion was an interesting peek into the bizarre dynamics of my relationship with my husband. Here is my retelling of the incident. It isn't particularly accurate, partly because I can't remember word for word, and partly because, hey, it's my blog. I'll tell it how I want to.
I don't like the idea of you going out there alone.
Why not? What's the deal?
I don't know. I just don't like it.
So, you don't think I'm capable of going somewhere without you, successfully navigating the city, and not getting mugged, killed, or seduced in the process?
No, it's not that. It's just... just... I don't like the idea of you out there with all those computer geek guys.
It's not just guys, you know.
(glares at me) You're the one that told me the other day that you got an email from one of them that he sent to the podcasters in his address book, reading "Lady and Gentlemen."
Well, if you think they're all computer geeks, then what are you worried about?
You like geeky guys, for starters. (Faking a girly voice:) "Smart guys turn me on, ooh ahh," remember? Half the guys you've ever dated have been 34 year old geeks, even when you were 18.
So, you don't trust me?
No. I trust you.
Most of the podcaster guys I know are married anyway.
So. You know as well as I do that being married doesn't always stop guys from being stupid.
Apparently not.
Shut up.
I can't believe you don't trust me.
I DO trust you. I don't trust THEM.
You don't even know any of them.
No, but I know YOU. And I know geeky guys. And it just doesn't sit well with me.
What do you mean, (faking my best dorky man voice:) "I KNOW YOU"?
You're hot, for starters, easy to talk to, sweet, friendly, thoughtful, loving, lovable, beautiful, voluptuous, gorgeous, a genius, with irresistible blue eyes and keen wit to spare. (Okay, so I made up part of that. But he really did say some of it.) You make people feel special, and that really plays well to the geeky guy crowd.
Okay, what if I got V-dogg (my sister) to go with me?
(*crickets* *crickets*)
Seriously, hon. What if V went with me?
That's the making of a reality television special, there.
Don't be an ass. It would be fun. You don't even like going out, dancing, any of that. At least if I took V, I'd have someone to go out with. I haven't been out dancing in years (this is, sadly, a true statement). Hey, I haven't even been to karaoke in over a year, now. If V went, I'd have someone to go enjoy the nightlife with.
That's what I'm afraid of. I love your sister, but you going to California with her makes me even more nervous than you going alone.
Old fart.
Party animal.
(crickets chirp outside, as we both sit there, staring away from each other, like a couple of two-year olds in timeout for fighting over a toy.)
Tomorrow, I'm going to blog about what a dork you are.
I don't care.
(More silence...)
Seriously, man, you can't really be this big of a dork!
Well... I guess if you had to go alone, or if you went with your sister, it would be okay. I wouldn't like it or anything, and I'd worry about you while you're gone. It's a man thing, you know, and I can't protect you if I'm not there with you.
One wrong move on the part of anyone out there stupid enough to mess with me, and I'll break out some of those martial arts skills-- a bit of Pitida Fu would put him soundly in his place.
Now who's a dork?
Whatever. Anyway, it's still several months away...
...............
And that was the end of the conversation. So, if any of you have any ideas for comebacks, pleading my case, or whatever, should the issue be addressed again in the near future, send them my way. :-)
*Edited 2:00 pm to add: In his defense, we've never really been much for doing things that aren't family-oriented. Homeschooling hippies, remember? Anyway, I spent my first night away from my children EVER in June of 2004, and have only done it twice since then. And my first night away from everyone-- kids and family-- was in October of 2004, when I went back down to Florida for a quickie visit to perform a funeral for a good friend's grandmother. My friend's mom had specifically requested me, back before I left my ministry position, to do the funeral for her ailing mother, and I also married both of her children, so it seemed the right thing to do and I kept my commitment even though I had moved out of state in the between time. I spent 17 hours traveling by bus to get there, about 4 hours there, and then another 19 hours to get home. I haven't spent the night away from my husband in our entire marriage, except for the two nights I spent sleeping on that bus. So, for all you well-traveled geeks out there wondering what the big deal is, this isn't a typical thing for us.
In other news, it's amazing what a good night's sleep can do for a foul mood. I need to get away this weekend, and since the convent wasn't an option, I went to plan B. An old friend, mentor, and previous employer from my childhood and teen days now owns a good number of hotels, timeshare, and condos in Myrtle Beach (where I grew up). I have an open invitation anytime I want to go visit to stay, for free, in one of his properties. So, I called him this morning, and my family will be checking into an oceanfront hotel tomorrow evening to stay for the weekend. Excellent. ;-)
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Pppppphhhhhhhlllllllltttttttt......
I had written about 6 paragraphs of a post, and then realized it was going nowhere. Usually, this would not stop me from foisting my blab upon you. But, for some reason, I just deleted the whole post.
I was up until after 3:00 am recording and editing my most recent podcast episode, goofing around to produce a short audio feedback/promo bit that I am reeeeeeeeallly hoping to get played on DSC, rubbing the back of my very sick 4 year old, and cleaning up puke. You know how you feel better right after you throw up, and use that window to nibble on saltines? My son didn't want saltines, but we wouldn't let him eat anything else. So, while we were in the other room, he took advantage of that opportunity to sneak into the kitchen, hide in a cabinet, and eat many bananas. My carpet may never be the same again. I couldn't get in for my much needed downtime this weekend, because the retreat at the convent was filled by the time I called. I have been a cranky turd all day long, with a headache to boot. There's really not much more to blog about, at this point.
Maybe, we'll take a day trip to Charleston this weekend. Yeah, that would be nice. Now to try to convince the hubster...
Want to cheer me up? Add yourself to my frappr map (see sidebar), and when I come into the office in the morning and open up my email, I'll feel like the belle of the ball. Maybe. But it's worth a shot.
In other news, while teaching a unit on Baroque music to 1st and 2nd graders yesterday, one of the boys asked me, "When did Bach die, again?" "1750," I responded. "Oh yeah," he said. "I think that's when my dad was born."
Thirty-somethings-- we're getting old.
I was up until after 3:00 am recording and editing my most recent podcast episode, goofing around to produce a short audio feedback/promo bit that I am reeeeeeeeallly hoping to get played on DSC, rubbing the back of my very sick 4 year old, and cleaning up puke. You know how you feel better right after you throw up, and use that window to nibble on saltines? My son didn't want saltines, but we wouldn't let him eat anything else. So, while we were in the other room, he took advantage of that opportunity to sneak into the kitchen, hide in a cabinet, and eat many bananas. My carpet may never be the same again. I couldn't get in for my much needed downtime this weekend, because the retreat at the convent was filled by the time I called. I have been a cranky turd all day long, with a headache to boot. There's really not much more to blog about, at this point.
Maybe, we'll take a day trip to Charleston this weekend. Yeah, that would be nice. Now to try to convince the hubster...
Want to cheer me up? Add yourself to my frappr map (see sidebar), and when I come into the office in the morning and open up my email, I'll feel like the belle of the ball. Maybe. But it's worth a shot.
In other news, while teaching a unit on Baroque music to 1st and 2nd graders yesterday, one of the boys asked me, "When did Bach die, again?" "1750," I responded. "Oh yeah," he said. "I think that's when my dad was born."
Thirty-somethings-- we're getting old.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Love Jerry
In response to my recent post, openness, secrecy, and shame, I saw that Kordalian linked to an article about a play, Love Jerry, that's about to be done in Atlanta. It follows the story of two brothers after one discovers that his brother had sexually abused his son. It has sometimes been referred to in the press as the "pedophile musical," giving an air of flippancy about it. After reading the article, and then reading the information at the production company's web site (which, of course, is extremely sensational to try to get the audience numbers up), I found the author's web site, and emailed her asking about the actual content of the play.
She seems like a very sensitive and heartfelt person, and bristled at the media dubbing her work a "pedophile musical" simply because she incorporated some of her own musical talent, composing a few original works as part of the play. Child sexual abuse is an issue close to her heart, and I get the impression that she truly intends it as an in-depth exploration of the issues families face when things like this happen. Mike (a character in her play), like all parents who discover sexual abuse by a much-loved family member, is forced to try to reconcile a lifetime of loving his brother with an absolute dedication to protecting his son and the horror of discovery of the abuse.
It could go either way. But, if she handles the issues as tenderly and with the same level of integrity and sensitivity that she responded to my email, this play might actually be a good thing. I'm even looking into performance dates to see if we can scoot into Atlanta to see it during its' run.
In any case, she has agreed to allow me to interview her for an upcoming podcast, assuming we can find a mutually agreeable time, and I would be honored to hear her perspective.
I guess my questions would be:
*What motivated her to write this kind of play, to choose this topic?
*Did she feel like she had to take certain precautions when writing, due to the subject matter, and if so, what kinds of things was she particularly careful of?
*Does she worry that this kind of a play might perhaps be a negative trigger for those who were sexually abused, or for families in similar situations, bringing up emotions and reactions that might not be healthy?
*Reviews note that she does not demonize Jerry, the abuser. Was it a continual effort not to do that? Does the play, even if it does not demonize the abuser, adequately express the absolute wrong nature of these kinds of acts?
Please feel free to comment and leave me a few more suggestions for possible lines of questioning that would be helpful or interesting. I'm actually looking forward to talking with her, and hope we can somehow bring our schedules together. :-)
She seems like a very sensitive and heartfelt person, and bristled at the media dubbing her work a "pedophile musical" simply because she incorporated some of her own musical talent, composing a few original works as part of the play. Child sexual abuse is an issue close to her heart, and I get the impression that she truly intends it as an in-depth exploration of the issues families face when things like this happen. Mike (a character in her play), like all parents who discover sexual abuse by a much-loved family member, is forced to try to reconcile a lifetime of loving his brother with an absolute dedication to protecting his son and the horror of discovery of the abuse.
It could go either way. But, if she handles the issues as tenderly and with the same level of integrity and sensitivity that she responded to my email, this play might actually be a good thing. I'm even looking into performance dates to see if we can scoot into Atlanta to see it during its' run.
In any case, she has agreed to allow me to interview her for an upcoming podcast, assuming we can find a mutually agreeable time, and I would be honored to hear her perspective.
I guess my questions would be:
*What motivated her to write this kind of play, to choose this topic?
*Did she feel like she had to take certain precautions when writing, due to the subject matter, and if so, what kinds of things was she particularly careful of?
*Does she worry that this kind of a play might perhaps be a negative trigger for those who were sexually abused, or for families in similar situations, bringing up emotions and reactions that might not be healthy?
*Reviews note that she does not demonize Jerry, the abuser. Was it a continual effort not to do that? Does the play, even if it does not demonize the abuser, adequately express the absolute wrong nature of these kinds of acts?
Please feel free to comment and leave me a few more suggestions for possible lines of questioning that would be helpful or interesting. I'm actually looking forward to talking with her, and hope we can somehow bring our schedules together. :-)
Sunday, January 08, 2006
I need more down time...
(edited 01/09/06 to add some stuff at the end.)
It's amazing how when you stay as wound up as I tend to stay on a regular basis, it is a painfully deliberate and conscious effort to just chill out. Remember what Ferris Bueller said about his friend Cameron being wound up so tight? When I first watched that, as a teenager, I thought, yeah, that Cameron, he's a nerd. Now, I'm searching for my own rare gems. Let my people go.
Yesterday, my husband took his teacher certification exams. For those of you that don't know, he had a massive stroke 11 years ago, when he was 22. He's had mild aphasia and limited use of his right side ever since, and his work history has been sporadic, at best, since then. He began walking and talking again within a few months of his stroke, and lived with his mother during his recovery time. A year later, he could read children's books and speak in longer phrases. Two years later, he got his driver's license back, and the year after that, he moved back out to live on his own. That's about when we met. We were both in college at the University of South Florida, and I was envious when he beat me to a B.A., shortly after our marriage. In spite of his academic achievements, finding a job where he stood a chance to excel was tough, and I've been the working parent for much of our marriage.
Last fall, when our children officially went from being homeschooled to private schooled, I overheard the principal mentioning a shortage of strong teachers. As my husband had done much of the homeschooling for our own little ones, was college educated, and looking for opportunities to get out and do things, I volunteered him, and set up an appointment for them to work something out. Since then, Daddy-O has taught intermediate social studies for the school part time in exchange for tuition. It was only after the first month at the school that he realized how much he enjoyed teaching, and discovered what could be a lifelong career. If he could teach part time in exchange for tuition, he could teach full time as a career. We began researching certification options for non-education majors in our state, and discovered the PACE Program, in which people with degrees can get certified to teach in their field by passing the Praxis II exams, getting hired, and completing a 3 year program while teaching in public schools. He began studying for the exams, and felt pretty good about his level of preparedness.
So, on the test results (which we won't have back for approximately four weeks) rides in part whether or not we become a two-income family, or remain a single income family of five. Granted, he can always retake any particular exam he did not pass, but I really think he will do it this time. After testing from 7:30 am to 4:30 pm, he was ready for a break. And seeing as I won't take time off for myself to chill, I was more than happy to take that time for him! So, Maher drove up, and we all went bowling (I beat the snot out of everyone else, of course!), and then came home for a Trivial Pursuit: 90s Edition battle royale. Beer was consumed (by me and my husband, at least), competitive insults were hurled, and a great time was had by all. Nice! Why can't I do this when I'm feeling like I'm about to crumble? Who knows. Maybe it's a mom thing.
And then today, I spent from 9:30 am until noon fighting with Skype to see if I could get it to record calls, checking on my children (who were climbing all over pallets of vinyl siding in my warehouse) every few minutes. //Blech//
Then I took them home, and came back to fight with Skype, Audio Hijack Pro, LineIn, and Wiretap from 1:00 pm until 2:30 pm, still with no success. //Ick//
Then I typed up some quick notes, and shoved my headset mic into the computer to do an interview with another podcaster who had asked me to do a bit for his show, and his internet connection crapped out in a painfully frustrating way. //twitch twitch//
So, I went back to fighting with Skype to try to record, and (angels singing, heavens opening), got it to work around 4:30 pm. //sigh of relief//
Jason, with History Podcast had been sweet enough to offer to be available for some practice Skype recording, and we had a great chat. What a nice guy! //Ahhhhhh... this day's not so stressful after all...//
So, at 8:30 pm, after feeding, bathing, and tucking in my darling little angels, I went online and attempted to purchase Skypeout credits. It indicated that a confirmation code was sent to my email address. It is now 10:10 pm. I have clicked on "get mail" about three million times in the last 100 minutes. //eeeeehhhhhhhhhh//
I think that my head is going to explode if I don't wrap it in duct tape immediately, or maybe I just need medication. Either way, the twitching is slowly returning, and going to bed now may be the only way to make it stop.
...............
10:40 pm
And now, after realizing that it's too late to call my stepdad, taking down my entire recording setup, shutting down my mac, blogging for the past who knows how long, and deciding to give up and go to bed, I check my email. There are a zillion confirmation codes from the ass-clowns at Skype, and I'm homicidal. Happy new year.
...............
Edit Monday, January 9:
So, after a bit of reflection, and after carefully retrieving my head from my rear, I realize that yesterday was not all bad.
1) The conversation with Jason was nice.
2) Matt added a link and nice words about my blog, which I'm sure he regrets after reading this load of crap.
3) An old college pal of mine now living in Seattle left me a comment on one of my MySpace pictures: "I forget, sometimes, how really foxy you are. Rawr!" Yeah, baby. You got it. Getting virtually cat-called by a gay guy rocks, because I feel no disloyalty toward my husband for enjoying it so much, plus Q-boy has STYLE with a capital S, T, Y, L, and E. Bam! And he called me foxy. It's been a few years since I've thought of myself as foxy, but I guess I am a little foxy in a Mae West sort of way. Va, va, voom, baby!
4) The 4th nice thing about yesterday is not blog-friendly. But it was nice.
5) I emailed libsyn support last week complaining that I couldn't give separate titles to my category feeds, even though my listeners could supposedly subscribe to them separately. This morning, I got an email from libsyn telling me what a great idea it is, and that they'll be adding it in as a user menu in the next few days. I'm a genius! Really, I'm just amazed that I'm the first person to ask about that. Can I really be the first to want separate titles listed if I list several feeds separately but under one umbrella site? Amazing. So, all you libsyn podcasters: you're welcome.
6) And today, I am registering myself for a retreat next weekend at the convent. Smooth. Next weekend will be nice. I'll get my down time, after all!
It's amazing how when you stay as wound up as I tend to stay on a regular basis, it is a painfully deliberate and conscious effort to just chill out. Remember what Ferris Bueller said about his friend Cameron being wound up so tight? When I first watched that, as a teenager, I thought, yeah, that Cameron, he's a nerd. Now, I'm searching for my own rare gems. Let my people go.
Yesterday, my husband took his teacher certification exams. For those of you that don't know, he had a massive stroke 11 years ago, when he was 22. He's had mild aphasia and limited use of his right side ever since, and his work history has been sporadic, at best, since then. He began walking and talking again within a few months of his stroke, and lived with his mother during his recovery time. A year later, he could read children's books and speak in longer phrases. Two years later, he got his driver's license back, and the year after that, he moved back out to live on his own. That's about when we met. We were both in college at the University of South Florida, and I was envious when he beat me to a B.A., shortly after our marriage. In spite of his academic achievements, finding a job where he stood a chance to excel was tough, and I've been the working parent for much of our marriage.
Last fall, when our children officially went from being homeschooled to private schooled, I overheard the principal mentioning a shortage of strong teachers. As my husband had done much of the homeschooling for our own little ones, was college educated, and looking for opportunities to get out and do things, I volunteered him, and set up an appointment for them to work something out. Since then, Daddy-O has taught intermediate social studies for the school part time in exchange for tuition. It was only after the first month at the school that he realized how much he enjoyed teaching, and discovered what could be a lifelong career. If he could teach part time in exchange for tuition, he could teach full time as a career. We began researching certification options for non-education majors in our state, and discovered the PACE Program, in which people with degrees can get certified to teach in their field by passing the Praxis II exams, getting hired, and completing a 3 year program while teaching in public schools. He began studying for the exams, and felt pretty good about his level of preparedness.
So, on the test results (which we won't have back for approximately four weeks) rides in part whether or not we become a two-income family, or remain a single income family of five. Granted, he can always retake any particular exam he did not pass, but I really think he will do it this time. After testing from 7:30 am to 4:30 pm, he was ready for a break. And seeing as I won't take time off for myself to chill, I was more than happy to take that time for him! So, Maher drove up, and we all went bowling (I beat the snot out of everyone else, of course!), and then came home for a Trivial Pursuit: 90s Edition battle royale. Beer was consumed (by me and my husband, at least), competitive insults were hurled, and a great time was had by all. Nice! Why can't I do this when I'm feeling like I'm about to crumble? Who knows. Maybe it's a mom thing.
And then today, I spent from 9:30 am until noon fighting with Skype to see if I could get it to record calls, checking on my children (who were climbing all over pallets of vinyl siding in my warehouse) every few minutes. //Blech//
Then I took them home, and came back to fight with Skype, Audio Hijack Pro, LineIn, and Wiretap from 1:00 pm until 2:30 pm, still with no success. //Ick//
Then I typed up some quick notes, and shoved my headset mic into the computer to do an interview with another podcaster who had asked me to do a bit for his show, and his internet connection crapped out in a painfully frustrating way. //twitch twitch//
So, I went back to fighting with Skype to try to record, and (angels singing, heavens opening), got it to work around 4:30 pm. //sigh of relief//
Jason, with History Podcast had been sweet enough to offer to be available for some practice Skype recording, and we had a great chat. What a nice guy! //Ahhhhhh... this day's not so stressful after all...//
So, at 8:30 pm, after feeding, bathing, and tucking in my darling little angels, I went online and attempted to purchase Skypeout credits. It indicated that a confirmation code was sent to my email address. It is now 10:10 pm. I have clicked on "get mail" about three million times in the last 100 minutes. //eeeeehhhhhhhhhh//
I think that my head is going to explode if I don't wrap it in duct tape immediately, or maybe I just need medication. Either way, the twitching is slowly returning, and going to bed now may be the only way to make it stop.
...............
10:40 pm
And now, after realizing that it's too late to call my stepdad, taking down my entire recording setup, shutting down my mac, blogging for the past who knows how long, and deciding to give up and go to bed, I check my email. There are a zillion confirmation codes from the ass-clowns at Skype, and I'm homicidal. Happy new year.
...............
Edit Monday, January 9:
So, after a bit of reflection, and after carefully retrieving my head from my rear, I realize that yesterday was not all bad.
1) The conversation with Jason was nice.
2) Matt added a link and nice words about my blog, which I'm sure he regrets after reading this load of crap.
3) An old college pal of mine now living in Seattle left me a comment on one of my MySpace pictures: "I forget, sometimes, how really foxy you are. Rawr!" Yeah, baby. You got it. Getting virtually cat-called by a gay guy rocks, because I feel no disloyalty toward my husband for enjoying it so much, plus Q-boy has STYLE with a capital S, T, Y, L, and E. Bam! And he called me foxy. It's been a few years since I've thought of myself as foxy, but I guess I am a little foxy in a Mae West sort of way. Va, va, voom, baby!
4) The 4th nice thing about yesterday is not blog-friendly. But it was nice.
5) I emailed libsyn support last week complaining that I couldn't give separate titles to my category feeds, even though my listeners could supposedly subscribe to them separately. This morning, I got an email from libsyn telling me what a great idea it is, and that they'll be adding it in as a user menu in the next few days. I'm a genius! Really, I'm just amazed that I'm the first person to ask about that. Can I really be the first to want separate titles listed if I list several feeds separately but under one umbrella site? Amazing. So, all you libsyn podcasters: you're welcome.
6) And today, I am registering myself for a retreat next weekend at the convent. Smooth. Next weekend will be nice. I'll get my down time, after all!
Friday, January 06, 2006
openness, secrecy, and shame
As many of you know, I have a podcast in which I interview different people who have something about their experiences that I find interesting. My theory, though I will never have the chance to put it to a scientifically solid test, is that just about everybody has something in their life stories, experience, past or present, that is incredible, fascinating, inspiring, or otherwise unique. We just don't often hear about it, which sucks, really, when you think about it. So many little lessons of how humans can overcome great tragedies, come up with grandiose ideas, or generally experience life in a wide-open, fun-loving sort of way, and most of us are missing out on them.
For as long as I can remember, there has been a stigma attached to certain kinds of situations-- disability, adoption, abortion, child abuse, rape, sexual abuse, disability, gender and gender identification, and a million other things to which we, as people, are often exposed. Someone doesn't want to admit they were abused as a child because they love their parents and wouldn't want to embarrass them; as if we expect all people we encounter to be narrow-minded idiots who don't understand that most parents do the best they can, and that however small or large their failings may have been at different times, people change and grow. Someone doesn't want to say that they were adopted; as if that somehow makes them less of a family. Someone doesn't want to discuss the fact that they or their child was sexually abused; as if it is somehow their fault, their child's fault.
It's sad, really, the way we all censor ourselves in the name of not making anyone else uncomfortable, preserving the peace, or whatever reasons we tell ourselves we have for stuffing all of our potentially negative experiences deep down inside where they can't be of use to anyone. As if someone who has experienced a disability, adoption, physical or sexual abuse has something to be ashamed of. That's quite simply a load of crap. If there is any shame to worn, it belongs elsewhere.
Shame belongs on the person who can't seem to believe that someone with a disability has genuine human feelings and can contribute meaningfully to the world. Shame belongs on the one who refers to "real" kids and "adopted" kids, as if there could ever be a difference in a healthy parent's heart between love and love. Shame belongs on the unrepentant abuser, the rapist, the pedophile. Don't ask the victim to stay quiet to keep those around him or her comfortable in their ignorance. As long as we have that expectation of those who have been exploited or abused, there will always be an undercurrent that somehow blames the victim and shames him or her into silence.
If anyone should retreat into silence and shame, it should be the offender. As for the people who have been abused, if speaking out gives them a feeling of strength and courage, of power over the situation, then they should speak out when, if, and however they please. No place is more lonely and frightening than the silent place in your heart, where few people hear and nobody cares. Just reaching out-- it's often enough, even if those to whom you reach out never reach back. And if you happen to be one of the ones someone trusts enough to reveal a darker place in his or her experience, don't worry if you don't know what to say. Chances are they don't expect you to say much; just to acknowledge what they are dealing with, continue with the friendship, and be at least vaguely aware of the pressures they're facing in their lives.
I'm tired. Very tired. I'm tired of looking around and seeing a culture in which we really don't give a rat's rear if children are being abused and violated, if women (and men) are raped, or if people's pain is incredibly immense-- as long as that pain doesn't reach into our own lives. I'm tired of having a culture of acceptance-- "these things happen," so it must not be that big of a deal. It is a big deal. It's a really, very, incredibly big and rotten deal, and you never know what cards are coming up in your hand next. Until we have a culture that embraces a zero tolerance attitude toward innocents being violated, we will continue to see Samantha Runions, and Carlie Bruscias, and Jessica Lunsfords, and thousands of other little boys and girls whose parents, thankfully, can still hold them in their arms, but whose lives have been forever altered by someone else's selfish, destructive, disgusting, and offensive acts.
People who haven't been there have no idea how it affects a person. They don't understand the lifetime of self-doubt, fear of relationships, and emotional struggles that the abused child faces. They can't understand what it feels like for the woman who has been raped to anxiously look for well lit parking at night, or be afraid to go jogging, or be scared- really scared- on a date or at a party. They don't have any idea what it feels like to question if you fit into your family, to wonder if you're fully accepted as a person, or to live daily with common societal misconceptions and fears. They can't understand the amount of courage it took for the person who just had a stroke to speak publicly in front of one person, or a million, knowing that his recovery is not, and may never be complete. They don't understand... until they're faced with it themselves.
A few unsettling statistics:
1 in 6 American women has been raped. 67% of them were raped by someone they knew.
1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 or 7 boys will be or have been sexually abused.
8% of all Americans report a disability that interferes with work. Many of them became disabled unexpectedly during the course of their adult lives.
Long story short: If it hasn't happened to you or someone you love, it will. Unless we start working, right now, to create a culture in which the victims and survivors are encouraged to speak out until society can't stand the horror of it any more, and does something about it.
I'm tired. It's been a long week, and my patience is wearing thin. Maybe tomorrow... maybe this weekend, I'll post something fun about doing the robot, wearing silly clothes, or playing board games. Maybe, over the weekend, great silliness will ensue in the Christy household, and I'll barely be able to contain myself until Monday, when I'll tell you about it. But for now, this will have to do.
For as long as I can remember, there has been a stigma attached to certain kinds of situations-- disability, adoption, abortion, child abuse, rape, sexual abuse, disability, gender and gender identification, and a million other things to which we, as people, are often exposed. Someone doesn't want to admit they were abused as a child because they love their parents and wouldn't want to embarrass them; as if we expect all people we encounter to be narrow-minded idiots who don't understand that most parents do the best they can, and that however small or large their failings may have been at different times, people change and grow. Someone doesn't want to say that they were adopted; as if that somehow makes them less of a family. Someone doesn't want to discuss the fact that they or their child was sexually abused; as if it is somehow their fault, their child's fault.
It's sad, really, the way we all censor ourselves in the name of not making anyone else uncomfortable, preserving the peace, or whatever reasons we tell ourselves we have for stuffing all of our potentially negative experiences deep down inside where they can't be of use to anyone. As if someone who has experienced a disability, adoption, physical or sexual abuse has something to be ashamed of. That's quite simply a load of crap. If there is any shame to worn, it belongs elsewhere.
Shame belongs on the person who can't seem to believe that someone with a disability has genuine human feelings and can contribute meaningfully to the world. Shame belongs on the one who refers to "real" kids and "adopted" kids, as if there could ever be a difference in a healthy parent's heart between love and love. Shame belongs on the unrepentant abuser, the rapist, the pedophile. Don't ask the victim to stay quiet to keep those around him or her comfortable in their ignorance. As long as we have that expectation of those who have been exploited or abused, there will always be an undercurrent that somehow blames the victim and shames him or her into silence.
If anyone should retreat into silence and shame, it should be the offender. As for the people who have been abused, if speaking out gives them a feeling of strength and courage, of power over the situation, then they should speak out when, if, and however they please. No place is more lonely and frightening than the silent place in your heart, where few people hear and nobody cares. Just reaching out-- it's often enough, even if those to whom you reach out never reach back. And if you happen to be one of the ones someone trusts enough to reveal a darker place in his or her experience, don't worry if you don't know what to say. Chances are they don't expect you to say much; just to acknowledge what they are dealing with, continue with the friendship, and be at least vaguely aware of the pressures they're facing in their lives.
I'm tired. Very tired. I'm tired of looking around and seeing a culture in which we really don't give a rat's rear if children are being abused and violated, if women (and men) are raped, or if people's pain is incredibly immense-- as long as that pain doesn't reach into our own lives. I'm tired of having a culture of acceptance-- "these things happen," so it must not be that big of a deal. It is a big deal. It's a really, very, incredibly big and rotten deal, and you never know what cards are coming up in your hand next. Until we have a culture that embraces a zero tolerance attitude toward innocents being violated, we will continue to see Samantha Runions, and Carlie Bruscias, and Jessica Lunsfords, and thousands of other little boys and girls whose parents, thankfully, can still hold them in their arms, but whose lives have been forever altered by someone else's selfish, destructive, disgusting, and offensive acts.
People who haven't been there have no idea how it affects a person. They don't understand the lifetime of self-doubt, fear of relationships, and emotional struggles that the abused child faces. They can't understand what it feels like for the woman who has been raped to anxiously look for well lit parking at night, or be afraid to go jogging, or be scared- really scared- on a date or at a party. They don't have any idea what it feels like to question if you fit into your family, to wonder if you're fully accepted as a person, or to live daily with common societal misconceptions and fears. They can't understand the amount of courage it took for the person who just had a stroke to speak publicly in front of one person, or a million, knowing that his recovery is not, and may never be complete. They don't understand... until they're faced with it themselves.
A few unsettling statistics:
1 in 6 American women has been raped. 67% of them were raped by someone they knew.
1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 or 7 boys will be or have been sexually abused.
8% of all Americans report a disability that interferes with work. Many of them became disabled unexpectedly during the course of their adult lives.
Long story short: If it hasn't happened to you or someone you love, it will. Unless we start working, right now, to create a culture in which the victims and survivors are encouraged to speak out until society can't stand the horror of it any more, and does something about it.
I'm tired. It's been a long week, and my patience is wearing thin. Maybe tomorrow... maybe this weekend, I'll post something fun about doing the robot, wearing silly clothes, or playing board games. Maybe, over the weekend, great silliness will ensue in the Christy household, and I'll barely be able to contain myself until Monday, when I'll tell you about it. But for now, this will have to do.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
*sigh*
Whhhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwww...
Today, we had a big appointment in Columbia that we've been putting off for a little over a month now. Having it done is like a big weight lifted off our shoulders, and it's amazing how slap-happy one gets when a giant stress is no longer there. Not just normal happy, but really freaky happy. My son and I are in Columbia now and aren't heading back home until later this afternoon, and are having a BLAST! We had a fun lunch together at Moes, and then headed over to the USC bookstore to pick up a few things. He got the new Lemony Snicket book, and I got Ar'n't I a Woman?
Female Slaves in the Plantation South. Good reads, I anticipate.
Anyway, things are bit busy, having to take a day off in the middle of the year-end madness at work, but we had to do the appointment, and I guess we needed a day off anyway. I will absolutely be writing a few real posts and getting back on the blogging thing within the next week.
Today, we had a big appointment in Columbia that we've been putting off for a little over a month now. Having it done is like a big weight lifted off our shoulders, and it's amazing how slap-happy one gets when a giant stress is no longer there. Not just normal happy, but really freaky happy. My son and I are in Columbia now and aren't heading back home until later this afternoon, and are having a BLAST! We had a fun lunch together at Moes, and then headed over to the USC bookstore to pick up a few things. He got the new Lemony Snicket book, and I got Ar'n't I a Woman?
Female Slaves in the Plantation South. Good reads, I anticipate.
Anyway, things are bit busy, having to take a day off in the middle of the year-end madness at work, but we had to do the appointment, and I guess we needed a day off anyway. I will absolutely be writing a few real posts and getting back on the blogging thing within the next week.
| Katharine Hepburn You scored 14% grit, 38% wit, 47% flair, and 9% class! |
| You are the fabulously quirky and independent woman of character. You go your own way, follow your own drummer, take your own lead. You stand head and shoulders next to your partner, but you are perfectly willing and able to stand alone. Others might be more classically beautiful or conventionally woman-like, but you possess a more fundamental common sense and off-kilter charm, making interesting men fall at your feet. You can pick them up or leave them there as you see fit. You share the screen with the likes of Spencer Tracy and Cary Grant, thinking men who like strong women.
|
 |
My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
|
| Link: The Classic Dames Test written by gidgetgoes on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test |
Monday, January 02, 2006
Strength
Last night, I interviewed my guest for my next podcast. Wow. All I can say is wow.
This almost-17 year old girl is one tough cookie. She spent her first 4 years at the hands of a neglectful alcoholic mother in an impoverished Russia during the time of the breakup of the Soviet Union. Her next year was spent in the "care" of another alcoholic-- some abusive old man she had never before met when her mother "gave" her to him when she was 3, promising she'd come back for her (she never did). At 4, she was rescued from the starvation and abuse she suffered under him, and at 5 she was moved into an orphanage. She spent the next 8 years living in that orphanage, sure that she would never be adopted.
Now she's my step-aunt. :-) And she has the most positive outlook on life imaginable, and it truly makes me feel so completely silly for complaining about the things in my life that don't go according to plan. I should have it edited and up by Wednesday-- listen in for lesson in hope, gratitude, and joy. I am humbled and overwhelmed. Truly.
This almost-17 year old girl is one tough cookie. She spent her first 4 years at the hands of a neglectful alcoholic mother in an impoverished Russia during the time of the breakup of the Soviet Union. Her next year was spent in the "care" of another alcoholic-- some abusive old man she had never before met when her mother "gave" her to him when she was 3, promising she'd come back for her (she never did). At 4, she was rescued from the starvation and abuse she suffered under him, and at 5 she was moved into an orphanage. She spent the next 8 years living in that orphanage, sure that she would never be adopted.
Now she's my step-aunt. :-) And she has the most positive outlook on life imaginable, and it truly makes me feel so completely silly for complaining about the things in my life that don't go according to plan. I should have it edited and up by Wednesday-- listen in for lesson in hope, gratitude, and joy. I am humbled and overwhelmed. Truly.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Dancing into 2006...
I'm such a mom. I know it. I claim it. I'm okay with it.
Now that I'm the owner of a video iPod, I spent all of last night playing in iMovie, converting several older home videos into a format that can be viewed on my iPod. Excellent! Now, when people ask if I have pictures of my kids, I can do even better-- I have videos! In the process, I came across last years much more carefully edited but equally freaky Christmas iMovie. If you could find the last one, you can find this one, too! Enjoy!
Watching it today on my iPod (while sitting at an auto shop waiting for them to remove the gigantic roofing screw from my tire), I realized how much we've all changed over the past year, and how much our lives have changed.
For starters, my babies are getting bigger. The freckles are the giveaway. For some reason, all the children in my family start out freckle-free. Then, right about the time that they start to lose their preschooler pudge, the freckles come out. Barely visible at first, but after a while of staring into their faces (the way that mothers either lovingly or firmly do on a regular basis), you see them. Reminders that these children are indeed descended from ME and not just their freckle-less father, but also reminders that the end is near. The end of those adorable, baby-ish mispronunciations... The end of make-believe escapades unhindered by social awareness (like mixing popcorn all over the kitchen with a whisk, or talking about "friends" who live in Chicago in a big white house who are all pro skateboarders who never eat vegetables and whose mommies never take away gamecube)... The freckles coming out on my baby's face, while cute and precious, are heralds of the end of me ever again being mommy to a baby or preschooler. Sure, I still have one preschool-age child left in the house, but that's only until August; and given how quickly the last 8 months has gone, August is only a few pages ahead in the calendar.
This past year has been marked with quite a few pretty awesome steps forward, a few tiny steps backward, and few instances of someone else on the dance floor rudely interrupting our family mojo by smashing drunkenly into our happiness. These things happen; our family is not immune to life. But we've done well; I feel good about where the coming year, however uncertain it seems, will take us. I've had faith in the past; I've seen what God has done for and through us, and I have no reason to believe we'd be abandoned in the year to come. Besides, we've learned a few new moves in response to the unkind intentions of others. Challenge? Bring it on. I think we're ready.
For too long, we've allowed ourselves to be tossed about the waves of others' ambitions and intentions. No more. I'm not one for making resolutions for the new year (I've gained back weight that had been lost and spent parts of what had been saved, and know how fickle annual resolutions can be). But I'm open and ready for growth through unexpected challenges, and and am pretty sure I'm over my wallflower, meek and mild-mannered, timid and wussy self. 30 is going to be good for me; 2006 is going to be good for my family.
Now that I'm the owner of a video iPod, I spent all of last night playing in iMovie, converting several older home videos into a format that can be viewed on my iPod. Excellent! Now, when people ask if I have pictures of my kids, I can do even better-- I have videos! In the process, I came across last years much more carefully edited but equally freaky Christmas iMovie. If you could find the last one, you can find this one, too! Enjoy!
Watching it today on my iPod (while sitting at an auto shop waiting for them to remove the gigantic roofing screw from my tire), I realized how much we've all changed over the past year, and how much our lives have changed.
For starters, my babies are getting bigger. The freckles are the giveaway. For some reason, all the children in my family start out freckle-free. Then, right about the time that they start to lose their preschooler pudge, the freckles come out. Barely visible at first, but after a while of staring into their faces (the way that mothers either lovingly or firmly do on a regular basis), you see them. Reminders that these children are indeed descended from ME and not just their freckle-less father, but also reminders that the end is near. The end of those adorable, baby-ish mispronunciations... The end of make-believe escapades unhindered by social awareness (like mixing popcorn all over the kitchen with a whisk, or talking about "friends" who live in Chicago in a big white house who are all pro skateboarders who never eat vegetables and whose mommies never take away gamecube)... The freckles coming out on my baby's face, while cute and precious, are heralds of the end of me ever again being mommy to a baby or preschooler. Sure, I still have one preschool-age child left in the house, but that's only until August; and given how quickly the last 8 months has gone, August is only a few pages ahead in the calendar.
This past year has been marked with quite a few pretty awesome steps forward, a few tiny steps backward, and few instances of someone else on the dance floor rudely interrupting our family mojo by smashing drunkenly into our happiness. These things happen; our family is not immune to life. But we've done well; I feel good about where the coming year, however uncertain it seems, will take us. I've had faith in the past; I've seen what God has done for and through us, and I have no reason to believe we'd be abandoned in the year to come. Besides, we've learned a few new moves in response to the unkind intentions of others. Challenge? Bring it on. I think we're ready.
For too long, we've allowed ourselves to be tossed about the waves of others' ambitions and intentions. No more. I'm not one for making resolutions for the new year (I've gained back weight that had been lost and spent parts of what had been saved, and know how fickle annual resolutions can be). But I'm open and ready for growth through unexpected challenges, and and am pretty sure I'm over my wallflower, meek and mild-mannered, timid and wussy self. 30 is going to be good for me; 2006 is going to be good for my family.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Last night...
... was good. Ahhhhhhhh.
I got my two new books from Amazon yesterday, and read all two hundred and something pages of Podcast Solutions in one sitting. I am now convinced that I cannot release another podcast until after I have my new recording and editing setup. And by the way, check this out: quite possibly the coolest audio software I've seen yet. It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.
I then set myself to sorting through the pile of invoices I had brought home from work. Year end is a sucky time to work in the accounting department of a moderate-sized business that stocks hundreds of thousands of dollars of inventory (with almost $2 mil annual sales) and has only two bookkeepers. The next week will be super-busy, so forgive me if I don't blog as much as usual over the next couple of weeks. In any case, I got a lot done by bringing some of my work home, and in the background-- My Name is Ed and The Office-- my two favorite shows. Yes!
Afterwards, I read the first chapter of Founding Mothers: The Women Who Raised our Nation. Whaddya know-- it's on Eliza Pinckney, from my home state! What a tough chick she was. We'd probably be great friends.
And then, we crawled into bed and turned on PBS. I'd never seen Independent Lens before, but I will definitely try to catch it again in the future. My favorite was the little film on the Raftman-- too funny, too good!
So, this is sort of a slacker post, but year end is crazy, and hey, you're the silly person who sat here and read it anyway. Who's the slacker, now?
A real post coming soon. :-)
I got my two new books from Amazon yesterday, and read all two hundred and something pages of Podcast Solutions in one sitting. I am now convinced that I cannot release another podcast until after I have my new recording and editing setup. And by the way, check this out: quite possibly the coolest audio software I've seen yet. It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.
I then set myself to sorting through the pile of invoices I had brought home from work. Year end is a sucky time to work in the accounting department of a moderate-sized business that stocks hundreds of thousands of dollars of inventory (with almost $2 mil annual sales) and has only two bookkeepers. The next week will be super-busy, so forgive me if I don't blog as much as usual over the next couple of weeks. In any case, I got a lot done by bringing some of my work home, and in the background-- My Name is Ed and The Office-- my two favorite shows. Yes!
Afterwards, I read the first chapter of Founding Mothers: The Women Who Raised our Nation. Whaddya know-- it's on Eliza Pinckney, from my home state! What a tough chick she was. We'd probably be great friends.
And then, we crawled into bed and turned on PBS. I'd never seen Independent Lens before, but I will definitely try to catch it again in the future. My favorite was the little film on the Raftman-- too funny, too good!
So, this is sort of a slacker post, but year end is crazy, and hey, you're the silly person who sat here and read it anyway. Who's the slacker, now?
A real post coming soon. :-)
Monday, December 26, 2005
Christmas Eve Shenanigans Part One
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh..... I have so enjoyed the last few days, and yet at the same time, I'm relieved to be done with the decorating-gifting-visiting-baking hoo-ha that the last few days has been. Phhhhhhhhlllllllllllltht. (That is my deflating balloon sound, if you aren't fluent in Freak.)
We woke up the morning of the 24th to a peaceful feeling of knowing there is time off of work, and family with whom to spend that time. That is, until I remembered that I had agreed to bring cheese biscuits and sausage balls to my dad's for our Christmas Eve get-together, and that I had no cheese, sausage, or bisquick in the kitchen. Phooey on whole foods and fresh vegetables-- I needed artery-clogging southern goodness, and fast! So, figuring it was a family day, I took my daughter with me to go brave the Super Wal-Mart Christmas Eve morning madness. This being my first time going to our town's Wal-Mart on a big shopping holiday, I wasn't sure what to expect. In Orlando, I once made a "quick run" to Wal-Mart on Christmas Eve, and was in the store for 3 hours (1 hour of which was spent at the checkout). Anyway, it was busier than usual, but not bad.
Seeing as I'm trying to be a bit healthier, I picked up the "heart healthy" bisquick, which solved one of my challenges. The other: I hate pork. And it's nasty. And it's gross. So, I made a speed run through the produce section to get some soy sausage substitute, which promised to taste just like sausage. But, realizing that my dad's family is a pretty meat-and-potatoes kind of family, I didn't think I could pull off soy sausage balls without suffering severe emotional or possibly physical retaliation at future Christmas celebrations. So, I also picked up some hot and spicy Tennessee Pride sausage. Bllluuuuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeech. (translation: I might vomit when I have to stick my hands in this.)
We found a self-checkout with NO LINE at all, and were on our way home.
After whipping up cheese biscuits (Yum!), and veggie sausage balls (which really did taste like real sausage and 1/2 of which were devoured by my family before we even left the house), and real sausage balls (m..bl..uuuuuuuuuech), we loaded the kids, the presents for my dad's family, and the tupperwares full of varieties of baked cheese into the car and were one our way. The kids had been fighting a bit, and the oldest had just lost gamecube privileges for the rest of the day (which on Christmas Eve, is a curse beyond all curses). So, we left about 45 minutes earlier than usual, figuring we'd drive around looking at pretty houses (there's lots of big, old, beautiful, wraparound porch, pastures with horses kinds of houses near my dad's), and that possibly the kids might fall asleep and nap a bit. Fat chance. We spent the entire 45 minutes listening to a 9 year old's take on the effectiveness, fairness, implementation, and occasional misuse of loss of privileges as a disciplinary tool. Sometimes I hate being the parent of a gifted child.
After we had been at dad's for a while, my 9 year old children's rights activist decided to be part of the family again, and things definitely went up from there. Since my dad's family had just returned from Branson, Missouri, the night before, we feasted on a huge spread of crackers, cheeses, dips and spreads, and it was wonderful! We opened presents (Daddy-O got a new 3-person tent for his Scouting trips with Funky Monkey, and did I mention I got an iPod?), and then headed home to finish the celebration. Oh-- the greatest presents of them all? We were given homemade blankets for all of our beds. Apparently, my stepmom has spent the last 6 months working on hand-crocheted blankets for each of us-- bright blue and red squares for Short Stuff, pink and purple squares for Sassy Pants, muted blue and woodsy green zig zags for Funky Monkey, and a gorgeous cream blanket big enough to fit our bed for me and Daddy-O. The fact that someone would take that kind of time to make something so precious for my family blows my mind, although it does not surprise me coming from someone as sweet and sentimental as my stepmom.
Part One: Christmas Eve at Dad's
We woke up the morning of the 24th to a peaceful feeling of knowing there is time off of work, and family with whom to spend that time. That is, until I remembered that I had agreed to bring cheese biscuits and sausage balls to my dad's for our Christmas Eve get-together, and that I had no cheese, sausage, or bisquick in the kitchen. Phooey on whole foods and fresh vegetables-- I needed artery-clogging southern goodness, and fast! So, figuring it was a family day, I took my daughter with me to go brave the Super Wal-Mart Christmas Eve morning madness. This being my first time going to our town's Wal-Mart on a big shopping holiday, I wasn't sure what to expect. In Orlando, I once made a "quick run" to Wal-Mart on Christmas Eve, and was in the store for 3 hours (1 hour of which was spent at the checkout). Anyway, it was busier than usual, but not bad.
Seeing as I'm trying to be a bit healthier, I picked up the "heart healthy" bisquick, which solved one of my challenges. The other: I hate pork. And it's nasty. And it's gross. So, I made a speed run through the produce section to get some soy sausage substitute, which promised to taste just like sausage. But, realizing that my dad's family is a pretty meat-and-potatoes kind of family, I didn't think I could pull off soy sausage balls without suffering severe emotional or possibly physical retaliation at future Christmas celebrations. So, I also picked up some hot and spicy Tennessee Pride sausage. Bllluuuuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeech. (translation: I might vomit when I have to stick my hands in this.)
We found a self-checkout with NO LINE at all, and were on our way home.
After whipping up cheese biscuits (Yum!), and veggie sausage balls (which really did taste like real sausage and 1/2 of which were devoured by my family before we even left the house), and real sausage balls (m..bl..uuuuuuuuuech), we loaded the kids, the presents for my dad's family, and the tupperwares full of varieties of baked cheese into the car and were one our way. The kids had been fighting a bit, and the oldest had just lost gamecube privileges for the rest of the day (which on Christmas Eve, is a curse beyond all curses). So, we left about 45 minutes earlier than usual, figuring we'd drive around looking at pretty houses (there's lots of big, old, beautiful, wraparound porch, pastures with horses kinds of houses near my dad's), and that possibly the kids might fall asleep and nap a bit. Fat chance. We spent the entire 45 minutes listening to a 9 year old's take on the effectiveness, fairness, implementation, and occasional misuse of loss of privileges as a disciplinary tool. Sometimes I hate being the parent of a gifted child.
After we had been at dad's for a while, my 9 year old children's rights activist decided to be part of the family again, and things definitely went up from there. Since my dad's family had just returned from Branson, Missouri, the night before, we feasted on a huge spread of crackers, cheeses, dips and spreads, and it was wonderful! We opened presents (Daddy-O got a new 3-person tent for his Scouting trips with Funky Monkey, and did I mention I got an iPod?), and then headed home to finish the celebration. Oh-- the greatest presents of them all? We were given homemade blankets for all of our beds. Apparently, my stepmom has spent the last 6 months working on hand-crocheted blankets for each of us-- bright blue and red squares for Short Stuff, pink and purple squares for Sassy Pants, muted blue and woodsy green zig zags for Funky Monkey, and a gorgeous cream blanket big enough to fit our bed for me and Daddy-O. The fact that someone would take that kind of time to make something so precious for my family blows my mind, although it does not surprise me coming from someone as sweet and sentimental as my stepmom.
Christmas Eve Shenanigans Part Two
Prayer, presents, kryptonite bellydancing, midnight hobo runs to Walgreens, and cursing some complete stranger in Hong Kong. What could make Christmas Eve more fun than that?
As a family, we prayed, read scriptures, opened a few of our presents, and then sent the kids to bed. That was when I realized that I had left a few of the kids presents at my office. So, at about 8:30 pm, I dashed over to the warehouse. While I was there, I figured I'd go ahead and put some content on that snazzy little iPod I got. So, I opened up iTunes, and figured I might as well download a music video (something I've never done), just to see how it looks on the iPod. But, I knew that my husband the cheapskate was bound to make fun of me for buying a video to watch on a 2 X 1.5 inch screen, so I knew I had to choose my video wisely. I knew it had to be one with which he could not argue. I bought my video, updated my podcasts, and transferred it all over to the iPod. I called my husband to talk me through my exit (the warehouse is near a bit of a creepy, drug-problem and murder kind of neighborhood, so I always keep him on the phone with me while I leave, close the gate, and get back into the car), and headed home.
Once home, I broke out the iPod to show Daddy-O how cool it was. "I bought a music video," I said. He rolled his eyes and looked at me disapprovingly, but kept his silence. "What, you don't think I should have?" I asked. Silence. Glare. I started the video playing and smiled and danced. Still silence. Still glare. Now head-shaking. "You aren't right," he said. And then I flipped the iPod around to where he could see it and held it out as if threatening someone with a weapon. His eyes left my face, and landed upon Shakira in her full glory, bellydancing out of the ocean, strutting through a stampede, and crawling through mud. It was like kryptonite. "Oh, you bought a video-- cool!" The man was putty in my hands, and when I added in a few bellydance moves of my own, the argument was officially over.
I then set myself to the task of putting cool new Star Wars skins onto the 2 gameboys I had bought for my little guys. Piece of cake. Then I broke out the pearlized pink gameboy hard-shell case I had bought for my daughter, which required the complete disassembly and reassembly of her gameboy. It was quickly clear to me that I did not have a screwdriver small enough for the job, so I jumped up, pulled on my husband's sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt over my nightgown, and shoved my sockless feet into some fuzzy Emus. "You look like a hobo," my husband said. "I don't care-- it's not like I'm going to see anybody I know at Walgreens at midnight."
Walgreens was packed with people. I got my screwdrivers and went to check out. "What are you doing here, and not at home with your kids?" I hear from across the store. Nice. Someone I know. It's the 18 year old boy who started karate around the same time I did last year, and who was my sparring partner when we were both orange belts. I babbled something about the stupidity of buying things off of eBay from Hong Kong and the world's smallest screwdriver, did my best hobo jig, and darted out the door. Very Ashlee Simpson.
I was up until 1:30 AM assembling that stupid Gameboy and getting the last few things ready for the kids, and then played tetris for 1/2 and hour before bedtime. I'm getting better at tetris, by the way, and can now make it to level 15 with ease.
Part Two: Christmas Eve at Home
As a family, we prayed, read scriptures, opened a few of our presents, and then sent the kids to bed. That was when I realized that I had left a few of the kids presents at my office. So, at about 8:30 pm, I dashed over to the warehouse. While I was there, I figured I'd go ahead and put some content on that snazzy little iPod I got. So, I opened up iTunes, and figured I might as well download a music video (something I've never done), just to see how it looks on the iPod. But, I knew that my husband the cheapskate was bound to make fun of me for buying a video to watch on a 2 X 1.5 inch screen, so I knew I had to choose my video wisely. I knew it had to be one with which he could not argue. I bought my video, updated my podcasts, and transferred it all over to the iPod. I called my husband to talk me through my exit (the warehouse is near a bit of a creepy, drug-problem and murder kind of neighborhood, so I always keep him on the phone with me while I leave, close the gate, and get back into the car), and headed home.
Once home, I broke out the iPod to show Daddy-O how cool it was. "I bought a music video," I said. He rolled his eyes and looked at me disapprovingly, but kept his silence. "What, you don't think I should have?" I asked. Silence. Glare. I started the video playing and smiled and danced. Still silence. Still glare. Now head-shaking. "You aren't right," he said. And then I flipped the iPod around to where he could see it and held it out as if threatening someone with a weapon. His eyes left my face, and landed upon Shakira in her full glory, bellydancing out of the ocean, strutting through a stampede, and crawling through mud. It was like kryptonite. "Oh, you bought a video-- cool!" The man was putty in my hands, and when I added in a few bellydance moves of my own, the argument was officially over.
I then set myself to the task of putting cool new Star Wars skins onto the 2 gameboys I had bought for my little guys. Piece of cake. Then I broke out the pearlized pink gameboy hard-shell case I had bought for my daughter, which required the complete disassembly and reassembly of her gameboy. It was quickly clear to me that I did not have a screwdriver small enough for the job, so I jumped up, pulled on my husband's sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt over my nightgown, and shoved my sockless feet into some fuzzy Emus. "You look like a hobo," my husband said. "I don't care-- it's not like I'm going to see anybody I know at Walgreens at midnight."
Walgreens was packed with people. I got my screwdrivers and went to check out. "What are you doing here, and not at home with your kids?" I hear from across the store. Nice. Someone I know. It's the 18 year old boy who started karate around the same time I did last year, and who was my sparring partner when we were both orange belts. I babbled something about the stupidity of buying things off of eBay from Hong Kong and the world's smallest screwdriver, did my best hobo jig, and darted out the door. Very Ashlee Simpson.
I was up until 1:30 AM assembling that stupid Gameboy and getting the last few things ready for the kids, and then played tetris for 1/2 and hour before bedtime. I'm getting better at tetris, by the way, and can now make it to level 15 with ease.
Christmas Day Shenanigans
So, we were awakened Christmas morning at 6:00 AM by children who couldn't wait to open presents. Daddy-O and I shuffled down the hall, plopped onto the floor, and prepared for the stampede of children rushing down the hall. They did not disappoint.
After opening presents, we realized our kids had enough electronic gadgetry and games, legos, Cabbage Patch Kids, building sets, books, and stocking stuffers to entertain them from now to eternity, and the grownups went back to bed. When I finally found it in me to open one eye, sometime around 8:30 am, I could smell something yummy cooking, but was too tired to care. It was 9:30 am before I was able to reopen first one, then the other eye. Daddy-O was in the corner of the bedroom, sitting in his reading chair and studying. "What is that smell?" I asked. Turns out he had been up since 7:30, and had made homemade cranberry sauce, vegetables, and had put a turkey in the oven. I love the fact that my husband can cook so well, especially since I am not good at any kind of kitchen activity except baking and being kissy-kissy.
We had a great lunch together, much more family prayer, and spent the day hanging out and generally just enjoying being together. We called all our family, and I got to talk to my Mema, whose Alzheimer's is pretty far along. She knew I was family, but I'm not convinced she knew which one of the girls (my mom, my aunt, my sister, or me) it was, what year it was, or how old I was. She asked me how I'm doing in school, and I said "great." She asked why I didn't just come on over, and I told her I live 10 hours away. "Oh, I thought you lived just over there. I wouldn't drive ten hours, either. I think I'd just stay put." I asked if she wanted to talk to my kids, and she said, "well, I'm not sure if I even remember who they are anymore." "They remember you," I said. She chatted with them for a while, asking about presents, asking about school, and asking how old they were, while my Aunt V. (who was there with her) gave her the picture we sent with our cards this year, so Mema would know who she was talking to. It was sad, because it's all progressed so quickly over the past year, and because I lived with her for a while as a child. But, she seemed happy, so I guess that is enough for now.
Our kids still have quiet time for 2 hours every day (nap, read, play quietly, no electronic games), and I laid on my bed with Short Stuff, turned on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert on PBS, and got some very special mommy snuggle time, followed by another 45 minute nap. It felt so good to just hold him in my arms, him running his little hands over my face and smiling at me as he fell asleep-- wow. Those are the times I love being a mom.
In the evening, we baked a birthday cake for the Christ child, gave the kids their baths, and tucked them into bed. Then, I played with my iPod. And Daddy-O grabbed the camera to get some happy-Christy-with-iPod pictures. I danced, I cheesed it up, I jumped on my bed, all the while with him snapping photos. Then I stopped to change playlists, and while I was looking at my iPod, he apparently took a zoomed in photo of... well... my chest. And looking at it in the review mode, he liked it so much that he geeked out and fumbled the camera, accidentally pitching it across the room. The battery cover part broke into about 14 pieces, the battery flew into our closet, and the camera, without power, was stuck in the open position on the bedroom floor. I wanted to be mad at him for breaking my camera, but was too flattered to get ugly, so I just got some super glue and started to work. 30 minutes later, and after using half a tube of super glue and a few strips of packing tape, the camera was again working. We have, however, placed a new camera on our shopping list, as it just feels way too ghetto to use a digital camera that is held together by packing tape.
Anyway, we really had a wonderful Christmas. It was the perfect blend of fun, reverence, family time, and celebration, and I'm just thankful to have my family. In spite of the things that sometimes don't go according to plan, they really are perfect for me, and I hope I'm perfect for them.
After opening presents, we realized our kids had enough electronic gadgetry and games, legos, Cabbage Patch Kids, building sets, books, and stocking stuffers to entertain them from now to eternity, and the grownups went back to bed. When I finally found it in me to open one eye, sometime around 8:30 am, I could smell something yummy cooking, but was too tired to care. It was 9:30 am before I was able to reopen first one, then the other eye. Daddy-O was in the corner of the bedroom, sitting in his reading chair and studying. "What is that smell?" I asked. Turns out he had been up since 7:30, and had made homemade cranberry sauce, vegetables, and had put a turkey in the oven. I love the fact that my husband can cook so well, especially since I am not good at any kind of kitchen activity except baking and being kissy-kissy.
We had a great lunch together, much more family prayer, and spent the day hanging out and generally just enjoying being together. We called all our family, and I got to talk to my Mema, whose Alzheimer's is pretty far along. She knew I was family, but I'm not convinced she knew which one of the girls (my mom, my aunt, my sister, or me) it was, what year it was, or how old I was. She asked me how I'm doing in school, and I said "great." She asked why I didn't just come on over, and I told her I live 10 hours away. "Oh, I thought you lived just over there. I wouldn't drive ten hours, either. I think I'd just stay put." I asked if she wanted to talk to my kids, and she said, "well, I'm not sure if I even remember who they are anymore." "They remember you," I said. She chatted with them for a while, asking about presents, asking about school, and asking how old they were, while my Aunt V. (who was there with her) gave her the picture we sent with our cards this year, so Mema would know who she was talking to. It was sad, because it's all progressed so quickly over the past year, and because I lived with her for a while as a child. But, she seemed happy, so I guess that is enough for now.
Our kids still have quiet time for 2 hours every day (nap, read, play quietly, no electronic games), and I laid on my bed with Short Stuff, turned on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert on PBS, and got some very special mommy snuggle time, followed by another 45 minute nap. It felt so good to just hold him in my arms, him running his little hands over my face and smiling at me as he fell asleep-- wow. Those are the times I love being a mom.
In the evening, we baked a birthday cake for the Christ child, gave the kids their baths, and tucked them into bed. Then, I played with my iPod. And Daddy-O grabbed the camera to get some happy-Christy-with-iPod pictures. I danced, I cheesed it up, I jumped on my bed, all the while with him snapping photos. Then I stopped to change playlists, and while I was looking at my iPod, he apparently took a zoomed in photo of... well... my chest. And looking at it in the review mode, he liked it so much that he geeked out and fumbled the camera, accidentally pitching it across the room. The battery cover part broke into about 14 pieces, the battery flew into our closet, and the camera, without power, was stuck in the open position on the bedroom floor. I wanted to be mad at him for breaking my camera, but was too flattered to get ugly, so I just got some super glue and started to work. 30 minutes later, and after using half a tube of super glue and a few strips of packing tape, the camera was again working. We have, however, placed a new camera on our shopping list, as it just feels way too ghetto to use a digital camera that is held together by packing tape.
Anyway, we really had a wonderful Christmas. It was the perfect blend of fun, reverence, family time, and celebration, and I'm just thankful to have my family. In spite of the things that sometimes don't go according to plan, they really are perfect for me, and I hope I'm perfect for them.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
So, no time to type a long blog post between the wheezing and gasping (my asthma acts up when I get too excited), but we just exchanged gifts with some of my family, and I am now the extreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemely happy owner of a 60GB video iPod.
You may all envy me now.
That is all.
You may all envy me now.
That is all.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Merry Christmas-- for real this time!
A few things, and then I'm done with blogging until after Christmas...
1) My baby sister is 24 today. Happy birthday, babe, and have a great time in Michigan snowboarding! I fully expect the video you promised of you "shreddin'" or whatever you call it.
2) Our annual family crappily-edited proves-we're-freaks iMovie is now up and available for viewing. If you know 1) my primary email address, and 2) how .mac homepages work, you can find it pretty easily. If you don't know my primary email address, it's probably because you just happened upon my blog sometime in the last few weeks. If you really want to see video of me lip-syncing "The Humpty Dance" and of my husband being incredibly white, you can email me at thinkingsoutherner at mac * com and I'll think about sending you a link.
3) Christmas is my favorite time of year, and even this year, which is a bit more confusing than most, there's a certain peace about me and my family. Growing up, our family had some fairly non-traditional Christmas traditions. We rarely ever attended church. Period. Except for the occasional visit to grandparents at Easter. For a good number of years, my stepdad had his own "House Call by S. Claus" business, and would do parties, deliveries, and business get-togethers as Santa, in a super-fly, high quality, real velvet suit and full theater makeup, including latexed aging on his face and hair-gray around his temples. So, Mom would sometimes work all day the day of the 24th, and then Dad would spend the afternoon and evening delivering presents to rich family's kids. My siblings and I would spend the evening circling the Christmas tree like birds of prey, counting the presents, sorting the presents, shaking the presents, sniffing the presents-- anything to pass the time until he came home. He'd usually get home sometime between 10 and 11 pm, and we'd groggily but excitedly tear into our presents as soon as Mom and Dad would let us. A tradition for our family, yes. But not very traditional. Such is the life of a weird entertainment family, and for the most part, that weird life was a lot of fun.
For quite a few years, my parents were instrumental in planning and pulling off the "Lowcountry Christmas Festival" in Charleston. My sibs and I tagged along, and got to help out wherever they'd let us. Some days, I'd help Margie with the decorating. We'd put up over 30 different color-coordinated or themed Christmas trees, from three-footers to the towering live trees that filled the two-story lobbies of the Gaillard Auditorium. Other years, I'd get to be a costumed character, and spend hours in a giant Ted E. Bear costume, hugging kids, dancing, posing for hundreds of pictures with little kids. Everything there smelled good-- from the cinnamon and spice in many of the decorations for sale, to the pine smell from the trees, to the fresh-baked bread smell that came from the booth that the local Mormon church set up each year. I'd gorge myself on fresh bread with homemade honey butter, funnel cakes, and other goodies, and wonder why every day of the year couldn't be as beautiful, wonderful, and warm as the inside of that auditorium was when the craft and gift vendors were set up. The Christmas festival was one of the first memories I ever have of Christmastime being truly magical.
The second was when I was 20 and going through a bit of a rough patch in my life. I was invited by one of the sisters of the Order of St. Helena to come spend a bit of time at their Augusta convent for Christmas, an opportunity I couldn't resist. Having primarily experienced the joys of a warm and inviting, but thoroughly secularized, Christmas, being in a place whose sole purpose is to glorify God and be His instrument at a time of year that we celebrate the birth of Christ-- that was incredible. Sister Rosina, who came to the United States from Ghana many years ago to become a nun, and who is now an ordained Episcopal priest, led a beautiful ceremony in which we blessed the creche. Her Sunday homily focused on the dangers of allowing a completely secular and cultural Christmas to overpower the quiet and subtle, yet mystical and profound, true message of the birth of Christ. What had originally been intended as a three or four day getaway to celebrate Christmas at the convent became a 2 month hiatus from my regular life, during which time I was able to give myself fully to praying on, thinking about, reading about, and otherwise exploring what that infant's birth truly meant for me, and for the world.
Now, I have children of my own. I've been fairly deliberate about the kinds of Christmas memories I want to create for them. Not wanting to completely extract our family from the culture in which we live, I've tried to blend societal, cultural, family, and religious traditions into something we can all be pleased to remember. We have a tree and presents and all that... The children each get to open one present from underneath the tree to open on Christmas Eve, and the rest are for Christmas Day. We've never told our children Santa brings gifts; they just know that the real St. Nicholas, on whom the Santa story is based, lived a long time ago, and that now lots of people act as "Santa's Helpers" to make Christmas special for children and families, and that the mystery is in who your particular Santa's helpers are. Before bedtime on Christmas Eve, we read nativity stories from the Bible, and pray together as a family. On Christmas Day, after we've opened the rest of the presents, we bake a birthday cake for the Christ Child, and either spend more time with family, or go to church (as we will this Sunday).
This is what I want my children to take from our family's Christmas traditions-- that Christmas is a time to celebrate the birth of Jesus, the promise of God's love, and the warmth of a family. It's a time to enjoy the fun and magic of gift-giving, tiny lights reflecting off of shiny ornaments, warm cake just out of the oven that crumbles in your fingers, the smell of pumpkin bread and cinnamon, the sounds of beautiful music and kids playing with new toys, and being reminded, once again, that your family will always love you and be there for you. This is what I want to take from Christmas for myself. This is what Christmas means.
I don't think any of us can escape our society's messages about Christmas, even if we tried. And trying, in the end, often leaves us looking silly and combative, unwilling or unable to participate in a society that doesn't believe exactly as we do. Is that really the message of Christ? I can't take our cultural, secular Christmas traditions and pretend that they don't exist; I can only transform them into meaningful messages that extend beyond consumerism and fictions... I can't change them for everyone, but I can change how my children do now, and always will view such traditions... as only a small part of a much greater celebration.
Whatever and however you celebrate this time of year, may it be truly meaningful to you and to those around you. And if you celebrate Christmas, Merry Christmas from our family to yours. May wisdom be ours this Christmas season, and may we always follow what is true and holy.
Matthew 2: 1-2
1 Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem,
2 Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.
1) My baby sister is 24 today. Happy birthday, babe, and have a great time in Michigan snowboarding! I fully expect the video you promised of you "shreddin'" or whatever you call it.
2) Our annual family crappily-edited proves-we're-freaks iMovie is now up and available for viewing. If you know 1) my primary email address, and 2) how .mac homepages work, you can find it pretty easily. If you don't know my primary email address, it's probably because you just happened upon my blog sometime in the last few weeks. If you really want to see video of me lip-syncing "The Humpty Dance" and of my husband being incredibly white, you can email me at thinkingsoutherner at mac * com and I'll think about sending you a link.
3) Christmas is my favorite time of year, and even this year, which is a bit more confusing than most, there's a certain peace about me and my family. Growing up, our family had some fairly non-traditional Christmas traditions. We rarely ever attended church. Period. Except for the occasional visit to grandparents at Easter. For a good number of years, my stepdad had his own "House Call by S. Claus" business, and would do parties, deliveries, and business get-togethers as Santa, in a super-fly, high quality, real velvet suit and full theater makeup, including latexed aging on his face and hair-gray around his temples. So, Mom would sometimes work all day the day of the 24th, and then Dad would spend the afternoon and evening delivering presents to rich family's kids. My siblings and I would spend the evening circling the Christmas tree like birds of prey, counting the presents, sorting the presents, shaking the presents, sniffing the presents-- anything to pass the time until he came home. He'd usually get home sometime between 10 and 11 pm, and we'd groggily but excitedly tear into our presents as soon as Mom and Dad would let us. A tradition for our family, yes. But not very traditional. Such is the life of a weird entertainment family, and for the most part, that weird life was a lot of fun.
For quite a few years, my parents were instrumental in planning and pulling off the "Lowcountry Christmas Festival" in Charleston. My sibs and I tagged along, and got to help out wherever they'd let us. Some days, I'd help Margie with the decorating. We'd put up over 30 different color-coordinated or themed Christmas trees, from three-footers to the towering live trees that filled the two-story lobbies of the Gaillard Auditorium. Other years, I'd get to be a costumed character, and spend hours in a giant Ted E. Bear costume, hugging kids, dancing, posing for hundreds of pictures with little kids. Everything there smelled good-- from the cinnamon and spice in many of the decorations for sale, to the pine smell from the trees, to the fresh-baked bread smell that came from the booth that the local Mormon church set up each year. I'd gorge myself on fresh bread with homemade honey butter, funnel cakes, and other goodies, and wonder why every day of the year couldn't be as beautiful, wonderful, and warm as the inside of that auditorium was when the craft and gift vendors were set up. The Christmas festival was one of the first memories I ever have of Christmastime being truly magical.
The second was when I was 20 and going through a bit of a rough patch in my life. I was invited by one of the sisters of the Order of St. Helena to come spend a bit of time at their Augusta convent for Christmas, an opportunity I couldn't resist. Having primarily experienced the joys of a warm and inviting, but thoroughly secularized, Christmas, being in a place whose sole purpose is to glorify God and be His instrument at a time of year that we celebrate the birth of Christ-- that was incredible. Sister Rosina, who came to the United States from Ghana many years ago to become a nun, and who is now an ordained Episcopal priest, led a beautiful ceremony in which we blessed the creche. Her Sunday homily focused on the dangers of allowing a completely secular and cultural Christmas to overpower the quiet and subtle, yet mystical and profound, true message of the birth of Christ. What had originally been intended as a three or four day getaway to celebrate Christmas at the convent became a 2 month hiatus from my regular life, during which time I was able to give myself fully to praying on, thinking about, reading about, and otherwise exploring what that infant's birth truly meant for me, and for the world.
Now, I have children of my own. I've been fairly deliberate about the kinds of Christmas memories I want to create for them. Not wanting to completely extract our family from the culture in which we live, I've tried to blend societal, cultural, family, and religious traditions into something we can all be pleased to remember. We have a tree and presents and all that... The children each get to open one present from underneath the tree to open on Christmas Eve, and the rest are for Christmas Day. We've never told our children Santa brings gifts; they just know that the real St. Nicholas, on whom the Santa story is based, lived a long time ago, and that now lots of people act as "Santa's Helpers" to make Christmas special for children and families, and that the mystery is in who your particular Santa's helpers are. Before bedtime on Christmas Eve, we read nativity stories from the Bible, and pray together as a family. On Christmas Day, after we've opened the rest of the presents, we bake a birthday cake for the Christ Child, and either spend more time with family, or go to church (as we will this Sunday).
This is what I want my children to take from our family's Christmas traditions-- that Christmas is a time to celebrate the birth of Jesus, the promise of God's love, and the warmth of a family. It's a time to enjoy the fun and magic of gift-giving, tiny lights reflecting off of shiny ornaments, warm cake just out of the oven that crumbles in your fingers, the smell of pumpkin bread and cinnamon, the sounds of beautiful music and kids playing with new toys, and being reminded, once again, that your family will always love you and be there for you. This is what I want to take from Christmas for myself. This is what Christmas means.
I don't think any of us can escape our society's messages about Christmas, even if we tried. And trying, in the end, often leaves us looking silly and combative, unwilling or unable to participate in a society that doesn't believe exactly as we do. Is that really the message of Christ? I can't take our cultural, secular Christmas traditions and pretend that they don't exist; I can only transform them into meaningful messages that extend beyond consumerism and fictions... I can't change them for everyone, but I can change how my children do now, and always will view such traditions... as only a small part of a much greater celebration.
Whatever and however you celebrate this time of year, may it be truly meaningful to you and to those around you. And if you celebrate Christmas, Merry Christmas from our family to yours. May wisdom be ours this Christmas season, and may we always follow what is true and holy.
Matthew 2: 1-2
1 Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem,
2 Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.
Geekasm
A kind blog reader recently emailed me a video of a man who was clearly enjoying building his new dream mac waaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy too much. "Ha ha," I laughed, from the superiority of one who is not as susceptible to such technology-induced love frenzies. "I am not that much of a geek."
And then today, I built my podcasting dream cart online, complete with two nice but inexpensive condenser microphones (ooooooooooh), some cables and stuff (aaaaaaaahhhhhhh), and the Presonus Firebox complete with two preamp mic inputs, 2 analog inputs, 10 different outputs, firewire interface, and Cubase LE audio editing software, which completely did me in. After clicking "Add to cart," I noticed a warm feeling spreading through my body that is usually only put there by candlelit evenings listening to Joss Stone or John Mayer...... Smooth, yet satisfying. I'm in love. I feel so dirty. ;-)
Maybe I am a little more of a geek than I suspected.
My friend Maher makes fun of me for being a closeted geek. This from a man who (the last time I was there) had 6 computers (count them: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) in his one-bedroom bachelor pad. Six flippin' computers, in a two room apartment. SIX! "Hey, I need them to practice setting up and maintaining networks for my exams and all." Yeah. Or maybe, you're just a geek.
His comeback: "Well, at least I don't have one of those keychain flash drive thingies actually on my key ring like you do." Yes, but I only have two computers, neither very fancy-- one desktop and one laptop. And you can walk through my home without tripping over network cables strewn all over the couch, coffee table, and Xbox.
But maybe he's right. Maybe I am a geek. I did buy my husband a swiss army knife with a built-in 512MB flash drive for Christmas. Such a mind-boggling combination of manly, geek, and redneck all in one little piece of Christmas magic-- I had to have it for him.
Anyway, I may or may not buy the sweet little number I'd like to own-- I still have about a week until I make my final purchase-- but a girl can dream, can't she?
Edited at 11:15 AM to add one more link, because it feels so good to click on it.
Edited at 3:50 pm, because one more time can't hurt. Yeah.
And then today, I built my podcasting dream cart online, complete with two nice but inexpensive condenser microphones (ooooooooooh), some cables and stuff (aaaaaaaahhhhhhh), and the Presonus Firebox complete with two preamp mic inputs, 2 analog inputs, 10 different outputs, firewire interface, and Cubase LE audio editing software, which completely did me in. After clicking "Add to cart," I noticed a warm feeling spreading through my body that is usually only put there by candlelit evenings listening to Joss Stone or John Mayer...... Smooth, yet satisfying. I'm in love. I feel so dirty. ;-)
Maybe I am a little more of a geek than I suspected.
My friend Maher makes fun of me for being a closeted geek. This from a man who (the last time I was there) had 6 computers (count them: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) in his one-bedroom bachelor pad. Six flippin' computers, in a two room apartment. SIX! "Hey, I need them to practice setting up and maintaining networks for my exams and all." Yeah. Or maybe, you're just a geek.
His comeback: "Well, at least I don't have one of those keychain flash drive thingies actually on my key ring like you do." Yes, but I only have two computers, neither very fancy-- one desktop and one laptop. And you can walk through my home without tripping over network cables strewn all over the couch, coffee table, and Xbox.
But maybe he's right. Maybe I am a geek. I did buy my husband a swiss army knife with a built-in 512MB flash drive for Christmas. Such a mind-boggling combination of manly, geek, and redneck all in one little piece of Christmas magic-- I had to have it for him.
Anyway, I may or may not buy the sweet little number I'd like to own-- I still have about a week until I make my final purchase-- but a girl can dream, can't she?
Edited at 11:15 AM to add one more link, because it feels so good to click on it.
Edited at 3:50 pm, because one more time can't hurt. Yeah.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
connectivity
It's amazing how we, as humans, have this innate desire to connect with each other-- to be accepted by, reach out to, and be reached by others. We're social creatures, really, not just in the sense of meeting a sociologically evolved need for protection, but in the fuller sense of having our own humanity and experiences validated by contact between, friendships with, and respect from other people.
Today, on my lunch break, I spent a bit of time speaking with a woman from my church for my next podcast (which should be out in a day or two). I met her through her little girl, I*. I* is a beautiful 5 year old girl with long eyelashes and gorgeous latte-brown skin, and she's in the Wednesday night kindergarten girls' class I taught at church until just last week. She's smart, sharp, and thoughtful, and was one of the two girls in that class that could always read the memory verse (my daughter is the other). Each week, I'd ask for prayer requests before our prayer time, and each week she would say, in her precious little voice, "please pray for my daddy." So, each week, we would pray for I*'s daddy, along with grandmas and grandpas, pets that had died, and boo-boos that needed healing.
I*'s mom volunteers each Wednesday night in the infant nursery at church, and I've always seen her as a quiet and shy kind of person. She's always alone taking care of her 3 children (ages 5 and younger), and blushes a bit when I tell her how wonderful I* is to have in my class. A few weeks back, at Wednesday night dinner before classes, I mentioned to her that I* always asks us to pray for her daddy. Her mom, K*, smiled and said that I* is always so thoughtful, and then told me why I* requests prayer for her daddy. It turns out that he has been in jail for the past two years without a trial, although he has a trial date set for May. Although K* believes firmly in his innocence, he stands accused of a serious crime, and there are no guarantees that he will be coming home any time soon. K* is now 25 years old, and went from dedicated wife and mother to single mom in the 20 minutes it took for her husband to be arrested.
I spent two weeks deciding if, when, and how to let her know I'd love to give her the opportunity to share her story on my podcast, before just going up and asking last week. I was so nervous, not that she would say no, but that she would think I'm an idiot or a jerk for even asking. Instead, she almost started to cry: "People almost always seem to forget that there's a family left behind... We get lost... I would love the opportunity to share my situation with others...." So, we set a date-- today at lunchtime.
I was nervous going to her home-- I'm not a professional at this, and would I know the right questions to ask? Would I put my foot in my mouth? I have a good bit of counseling training from seminary and over 2 years' experience at pastoral counseling from my time as a chaplain, but this was going to be different. I'm not there to counsel; I'm there to listen, to be a friend, and to give a voice to someone who has spent far too much of her life, to use her words, lost... ignored.
I pulled in to the drive and went past a long row of beat up singlewide trailers before finding hers. After her husband was jailed, K* had to quit her job, and relocated to a mobile home that had been given to her, on a lot with extremely low rent. In spite of the humble housing, it was warm and home-y, with nice candles burning, a tree decorated in the corner, and several small boxes wrapped neatly under the tree. I sat down onto the slightly lumpy, old, brown couch, and started to set up my recording stuff (I bought two new lapel microphones to try to get better sound quality on the outings this time). I was wondering how to begin the conversation, when K* spoke up.
"I can use our first names only, can't I?"
"Sure. You can say as little or as much as you want. This is your story, and I'll let you tell it the way you want."
"What if I start to cry-- is that okay?"
"Hey, I wore waterproof mascara today, just in case I cry with you. If you need to stop at any time, let me know and I'll shut off the recorder. And I can always go back in later and edit out anything you tell me you'd rather not have in."
"Talking about what got me through this, I'm going to talk a lot about God. Is that okay?"
"Of course. I don't censor content-- this is your story to tell."
There was a bit of a silence while K* thought for a while. When she spoke again, my heart dropped.
"I gave a baby up for adoption when I was 16. Can I talk about that before you leave? Will you put that in your podcast?"
It was then that it hit me-- hard-- how much we, as humans, crave being heard... being understood. I guess that's a big part of the premise behind my starting the kind of podcast I have. So many people out there-- people we just pass right by every day without ever giving a second thought, people we see as quiet and reserved, people who walk through our lives each week and we never even get close enough to realize that they're just barely putting one foot in front of the other, hoping that somehow, they'll make it through-- with a story to tell. I've been there. It's lonely. And sometimes, getting to tell someone the contents of our heart isn't an obligation or a chore; it's an opportunity for outpouring that is welcomed into a life in which you feel nobody wants to listen.
I assured K* that although I may not fit it into this episode of the podcast, I definitely would welcome her story, perhaps for a future podcast incorporating several different perspectives about adoption. Several times over the course of the interview, K* asked me to turn off the recorder, and shared even more about her life that strengthened my conviction that she is an overcomer of great character. After recording, she joined me for lunch, and we had some of the best conversation I've had in a while.
I'm sure there will be plenty of people with amazing stories of heartache and/or triumph that will not want to talk with me about it at all, much less for public broadcast. But if I'm right, and I suspect that I am, many of us are suffering from the way our society has tended to rip us apart from meaningful social networks (unless we deliberately preserve and create networks for social connectivity). And if, from the quiet and unspoken suffering of our isolation, we could reach out to others, be heard, speak out, and change perceptions, I think many of us would jump at the chance.
...................................
I'm about to leave my office, and head home for the night. I'll be driving home to a relatively small apartment, with three children who fight too much and a husband who wishes he could give us all more. We have the same crappy fake Christmas tree we've had for the past 3 years, and half of the beautiful matching Christmas ornaments I bought last year have been broken. There are more presents under our tree than in recent years, thanks to a generous holiday bonus I got at work. When I get home, my husband will go out for a few hours to study for his upcoming teacher certification exams, and I'll try to keep the kids from killing each other until bedtime, all the while trying to catch up on the cleaning that doesn't get done during the day. After the kids are in bed, I'll start to edit the audio from today into a podcast, and hearing it will remind me of some of the less-than-enviable things we're now going through as a family. I'll cry a little, and edit some more, and pretty soon my husband will come back home. At some bizarre hour, I'll crawl into bed next to my soul mate, and as I'm laying there having trouble falling asleep, like I've done every night for the past month, it will dawn on me that I am so completely blessed to have my children and my husband, a home that meets all our needs, a job where all the employees are treated well and spoiled rotten, and a life about which I really can't complain.
Look around you, people, and then give thanks. For every thing we can each find wrong with our lives, there are so many things that are right. Thank God.
Today, on my lunch break, I spent a bit of time speaking with a woman from my church for my next podcast (which should be out in a day or two). I met her through her little girl, I*. I* is a beautiful 5 year old girl with long eyelashes and gorgeous latte-brown skin, and she's in the Wednesday night kindergarten girls' class I taught at church until just last week. She's smart, sharp, and thoughtful, and was one of the two girls in that class that could always read the memory verse (my daughter is the other). Each week, I'd ask for prayer requests before our prayer time, and each week she would say, in her precious little voice, "please pray for my daddy." So, each week, we would pray for I*'s daddy, along with grandmas and grandpas, pets that had died, and boo-boos that needed healing.
I*'s mom volunteers each Wednesday night in the infant nursery at church, and I've always seen her as a quiet and shy kind of person. She's always alone taking care of her 3 children (ages 5 and younger), and blushes a bit when I tell her how wonderful I* is to have in my class. A few weeks back, at Wednesday night dinner before classes, I mentioned to her that I* always asks us to pray for her daddy. Her mom, K*, smiled and said that I* is always so thoughtful, and then told me why I* requests prayer for her daddy. It turns out that he has been in jail for the past two years without a trial, although he has a trial date set for May. Although K* believes firmly in his innocence, he stands accused of a serious crime, and there are no guarantees that he will be coming home any time soon. K* is now 25 years old, and went from dedicated wife and mother to single mom in the 20 minutes it took for her husband to be arrested.
I spent two weeks deciding if, when, and how to let her know I'd love to give her the opportunity to share her story on my podcast, before just going up and asking last week. I was so nervous, not that she would say no, but that she would think I'm an idiot or a jerk for even asking. Instead, she almost started to cry: "People almost always seem to forget that there's a family left behind... We get lost... I would love the opportunity to share my situation with others...." So, we set a date-- today at lunchtime.
I was nervous going to her home-- I'm not a professional at this, and would I know the right questions to ask? Would I put my foot in my mouth? I have a good bit of counseling training from seminary and over 2 years' experience at pastoral counseling from my time as a chaplain, but this was going to be different. I'm not there to counsel; I'm there to listen, to be a friend, and to give a voice to someone who has spent far too much of her life, to use her words, lost... ignored.
I pulled in to the drive and went past a long row of beat up singlewide trailers before finding hers. After her husband was jailed, K* had to quit her job, and relocated to a mobile home that had been given to her, on a lot with extremely low rent. In spite of the humble housing, it was warm and home-y, with nice candles burning, a tree decorated in the corner, and several small boxes wrapped neatly under the tree. I sat down onto the slightly lumpy, old, brown couch, and started to set up my recording stuff (I bought two new lapel microphones to try to get better sound quality on the outings this time). I was wondering how to begin the conversation, when K* spoke up.
"I can use our first names only, can't I?"
"Sure. You can say as little or as much as you want. This is your story, and I'll let you tell it the way you want."
"What if I start to cry-- is that okay?"
"Hey, I wore waterproof mascara today, just in case I cry with you. If you need to stop at any time, let me know and I'll shut off the recorder. And I can always go back in later and edit out anything you tell me you'd rather not have in."
"Talking about what got me through this, I'm going to talk a lot about God. Is that okay?"
"Of course. I don't censor content-- this is your story to tell."
There was a bit of a silence while K* thought for a while. When she spoke again, my heart dropped.
"I gave a baby up for adoption when I was 16. Can I talk about that before you leave? Will you put that in your podcast?"
It was then that it hit me-- hard-- how much we, as humans, crave being heard... being understood. I guess that's a big part of the premise behind my starting the kind of podcast I have. So many people out there-- people we just pass right by every day without ever giving a second thought, people we see as quiet and reserved, people who walk through our lives each week and we never even get close enough to realize that they're just barely putting one foot in front of the other, hoping that somehow, they'll make it through-- with a story to tell. I've been there. It's lonely. And sometimes, getting to tell someone the contents of our heart isn't an obligation or a chore; it's an opportunity for outpouring that is welcomed into a life in which you feel nobody wants to listen.
I assured K* that although I may not fit it into this episode of the podcast, I definitely would welcome her story, perhaps for a future podcast incorporating several different perspectives about adoption. Several times over the course of the interview, K* asked me to turn off the recorder, and shared even more about her life that strengthened my conviction that she is an overcomer of great character. After recording, she joined me for lunch, and we had some of the best conversation I've had in a while.
I'm sure there will be plenty of people with amazing stories of heartache and/or triumph that will not want to talk with me about it at all, much less for public broadcast. But if I'm right, and I suspect that I am, many of us are suffering from the way our society has tended to rip us apart from meaningful social networks (unless we deliberately preserve and create networks for social connectivity). And if, from the quiet and unspoken suffering of our isolation, we could reach out to others, be heard, speak out, and change perceptions, I think many of us would jump at the chance.
...................................
I'm about to leave my office, and head home for the night. I'll be driving home to a relatively small apartment, with three children who fight too much and a husband who wishes he could give us all more. We have the same crappy fake Christmas tree we've had for the past 3 years, and half of the beautiful matching Christmas ornaments I bought last year have been broken. There are more presents under our tree than in recent years, thanks to a generous holiday bonus I got at work. When I get home, my husband will go out for a few hours to study for his upcoming teacher certification exams, and I'll try to keep the kids from killing each other until bedtime, all the while trying to catch up on the cleaning that doesn't get done during the day. After the kids are in bed, I'll start to edit the audio from today into a podcast, and hearing it will remind me of some of the less-than-enviable things we're now going through as a family. I'll cry a little, and edit some more, and pretty soon my husband will come back home. At some bizarre hour, I'll crawl into bed next to my soul mate, and as I'm laying there having trouble falling asleep, like I've done every night for the past month, it will dawn on me that I am so completely blessed to have my children and my husband, a home that meets all our needs, a job where all the employees are treated well and spoiled rotten, and a life about which I really can't complain.
Look around you, people, and then give thanks. For every thing we can each find wrong with our lives, there are so many things that are right. Thank God.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Great Smoky Mountains
A few weeks ago, my daughter, who is 5, commented that some hill we were driving by was "a really big mountain."
"Sweetie, have you ever seen real mountains?"
"Yeah, mom, remember? We played on some big clay mountains at Mema's house." My Mema and Papa's house has a big hilly red clay area out back. This child has never seen real mountains, which means that her little brother hasn't either.
So, Daddy-O and I decided that rather than go home on interstates through Atlanta, we would go up to Chattanooga and then cut across the Appalachians. We didn't say anything to the kids about it-- we just figured we'd wait to see how long it took for them to notice the change in scenery.
It was a brilliant plan-- the kids loved being in the mountains, and we stopped off a few times for good views and little creeks. Then came the part that wasn't in the plan: Short Stuff, who had really bad chest congestion all weekend, started puking up mucus once we were about 45 minutes off of the interstate and on curvy mountain roads. We stopped a few times to take care of him and change his clothes ("We don't have to tell anyone I was outside in the mountains in my underwear and no pants, do we, mommy?"), and finally found an old McDonald's bag and gave it to him for if he got sick again. "Mom, do you have a pen?" asked Funky Monkey. "No, Funky Monkey, we are not going to write 'barf bag' on it," I asserted. Apparently his 9 year old sense of humor had been thwarted by my momminess--"Aw, man!"
By the time we got the puking all taken care of, the kids were getting hungry (we had eaten an early lunch), and we stopped for dinner. We got back on the road, and the sun started to set. That was when it occurred to us that we had picked some of the most mountainous, curvy paths to take, so that the kids would have stunning views the whole way home. We did not anticipate being delayed by a few hours, and taking these roads at night, with neither of us being experienced mountain-drivers.
Can I just say that the "Great Smoky Mountains" are not so great to navigate after dark when you aren't familiar with the roads and are not a mountain native? We spent FOUR hours driving 15 mph in the dark on winding mountain roads with terrifying dropoffs and no guardrail. Sassy Pants started crying about 1 hour into it.
"Why are you crying?"
"Because I'm scared?" *blows nose*
"Oh, baby, don't be scared! Why are you scared?"
"Because we're lost." sniff sniff
"Honey, we're not lost. We have a map, and we know where we're going."
This is where Short Stuff (the 4 year old firecracker) chimed in: "I think I saw a sign back there that says there's monsters ahead!"
Sassy Pants again: "Shut up! I know there's no such thing as monsters!"
Short Stuff: "Well, I thought I saw a sign, anyway."
Me: "There are no monsters, no signs about monsters, and we're not lost. I saw the map, and this road does go to South Carolina. It's just a curvy, hilly road, and we have to take it slowly. That's all."
This quieted the fretting for a bit, until we had been driving for another couple of hours on winding roads, and came upon a state line sign: Welcome to Georgia!
Funky Monkey read the sign out loud, and major freaking out ensued in the backseats.
"We are lost! I knew it!"
"I thought you said this road went to South Carolina?"
"Oh, great. Georgia. We're never going to get home."
I did my best stern mom bit: "Chill out, guys. We're not lost. We are going to South Carolina." Then I turned to Daddy-O, and under my breath muttered, "check the map."
Turns out, Highway 28 does a bit of a turn through Georgia for a few miles before heading into Oconee county, South Carolina. No problem. Not lost.
The rest of the drive home was pretty uneventful, which is fine by me, as driving 4 hours on death-trap roads was event enough. Oh yeah, one final note: If you are ever passing through South Carolina and see a sign for a town named "Walhalla," please be advised that the locals do not say "wall' ha la" like my Sarasota-raised Floridian husband does. If you're in the Carolina lowcountry, it's pronounced "Wawl hah' luh." If you're in the upstate, where we live and where Walhalla is actually located, you gotta get a little more redneck with it. "Wawl holler" will suffice.
"Sweetie, have you ever seen real mountains?"
"Yeah, mom, remember? We played on some big clay mountains at Mema's house." My Mema and Papa's house has a big hilly red clay area out back. This child has never seen real mountains, which means that her little brother hasn't either.
So, Daddy-O and I decided that rather than go home on interstates through Atlanta, we would go up to Chattanooga and then cut across the Appalachians. We didn't say anything to the kids about it-- we just figured we'd wait to see how long it took for them to notice the change in scenery.
It was a brilliant plan-- the kids loved being in the mountains, and we stopped off a few times for good views and little creeks. Then came the part that wasn't in the plan: Short Stuff, who had really bad chest congestion all weekend, started puking up mucus once we were about 45 minutes off of the interstate and on curvy mountain roads. We stopped a few times to take care of him and change his clothes ("We don't have to tell anyone I was outside in the mountains in my underwear and no pants, do we, mommy?"), and finally found an old McDonald's bag and gave it to him for if he got sick again. "Mom, do you have a pen?" asked Funky Monkey. "No, Funky Monkey, we are not going to write 'barf bag' on it," I asserted. Apparently his 9 year old sense of humor had been thwarted by my momminess--"Aw, man!"
By the time we got the puking all taken care of, the kids were getting hungry (we had eaten an early lunch), and we stopped for dinner. We got back on the road, and the sun started to set. That was when it occurred to us that we had picked some of the most mountainous, curvy paths to take, so that the kids would have stunning views the whole way home. We did not anticipate being delayed by a few hours, and taking these roads at night, with neither of us being experienced mountain-drivers.
Can I just say that the "Great Smoky Mountains" are not so great to navigate after dark when you aren't familiar with the roads and are not a mountain native? We spent FOUR hours driving 15 mph in the dark on winding mountain roads with terrifying dropoffs and no guardrail. Sassy Pants started crying about 1 hour into it.
"Why are you crying?"
"Because I'm scared?" *blows nose*
"Oh, baby, don't be scared! Why are you scared?"
"Because we're lost." sniff sniff
"Honey, we're not lost. We have a map, and we know where we're going."
This is where Short Stuff (the 4 year old firecracker) chimed in: "I think I saw a sign back there that says there's monsters ahead!"
Sassy Pants again: "Shut up! I know there's no such thing as monsters!"
Short Stuff: "Well, I thought I saw a sign, anyway."
Me: "There are no monsters, no signs about monsters, and we're not lost. I saw the map, and this road does go to South Carolina. It's just a curvy, hilly road, and we have to take it slowly. That's all."
This quieted the fretting for a bit, until we had been driving for another couple of hours on winding roads, and came upon a state line sign: Welcome to Georgia!
Funky Monkey read the sign out loud, and major freaking out ensued in the backseats.
"We are lost! I knew it!"
"I thought you said this road went to South Carolina?"
"Oh, great. Georgia. We're never going to get home."
I did my best stern mom bit: "Chill out, guys. We're not lost. We are going to South Carolina." Then I turned to Daddy-O, and under my breath muttered, "check the map."
Turns out, Highway 28 does a bit of a turn through Georgia for a few miles before heading into Oconee county, South Carolina. No problem. Not lost.
The rest of the drive home was pretty uneventful, which is fine by me, as driving 4 hours on death-trap roads was event enough. Oh yeah, one final note: If you are ever passing through South Carolina and see a sign for a town named "Walhalla," please be advised that the locals do not say "wall' ha la" like my Sarasota-raised Floridian husband does. If you're in the Carolina lowcountry, it's pronounced "Wawl hah' luh." If you're in the upstate, where we live and where Walhalla is actually located, you gotta get a little more redneck with it. "Wawl holler" will suffice.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
History Podcast
Okay, so another of my favorite podcasts is the History Podcast with Jason Watts. And this should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, as I am a total history nerd. Not necessarily a knowledgeable history buff, but a passionate history nerd, nonetheless. Having contributed a podcast on Francis Marion once before, I can say that it was a blast, even though I got more email feedback about my accent than about the content of the podcast (you naughty little midwesterners!). Jason, whose dedication and consistency in putting out a great podcast that usually comes out a few times each week is rare and admirable, works hard to keep it coming, and definitely deserves a break every now and then. So, I decided I'd put that little 4 year degree in Religious Studies to work, and submit a podcast about the New Thought movement. Having focused on new religious movements in the United States in college, I figured it would be interesting, although I know religion is a touchy subject for some, and wasn't sure if Jason would be able to use it. Apparently, he liked it!
Check it out!
Check it out!
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Small Town Christmas
(Advance apology: I'm making this post from my laptop, which had almost all the keys ripped off a couple of years ago when Short Stuff was 2, and the M and W keys never went back on right. So, I will try to proofread, but if there is a missing M or W, love me anyway.)
Ahhhhhh... family time. Much needed, much wanted, much appreciated. It's funny how I tend to let things get more and more hectic, partially so that I won't have to think as much about some of what's going on in my life, that when I finally slow down, I can't decide if I'm going to cry, enjoy my weekend, or just fall asleep.
This part of Alabama is beautiful-- foothills, little winding creeks, and crisp, cold weather. We're visiting my mother-in-law and her family, and getting to visit also with Daddy-O's little sister, who is my age and a single mom of a little guy about the same age as Sassy Pants. It is nice. It is peaceful.
This morning, MIL asked if I wanted us to try to go to the Christmas parade. My mind went a little something like this: "Parade? Ack! Sitting outside in too-cold weather, trying to wrangle my children and keep them from running into the street, while watching one crappy small-town papier-mache'd float after another stroll along, cheesy beauty queens, and a guy with a cheapSatan Santa costume wave out of obligation... Sounds positively frightful." Call me a grinch-- I don't care. I'm really just a homebody, most of the time. But in spite of the humbug happening in my head, what came out of my mouth was, "Wow. That would be nice."
We rushed to get everyone ready in time, and sprinted out the door 20 minutes before parade time. "Mom," said Funky Monkey. "I don't want to go to some stupid parade. I'd rather just stay here and play." "Nonsense," I said in my most enthusiastic game-show-host voice. "This is going to be fun!" He didn't seem convinced. I leaned in a little closer, so that nobody else would hear me. "Listen, kid, I don't want to go to this parade either. But, it's going to be fine, we're going to have a good time, and Grandma is excited to be taking us. If I can stuff it and smile, you can, too." Now, realizing we're on the same team, he smiled and nodded. Our little secret, you know. He kind of likes the idea of us being in cahoots-- us being in it together and all. Camaraderie. Cool. Especially if you're 9, and your younger brother and sister are not in on the secret.
We arrived at the parade site just before the start time, and were shuffled by the local police into a parking zone near where a bunch of horses and riders were gearing up for the big hoopty-doo. So, I hopped from the car, toting both of my cameras, and we settled in along the route. Chelsea, Alabama, has a population of around 3,000 people. I'd estimate that about 400 of them were lined up along the route near us. Another 400 or so of them were actually in the parade. For all my grumbling, it turned out to be so much fun! For starters, any parade in which candy, stuffed animals, footballs, beach balls, green tea, and bead necklaces are thrown at you without any expectation of nudity is A-okay in my book. Some of the kids on the floats were so carried away, that they sadistically pelted the onlookers with candy, so much so that all would duck and scream when the floats came by. One float had a little boy on it who was gleefully and repetitively shouting, "We celebrate Hanukkah! Wheeeeeeeeeee!" while flinging candy violently at the onlookers. He seemed so happy and full of joy, I almost didn't mind when the dum dum lollipop he had fired at me like a spear almost took my eye out.
And then the float for the local Curves gym worked its' way up the road. I could see that they were flinging larger-than-candy objects off the float like frisbees. Could it be...? Is it really...? My heart raced with anticipation. I shot out of the crowd, tripping over roadside piles of leaves and knocking down small children, determined to claim mine... And then I saw it being sailed toward me, and I flew through the air with the kind of slow-mo agility seen in The Matrix, and caught it in my hand as I landed on the ground. A banana flavored Moon Pie. Ahhhhhhhh, the Deep South. Hallelujah and praise Alabama. I love Moon Pies. :-) Now, whether or not a weight-loss gym tossing Moon Pies into a crowd of sugar-crazed individuals constitutes a breach of ethics-- who knows. As for me and my Moon Pie, we don't care.
Shortly thereafter came the float for a local native tribe... As they drove by, I yelled out a heart-felt "Happy Holidays!" A lady on the float yelled something back that I didn't understand. Seeing my look of confusion, she added, "It means 'Merry Christmas' in Cherokee!"
After the parade, we came back to the house to rest for a while before opening presents.Three things about presents:
1) Whoever it is that designed the humongous Hot Wheels thingy that Short Stuff got from Grandma should be praised for his or her genius and creativity, shortly before being shot for creating anything that requires the painstaking assembly of 321 small parts and stickers;
2)Cabbage Patch Dolls still smell exactly like they did when we were kids, and my sister-in-law and I took turns sniffing "Nancey Tiffany" until my daughter, disturbed by the fact that we'd rather smell her new doll than play with it, forbade us from doll-play for the night;
and 3) A remote-control helicopter that really flies will put the kind of smile on a 9 year old's face that hasn't been there for a very long time.
The kids played with the presents until dinnertime, and then just as we were about to sit down for dumplings, greens, and sweet potatoes, we hear a ridiculously loud siren from outside. My husband and I, conditioned to think of sirens as a bad thing, hid under the coffee table. My MIL and SIL jumped to their feet and shouted, "SANTA!" We grabbed the children, threw on their coats, and ran into the front yard. Driving up and down the streets, at 6:30 pm in the evening, in the dark, a big, red fire truck was toting the fat red dude through neighborhoods, tossing even more candy to children. Up and down the street, children, in various states of dress and/or pajama goodness, stood in their front yards shouting and celebrating.
We came back in, ate tasty home-cooked vittles, and started a fire in the fireplace. The children were asleep almost immediately, and the grownups were mellow and satisfied.
Getting away for a bit has done me good already, and I still have a couple more days to go. Family time is a luxury I fight to maintain when back home in the daily grind; here, away from work and chores, it is my life... a good life. I tend to be one to let the worries of my mind and heart surround me, turning them over and over until I'm not sure I can escape the anxiety. Today has been different. Today has been good. It is starting to feel like Christmas.
Ahhhhhh... family time. Much needed, much wanted, much appreciated. It's funny how I tend to let things get more and more hectic, partially so that I won't have to think as much about some of what's going on in my life, that when I finally slow down, I can't decide if I'm going to cry, enjoy my weekend, or just fall asleep.
This part of Alabama is beautiful-- foothills, little winding creeks, and crisp, cold weather. We're visiting my mother-in-law and her family, and getting to visit also with Daddy-O's little sister, who is my age and a single mom of a little guy about the same age as Sassy Pants. It is nice. It is peaceful.
This morning, MIL asked if I wanted us to try to go to the Christmas parade. My mind went a little something like this: "Parade? Ack! Sitting outside in too-cold weather, trying to wrangle my children and keep them from running into the street, while watching one crappy small-town papier-mache'd float after another stroll along, cheesy beauty queens, and a guy with a cheap
We rushed to get everyone ready in time, and sprinted out the door 20 minutes before parade time. "Mom," said Funky Monkey. "I don't want to go to some stupid parade. I'd rather just stay here and play." "Nonsense," I said in my most enthusiastic game-show-host voice. "This is going to be fun!" He didn't seem convinced. I leaned in a little closer, so that nobody else would hear me. "Listen, kid, I don't want to go to this parade either. But, it's going to be fine, we're going to have a good time, and Grandma is excited to be taking us. If I can stuff it and smile, you can, too." Now, realizing we're on the same team, he smiled and nodded. Our little secret, you know. He kind of likes the idea of us being in cahoots-- us being in it together and all. Camaraderie. Cool. Especially if you're 9, and your younger brother and sister are not in on the secret.
We arrived at the parade site just before the start time, and were shuffled by the local police into a parking zone near where a bunch of horses and riders were gearing up for the big hoopty-doo. So, I hopped from the car, toting both of my cameras, and we settled in along the route. Chelsea, Alabama, has a population of around 3,000 people. I'd estimate that about 400 of them were lined up along the route near us. Another 400 or so of them were actually in the parade. For all my grumbling, it turned out to be so much fun! For starters, any parade in which candy, stuffed animals, footballs, beach balls, green tea, and bead necklaces are thrown at you without any expectation of nudity is A-okay in my book. Some of the kids on the floats were so carried away, that they sadistically pelted the onlookers with candy, so much so that all would duck and scream when the floats came by. One float had a little boy on it who was gleefully and repetitively shouting, "We celebrate Hanukkah! Wheeeeeeeeeee!" while flinging candy violently at the onlookers. He seemed so happy and full of joy, I almost didn't mind when the dum dum lollipop he had fired at me like a spear almost took my eye out.
And then the float for the local Curves gym worked its' way up the road. I could see that they were flinging larger-than-candy objects off the float like frisbees. Could it be...? Is it really...? My heart raced with anticipation. I shot out of the crowd, tripping over roadside piles of leaves and knocking down small children, determined to claim mine... And then I saw it being sailed toward me, and I flew through the air with the kind of slow-mo agility seen in The Matrix, and caught it in my hand as I landed on the ground. A banana flavored Moon Pie. Ahhhhhhhh, the Deep South. Hallelujah and praise Alabama. I love Moon Pies. :-) Now, whether or not a weight-loss gym tossing Moon Pies into a crowd of sugar-crazed individuals constitutes a breach of ethics-- who knows. As for me and my Moon Pie, we don't care.
Shortly thereafter came the float for a local native tribe... As they drove by, I yelled out a heart-felt "Happy Holidays!" A lady on the float yelled something back that I didn't understand. Seeing my look of confusion, she added, "It means 'Merry Christmas' in Cherokee!"
After the parade, we came back to the house to rest for a while before opening presents.Three things about presents:
1) Whoever it is that designed the humongous Hot Wheels thingy that Short Stuff got from Grandma should be praised for his or her genius and creativity, shortly before being shot for creating anything that requires the painstaking assembly of 321 small parts and stickers;
2)Cabbage Patch Dolls still smell exactly like they did when we were kids, and my sister-in-law and I took turns sniffing "Nancey Tiffany" until my daughter, disturbed by the fact that we'd rather smell her new doll than play with it, forbade us from doll-play for the night;
and 3) A remote-control helicopter that really flies will put the kind of smile on a 9 year old's face that hasn't been there for a very long time.
The kids played with the presents until dinnertime, and then just as we were about to sit down for dumplings, greens, and sweet potatoes, we hear a ridiculously loud siren from outside. My husband and I, conditioned to think of sirens as a bad thing, hid under the coffee table. My MIL and SIL jumped to their feet and shouted, "SANTA!" We grabbed the children, threw on their coats, and ran into the front yard. Driving up and down the streets, at 6:30 pm in the evening, in the dark, a big, red fire truck was toting the fat red dude through neighborhoods, tossing even more candy to children. Up and down the street, children, in various states of dress and/or pajama goodness, stood in their front yards shouting and celebrating.
We came back in, ate tasty home-cooked vittles, and started a fire in the fireplace. The children were asleep almost immediately, and the grownups were mellow and satisfied.
Getting away for a bit has done me good already, and I still have a couple more days to go. Family time is a luxury I fight to maintain when back home in the daily grind; here, away from work and chores, it is my life... a good life. I tend to be one to let the worries of my mind and heart surround me, turning them over and over until I'm not sure I can escape the anxiety. Today has been different. Today has been good. It is starting to feel like Christmas.
#104=mutant
I'm being fitted even as we speak for my mutant X-Men suit.
Scientists identify genetic mutation that lead to lighter skin
Scientists identify genetic mutation that lead to lighter skin
Friday, December 16, 2005
Griddlecakes Radio
Again, I have to tell you that I really love listening to Griddlecakes Radio, and it's not just becaue I got to do a little voice talent for them this week (listen to Griddlesode 14, and you might hear me playing the part of a very southern-sounding receptionist). My main reason for loving the heck out of it is because Ron, who does the podcast (and the other Ron, who will be mad if I leave him out), is so incredibly talented. I stand in awe of his voice talent, recording setup, and creative editing skills. If you get a chance, go give a listen, and let him know I sent you!
In other news, we are safely in Alabama, looking forward to a great visit.
In other news, we are safely in Alabama, looking forward to a great visit.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Almost Winter
We had our first big winter-style weather during the night last night-- everything was frozen over on my drive to work today. Big pine trees lumbered over from the weight of the ice, almost like willows. It's cold. Really cold (for South Carolina in December). Last week, I wore a long-sleeved t-shirt one day and was fine. This week, winter has announced its impending arrival.
Signs of the season: For starters, I'm back down two shades in my foundation makeup-- I've gone from "Almost Pasty White #200" through "Slightly Pasty White #100" to "Damn, Whitey, Get Some Sun #104." When my youngest son, the firecracker, was 2, he went through a fascination with body lotion, and would get into my bathroom and cover himself with smelly girl lotions, simply because he was two and didn't know better. One day, he got into my #104 foundation, and thought it was body lotion. So, he stripped himself naked, and covered himself with my foundation from his chest to his knees. Ladies, when your foundation shade is a perfect match for your 2 year old's naked rear, you are WHITE.
Signs of the season: Static electricity! Having lived in Florida for the past 7 years, last year I was not accustomed to the way winter lights you up. Lately, it seems that every time I go to kiss my husband, a big zap connects us and it scares us half to death. Like some kind of Pavlovian conditioning, I've learned to slug him in the arm before kissing him, just to get out any electricity first. His response, equally conditioned? Kick me when he sees me coming to punch him. So, we have a mini-sparring match followed by a tender kiss. Nice. I mean, come on, I know I'd like some electricity between us, but that's not exactly the kind I was thinking of. Oh well, I guess after 6 years, we'll take what we can get.
Signs of the season: Navigation through the living room is now obstructed by the tree and the growing mound of gifts beneath it. I decided that this year, I was going to put all the items that weren't already boxed into boxes, so nobody could guess what it is from feeling it. And, working in a warehouse that stocks exterior building materials, the only boxes I could find are, say, the size of a shutter. Or a roll of PVC trim coil. Neither of which is actually small enough to fit under my tree, but hey, I'm creative, right?
Signs of the season: My beautiful children did their final performance of their church Christmas play, The First Leon, last night. My son's Leon made me cry on several occasions... He plays sweet and unassuming so well. Must be from 6 years of watching my husband, because it sure isn't from me! The child sings like an angel, and had everyone in the audience going, "Awwwwwwwwwww..." with his every word. My 5 year old daughter, who was a narrator with big words like "Caesar Augustus" and one line with more intos, out ofs, and untos than I could remember, was perfect! Even if her sequined headband (that was supposed to look like a halo) gave her that Olivia Newton John "Physical" kind of 1980s ambiance. And my youngest (the firecracker, remember?) dressed as a sheep and followed Mary and Joseph in at the end. Until he rammed himself head-first into the side of a front row pew, fell to the ground, and lay there on his back twitching like a dying cockroach for a few seconds before moving on. Then, during the finale, he jumped up onto the stage and did a stagedive, just for kicks. Oh, and the "Shepherd Boy Band" dance I choreographed and taught the boys? It stole the show. Nothing like a bunch of 5-11 year old boys breakdancing, doing the worm, and generally being ridiculous (exactly as instructed) to bring the house down! It was wonderful, even if my friend Maher (who is Muslim, but came to see the play to support my kids) declared us all infidels and made fun of my boy band dance. "They learned freak from the finest."
Not a sign of the season, but a fun thing I have to throw in: After the play, we came back to my place with Zaxby's take-out and some "party" supplies for my kids to celebrate their great job. After their bedtime, Daddy-O, Maher, and I sat up until 1:30 AM goofing off, telling stories, reminiscing about stupid things we did as teenagers, and engaging in what can only be described as the tetris armageddon. It was the battle to end all battles, but in the end, I think Daddy-O and I agreed that Maher was the winner. Quite possibly because while we were out dating, partying, and generally being heathens in high school, Maher was locked in his basement, playing tetris with a level of skill and dedication that is usually only reserved for surgeons and rocket scientists. His level of tetris mastery is simply not normal. He is a freak.
So, that's what's happening in the wonderful world of almost-winter so far this year. Hope you're all doing well! We're leaving tomorrow morning for Alabama, so posting may be sporadic for a few days, although I'll definitely be checking in. If you're much of a pray-er, pray for safe travel for us and a nice visit. We haven't been back since one of our family members there was killed, and it seems that both our lives and theirs have taken some crazy turns since then. It will be good to be with family.
Signs of the season: For starters, I'm back down two shades in my foundation makeup-- I've gone from "Almost Pasty White #200" through "Slightly Pasty White #100" to "Damn, Whitey, Get Some Sun #104." When my youngest son, the firecracker, was 2, he went through a fascination with body lotion, and would get into my bathroom and cover himself with smelly girl lotions, simply because he was two and didn't know better. One day, he got into my #104 foundation, and thought it was body lotion. So, he stripped himself naked, and covered himself with my foundation from his chest to his knees. Ladies, when your foundation shade is a perfect match for your 2 year old's naked rear, you are WHITE.
Signs of the season: Static electricity! Having lived in Florida for the past 7 years, last year I was not accustomed to the way winter lights you up. Lately, it seems that every time I go to kiss my husband, a big zap connects us and it scares us half to death. Like some kind of Pavlovian conditioning, I've learned to slug him in the arm before kissing him, just to get out any electricity first. His response, equally conditioned? Kick me when he sees me coming to punch him. So, we have a mini-sparring match followed by a tender kiss. Nice. I mean, come on, I know I'd like some electricity between us, but that's not exactly the kind I was thinking of. Oh well, I guess after 6 years, we'll take what we can get.
Signs of the season: Navigation through the living room is now obstructed by the tree and the growing mound of gifts beneath it. I decided that this year, I was going to put all the items that weren't already boxed into boxes, so nobody could guess what it is from feeling it. And, working in a warehouse that stocks exterior building materials, the only boxes I could find are, say, the size of a shutter. Or a roll of PVC trim coil. Neither of which is actually small enough to fit under my tree, but hey, I'm creative, right?
Signs of the season: My beautiful children did their final performance of their church Christmas play, The First Leon, last night. My son's Leon made me cry on several occasions... He plays sweet and unassuming so well. Must be from 6 years of watching my husband, because it sure isn't from me! The child sings like an angel, and had everyone in the audience going, "Awwwwwwwwwww..." with his every word. My 5 year old daughter, who was a narrator with big words like "Caesar Augustus" and one line with more intos, out ofs, and untos than I could remember, was perfect! Even if her sequined headband (that was supposed to look like a halo) gave her that Olivia Newton John "Physical" kind of 1980s ambiance. And my youngest (the firecracker, remember?) dressed as a sheep and followed Mary and Joseph in at the end. Until he rammed himself head-first into the side of a front row pew, fell to the ground, and lay there on his back twitching like a dying cockroach for a few seconds before moving on. Then, during the finale, he jumped up onto the stage and did a stagedive, just for kicks. Oh, and the "Shepherd Boy Band" dance I choreographed and taught the boys? It stole the show. Nothing like a bunch of 5-11 year old boys breakdancing, doing the worm, and generally being ridiculous (exactly as instructed) to bring the house down! It was wonderful, even if my friend Maher (who is Muslim, but came to see the play to support my kids) declared us all infidels and made fun of my boy band dance. "They learned freak from the finest."
Not a sign of the season, but a fun thing I have to throw in: After the play, we came back to my place with Zaxby's take-out and some "party" supplies for my kids to celebrate their great job. After their bedtime, Daddy-O, Maher, and I sat up until 1:30 AM goofing off, telling stories, reminiscing about stupid things we did as teenagers, and engaging in what can only be described as the tetris armageddon. It was the battle to end all battles, but in the end, I think Daddy-O and I agreed that Maher was the winner. Quite possibly because while we were out dating, partying, and generally being heathens in high school, Maher was locked in his basement, playing tetris with a level of skill and dedication that is usually only reserved for surgeons and rocket scientists. His level of tetris mastery is simply not normal. He is a freak.
So, that's what's happening in the wonderful world of almost-winter so far this year. Hope you're all doing well! We're leaving tomorrow morning for Alabama, so posting may be sporadic for a few days, although I'll definitely be checking in. If you're much of a pray-er, pray for safe travel for us and a nice visit. We haven't been back since one of our family members there was killed, and it seems that both our lives and theirs have taken some crazy turns since then. It will be good to be with family.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Pet peeves,
So, I've read and re-read my previous post, and I think I have identified yet another thing to add to my list of pet peeves. Without a pet peeve setting off a nerve, I usually wouldn't rant like that, so something was at the root of the rant.
Previously, my pet peeve list was:
1: People who refuse to take personal responsibility for their actions and always find someone else to blame;
2: Repetitive and random annoying noises, generally made by children;
3: People who constantly do subtle and manipulative things to control others, all the while playing the innocent and loving card;
and #4, added last week when I heard it on the radio: Country songs with the word "badonkadonk" in them. It's just not natural.
And now, today, #5: People who talk acceptance, but don't really act it.
Let me start by giving you a little political background on me. I've never been much of a conservative, but I find that the older I get, the more conservative I'm getting. I'd say I'm in the moderate range, though still a little bit to the left of the central line. From the age of 15 until about 26, I was pretty far to the left of the central line, but this whole talk-instead-of-action nonsense just drives me to the center (more on that in a minute). I am registered to vote without a party affiliation, and vote based on the issues and the political climate. I'm pretty passionate about what the things I believe, but they don't all neatly fit into one side or the other. Some of my positions are extremely liberal, and others are radically conservative/libertarian. This is part of why I just don't get party politics. I have not yet found a candidate or party whose platform truly reflects what I believe, so I'm stuck going with whomever is the least offensive to my sensibilities. On top of that, my libertarian leanings lead me to question which of my personal beliefs could and/or should be legislated.
Welcome to the political world of Christy-dom. Now to the all talk little real action thing... When I see people talking about how open-minded, accepting, and wise they are, I often wonder about their actions. Myself, I don't tend to talk the politically correct acceptance and tolerance of diversity language as much as I probably should or could. My friends of African descent refer to themselves as B/black and me as W/white, so I do, too. It just rolls off the tongue a little more naturally than "African American" or "person of color," anyway. In college, studying religious studies, most of my friends read lots of books on different religions. I read books, and then I went to see what the real deal was. I was chatting with my husband today, and realized I've attended quite a variety of religious services: I've attended at least one service in Catholic, Episcopalian, Methodist, Baptist, Pentecostal, Evangelical, Christian Science, Unitarian-Universalist, and Unity churches. When preparing a paper on the status of women in Islam, I stayed with a Muslim family for a few weeks, did what they did, wore hijab when out in public, and went to the mosque for several Friday services. I took Hebrew at a synagogue one summer, and attended quite a few services there, as well. I've also attended a solstice event put on for religious studies students by the campus pagan alliance, just to see what it was all about. I've helped lead a number of interfaith understanding events, even assisting the International Association for Religious Freedom's young adults coordinator in planning a regional interfaith event for young adults. So, while I may sometimes find it a pain to constantly adjust my language to conform to whatever the most recent trend in acceptance-speak may be, I can only hope that my actions reveal my commitment to a world in which we honor and respect each other, no matter what our differences.
When I hear about people arguing over language problems as if it's the end-all be-all of social reform, it just doesn't make sense. Someone who is Christian getting mad or demanding a boycott because a store asks its' employees to be socially sensitive and say "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas"-- well, that just seems silly to me. Equally silly would be the non-Christian person who flips out upon being wished a "merry Christmas." Say "thank you, and I hope you enjoy the season, too" or some other kind response, but don't use someone's kind-hearted (if not PC) attempt at a friendly greeting as your opportunity to take a stand and try to make right what you've perceived as some sort of social injustice. Christians being killed for their beliefs in some countries, Arabs and Muslims being dragged from their homes and beaten for no good reason, Israelis targeted by suicide bombers-- these are social injustices. The Wal-Mart greeter wishing me happy holidays, in whatever way she or he sees fit, is not.
Up until January of 2005, I had been attending a mainline Christian church. I loved the teachings-- the way they emphasized the love of Christ, love of neighbor, social action, and global understanding. But I looked around on Sundays, and every single person each week was white and upper-middle or upper class. My children went to Sunday school each week, and heard wonderful messages about how we're all equal-- messages delivered by a consistently white and well-off group of do-gooders. It didn't seem right; I don't want to sit around with a group of other people slightly to the left of the political spectrum and talk about how accepting we are. I want to make sure that my life reflects that acceptance and understanding. That was when we switched to a church whose racial and economic makeup is far more diverse that the community in which we live. I don't want to tell my children they can be friends with anyone they want; I want them to learn it naturally, through the friendships they're making as a regular part of their lives.
Maybe that's why I'm so resistant at times to the emphasis on being politically correct. I'd rather be socially accepting and loving in all my actions, and let my language naturally reflect who I am and what I believe, without stifling my sense of humor simply to avoid any possibility of ever offending. Does language make a difference? Sure. And when I'm in certain situations-- public speaking, presentations, representing my business, church, or community in a public forum-- my words are carefully chosen, and my demeanor non-confrontational. But in my everyday life, I'd rather be who I am, say what I'm thinking, and know that people are going to draw their own conclusions about me anyway, based upon where they are in their lives at the time. I can only take responsibility for my actions and perceptions; others' perceptions are unpredictable, at best, and out of my control anyway.
So, pet peeve #5: Talkers, not doers. People who censor themselves under the guise of being appropriate, and those who expect me to do the same.
Previously, my pet peeve list was:
1: People who refuse to take personal responsibility for their actions and always find someone else to blame;
2: Repetitive and random annoying noises, generally made by children;
3: People who constantly do subtle and manipulative things to control others, all the while playing the innocent and loving card;
and #4, added last week when I heard it on the radio: Country songs with the word "badonkadonk" in them. It's just not natural.
And now, today, #5: People who talk acceptance, but don't really act it.
Let me start by giving you a little political background on me. I've never been much of a conservative, but I find that the older I get, the more conservative I'm getting. I'd say I'm in the moderate range, though still a little bit to the left of the central line. From the age of 15 until about 26, I was pretty far to the left of the central line, but this whole talk-instead-of-action nonsense just drives me to the center (more on that in a minute). I am registered to vote without a party affiliation, and vote based on the issues and the political climate. I'm pretty passionate about what the things I believe, but they don't all neatly fit into one side or the other. Some of my positions are extremely liberal, and others are radically conservative/libertarian. This is part of why I just don't get party politics. I have not yet found a candidate or party whose platform truly reflects what I believe, so I'm stuck going with whomever is the least offensive to my sensibilities. On top of that, my libertarian leanings lead me to question which of my personal beliefs could and/or should be legislated.
Welcome to the political world of Christy-dom. Now to the all talk little real action thing... When I see people talking about how open-minded, accepting, and wise they are, I often wonder about their actions. Myself, I don't tend to talk the politically correct acceptance and tolerance of diversity language as much as I probably should or could. My friends of African descent refer to themselves as B/black and me as W/white, so I do, too. It just rolls off the tongue a little more naturally than "African American" or "person of color," anyway. In college, studying religious studies, most of my friends read lots of books on different religions. I read books, and then I went to see what the real deal was. I was chatting with my husband today, and realized I've attended quite a variety of religious services: I've attended at least one service in Catholic, Episcopalian, Methodist, Baptist, Pentecostal, Evangelical, Christian Science, Unitarian-Universalist, and Unity churches. When preparing a paper on the status of women in Islam, I stayed with a Muslim family for a few weeks, did what they did, wore hijab when out in public, and went to the mosque for several Friday services. I took Hebrew at a synagogue one summer, and attended quite a few services there, as well. I've also attended a solstice event put on for religious studies students by the campus pagan alliance, just to see what it was all about. I've helped lead a number of interfaith understanding events, even assisting the International Association for Religious Freedom's young adults coordinator in planning a regional interfaith event for young adults. So, while I may sometimes find it a pain to constantly adjust my language to conform to whatever the most recent trend in acceptance-speak may be, I can only hope that my actions reveal my commitment to a world in which we honor and respect each other, no matter what our differences.
When I hear about people arguing over language problems as if it's the end-all be-all of social reform, it just doesn't make sense. Someone who is Christian getting mad or demanding a boycott because a store asks its' employees to be socially sensitive and say "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas"-- well, that just seems silly to me. Equally silly would be the non-Christian person who flips out upon being wished a "merry Christmas." Say "thank you, and I hope you enjoy the season, too" or some other kind response, but don't use someone's kind-hearted (if not PC) attempt at a friendly greeting as your opportunity to take a stand and try to make right what you've perceived as some sort of social injustice. Christians being killed for their beliefs in some countries, Arabs and Muslims being dragged from their homes and beaten for no good reason, Israelis targeted by suicide bombers-- these are social injustices. The Wal-Mart greeter wishing me happy holidays, in whatever way she or he sees fit, is not.
Up until January of 2005, I had been attending a mainline Christian church. I loved the teachings-- the way they emphasized the love of Christ, love of neighbor, social action, and global understanding. But I looked around on Sundays, and every single person each week was white and upper-middle or upper class. My children went to Sunday school each week, and heard wonderful messages about how we're all equal-- messages delivered by a consistently white and well-off group of do-gooders. It didn't seem right; I don't want to sit around with a group of other people slightly to the left of the political spectrum and talk about how accepting we are. I want to make sure that my life reflects that acceptance and understanding. That was when we switched to a church whose racial and economic makeup is far more diverse that the community in which we live. I don't want to tell my children they can be friends with anyone they want; I want them to learn it naturally, through the friendships they're making as a regular part of their lives.
Maybe that's why I'm so resistant at times to the emphasis on being politically correct. I'd rather be socially accepting and loving in all my actions, and let my language naturally reflect who I am and what I believe, without stifling my sense of humor simply to avoid any possibility of ever offending. Does language make a difference? Sure. And when I'm in certain situations-- public speaking, presentations, representing my business, church, or community in a public forum-- my words are carefully chosen, and my demeanor non-confrontational. But in my everyday life, I'd rather be who I am, say what I'm thinking, and know that people are going to draw their own conclusions about me anyway, based upon where they are in their lives at the time. I can only take responsibility for my actions and perceptions; others' perceptions are unpredictable, at best, and out of my control anyway.
So, pet peeve #5: Talkers, not doers. People who censor themselves under the guise of being appropriate, and those who expect me to do the same.
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