tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87382155525162849662024-03-06T12:01:06.557-08:00The Shape of XOne person among millions who comprise Generation X. One X shaped by thousands of experiences.HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-50106560544996678252021-06-04T16:13:00.000-07:002021-06-04T16:16:04.370-07:00When Mama Calls<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">I was driving to Costco yesterday, my only outside errand for
the day. It wouldn’t take long, I just needed 3 items, and it’s not far from
home. I tried to pick an off-hour to avoid the warehouse crowds, but that never
works. There’s no easy in-and-out at Costco.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just as the arrow turned green and I made the left onto
Laguna Canyon Road, Stevie Wonder’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bGOgY1CmiU">“I Just Called to Say I Love You”</a> came on
the radio. Immediately my tears began flowing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My mom always liked that song. She’d quote it sometimes when
she called me. And she always sang the last three notes of it as “cha-cha-cha!”
<br />
I cried all the way to Costco. Ugly face, gasping breath crying. Between gasps
I said out loud <span style="font-size: medium;">“Hi Mom! I hear you!”</span> like I’ve been doing whenever something unusual
appears that reminds me of her, like when a flock of pelicans flew over my
apartment the day after she died. Mom loved watching them fly; I’ve never seen
pelicans in town in the 4 years I’ve lived here, nor any since that day.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyk7jYZaV-H716ZN3WcNsiyA_562wWtgFoWkQ8mOTieGklv4dV2TAYiPUFsVJPODnp71Fi9CNY1KNn1EIY6L1w3WRqmOLefwBtRe2oa3-R_FF-9tyO4MeGDHFweoW4KFoSds-UNOmtqAld/s1551/MomAndMeOlder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1551" data-original-width="1494" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyk7jYZaV-H716ZN3WcNsiyA_562wWtgFoWkQ8mOTieGklv4dV2TAYiPUFsVJPODnp71Fi9CNY1KNn1EIY6L1w3WRqmOLefwBtRe2oa3-R_FF-9tyO4MeGDHFweoW4KFoSds-UNOmtqAld/s320/MomAndMeOlder.jpg" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The song ended the exact moment I pulled into my parking
space…cha cha cha. Still crying, I couldn’t figure out why I was SO emotional.
Yes, the song reminded me of her, but lots of things do and they don’t make me
cry like this. The song wasn’t particularly meaningful to one specific time or
place that I was remembering and missing, it was just a general thing she liked,
one of a thousand I could name. <br />
I could not with any certainty say that it was sadness I was feeling, nor
depression, nor even the still-fresh loss of her. But it was a deep, guttural rising up
from places I couldn’t identify. It consumed me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A moment later the mindfog cleared and I had a revelation.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I realized what I’m feeling here and now in this moment is
the depth of the love SHE had for ME as her child. It’s the love that other
women have told me “you can’t possibly understand until you have a child of
your own.” That feeling that I figured I would have to accept as truth because
I would never experience it as a mother myself. But I WAS experiencing it. And
I say again that it was not sadness nor a feeling of the loss of her; it was
the feeling OF her that will always be within me. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I always knew how much my mom
loved me, she told me so all the time. But I couldn’t truly feel it to its full
extent until she was gone forever. That’s an unfortunate truth yet one full of everlasting
promise.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLbc_nlFwgC6N_Y8_c8e_vLkcWx6cNR_SVn_dw9mQOO-jHT57lvcrhW9dWzTUHSBcoSNO4gdcjYZjaTMeyKJQkM5WenlpPugHfZHK7XowZh9FZM37VxPcboaLWdJe4jS0Cmz1pGYDjbfZ1/s1854/MomAndMeYoung.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1854" data-original-width="1434" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLbc_nlFwgC6N_Y8_c8e_vLkcWx6cNR_SVn_dw9mQOO-jHT57lvcrhW9dWzTUHSBcoSNO4gdcjYZjaTMeyKJQkM5WenlpPugHfZHK7XowZh9FZM37VxPcboaLWdJe4jS0Cmz1pGYDjbfZ1/w236-h286/MomAndMeYoung.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">She used to tell me, </span><span style="font-size: large;">“I love you always and forever. My baby you’ll be.”</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> And she meant that from the bottom of her heart......cha cha cha.</span><o:p></o:p><p></p>HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-71877752564383094032017-01-04T17:01:00.000-08:002017-01-04T17:01:41.950-08:00The Other Place<div class="MsoNormal">
I grew up in one of those towns where teenagers constantly
complained, <span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“there’s nothing to do here.”</span>
Basically, any town in America, in any decade. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this was Vero Beach, Florida, and in 1986, somebody
finally heard our pleas of desperation and opened a 13-and-up nightclub, <b>The Other Place. </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It didn’t last long; less than a year if I remember
correctly. Teenagers are fickle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-6X61CvoDhSR344HyxYzrnnA7t2mzEMyIKtFeYV-GMH9toBm7NUJV5sHaVVbJTu-KENIiMSTWMlE0BWYdemzUFTK0GJzqZXHZMDC8mCF2gmOQYR0KTqgUYF9yT8eyYa74u84BCotm5mH/s1600/craig1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-6X61CvoDhSR344HyxYzrnnA7t2mzEMyIKtFeYV-GMH9toBm7NUJV5sHaVVbJTu-KENIiMSTWMlE0BWYdemzUFTK0GJzqZXHZMDC8mCF2gmOQYR0KTqgUYF9yT8eyYa74u84BCotm5mH/s320/craig1.jpg" width="211" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around that same time, a guy named Craig was growing up
there, and received a camcorder for Christmas. Much like Adam F. Goldberg of <i>The Goldbergs</i> fame, he filmed
everything. In fact, footage he captured of a game-winning full-court basket
shot at a junior high basketball game once made the national news. Craig soon
became the official videographer of sports, homecoming parades, and
graduations. He was employed by the local news station while still in high
school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I did not know until today was that he also once lugged
that hunk of A/V equipment to the aforementioned teen nightclub. What follows
in the link below is 15 minutes of <span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">exquisite
1980s GenX teen life,</span> set to the
soundtrack of now-legends. The lighting is iffy, and it’s sometimes out of
focus, but the content is pure gold. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As with most video
from the ‘80s, the fashion is striking (collars UP!)…yet conservative. Were we
going to church or out dancing? Boys in button-downs, girls in sweaters.
Brights and pastels, skirts below knees. Tretorn sneakers and bright white
pumps. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girls are
Jennifers and Stephanies and Kathys and Melissas. The boys are Robs and Bobs
and Mikes and Christophers. At the end, our very own <i>Footloose</i> dancing feet moment. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
All credit, honor,
and thanks to Craig Jerome for not only being the geek who filmed this, but who
was smart enough to keep it for 30 years and share it with us now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAbkFNBi2fo" target="_blank">The Other Place, Vero Beach 1986</a> <o:p></o:p></div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-90039839526280359012015-08-18T13:48:00.001-07:002015-08-18T13:48:04.218-07:00More Moola for Schoola <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTr3TmUFx05FvLNM-k3KQ12ShsZfCxWe7ObJAv-pcqPvaDkRX_0kCCbQR_aUf_sGAFb4uxcRjiKV6u7PwapBH-6wDGzjWbzg33NwIiSfzAaaNtC1PlyRQxYap3JuqD996RaQJ4e1wv72V/s1600/SchoolBox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTr3TmUFx05FvLNM-k3KQ12ShsZfCxWe7ObJAv-pcqPvaDkRX_0kCCbQR_aUf_sGAFb4uxcRjiKV6u7PwapBH-6wDGzjWbzg33NwIiSfzAaaNtC1PlyRQxYap3JuqD996RaQJ4e1wv72V/s320/SchoolBox.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The same supplies box I used in 1st grade. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I entered public first grade in August of 1977 I
carried with me a small colorful cardboard flip-top box. I picked it out myself
at the local drug store. It contained a box of crayons, a bottle of glue, a
couple of No. 2 pencil, and extra cap erasers. When I got to my classroom that
box went in my assigned desk, where it stayed until the following June. My
classmates brought similar supplies. I don’t know if any kids didn’t bring
anything at all that first day, but I suspect there were a few. But no big
deal, the teacher had extra pencils and a box of broken crayon odds and ends.
The big lined paper on which we learned to write was already in the storage
closet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this millennium, however, parents are emailed an ever-growing
list of required school supplies that includes everything from antibacterial
hand gel to toilet paper. We’re not talking just one per kid, but multi-packs
of each item. With multiple kids in one family, these supplies can really put a
dent in the weekly budget. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9O44QsLB4-1S5lskvvPIA_-O1xsKmHodL8XAHp53Wpn5OJO7FHJWFVKF82258QD0PwwVN3dCw0uqu_X96L4Z5aX0kjDm7OIHGxxp9C9v2llpNd0m7gAhFVB3-tvJFVMv_6k5ExFmNDgN9/s1600/SchoolSuppliesCart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9O44QsLB4-1S5lskvvPIA_-O1xsKmHodL8XAHp53Wpn5OJO7FHJWFVKF82258QD0PwwVN3dCw0uqu_X96L4Z5aX0kjDm7OIHGxxp9C9v2llpNd0m7gAhFVB3-tvJFVMv_6k5ExFmNDgN9/s1600/SchoolSuppliesCart.jpg" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning a friend whose son just started first grade
lamented about what he saw when he delivered his boy and accompanying bagful of
reinforcements to the classroom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I’m already pissed off,” he said. “They
dumped all the supplies I bought for him in separate bins for all the kids to
be used throughout the school year. Some parents didn’t buy shit. So I have to
pay for some other kid’s supplies?”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes. You do. I’m sorry. Our schools’ budgets are cut so
badly that the very essential tools students need have vanished from the supply
closet. Teachers are spending their own salaries not only for classroom needs
but also for food for some of their students. And they have to ask you, the
parent, to spring for essentials. You understand this, and you comply because
you’d do anything you could to ensure your child’s success in education. But
when it comes to the kid sitting next to him you’re less than enthusiastic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And <span style="font-size: large;">you’re being selfish and entitled</span> for thinking that way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s why:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That mom who always used to help out but now has backed out
of every volunteering position? She has lupus, and some days she cannot get out
of bed from the pain and fatigue, let alone organize the Halloween carnival. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That dad who usually donates money and auction items from
his own business to the fundraiser…the one who says he can’t donate anything at
all this year…(and why NOT? He owns the business, it’s a tax write-off you say)…he
hasn’t drawn a salary for himself in six months in order to keep payroll going
for all of his employees after a decline in business this year. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that new mom who drives the nice SUV and has the pretty
diamond on her hand, the mom who only has the one child in school so <i>what’s the
big deal of buying the school supplies that are</i> <i>on the required list</i>? She’s new to your school because she just
upended her entire life to move cross-country so she can take care of a sick
relative. She really, really <i>can’t</i>
afford the $60 worth of handiwipes and laminated folders. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In every nice neighborhood near every A-rated school there
is a family that doesn’t look like they’re struggling, but they are. And yes,
you as the keeping-your-head-above-water-at-least-for-now family will be asked
to cover for them in some manner. Please don’t complain about it. Please
remember when someone helped you out somehow when you were at a lower point in
your life. I guarandamntee you somebody did. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would it make you feel better if your child had three boxes
of crayons but the girl next to him didn’t have any? If so, I dare say you <strike>are teaching terrible values to your son</strike> need
to reevaluate your thought process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t complain to me about this being “socialism at its purest
form.” This is humanism. This is giving everyone an equal chance. Do what you
can, and stop complaining about being able to do so.<o:p></o:p></div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-23246272843055861612015-07-31T11:14:00.003-07:002015-07-31T11:14:40.399-07:00Double Stuff (and not the fun kind)<div class="MsoNormal">
In the early 1990s there was a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XncqF1oligw" target="_blank">TV commercial for Rubbermaid</a>
storage products that played to our desire to have stuff, organize stuff, and
keep our stuff in place. Americans typically don’t follow the minimalist approach to decorating. Our stuff is how we
express our personalities and our success. It is how we fill other voids in our
lives. It is how we stay connected to our past. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband and I very recently moved 3000 miles from the home
we’d been living in for almost 11 years. Knowing we could not handle packing
and loading and driving a household that far, we hired a professional moving
company to do all the dirty work. Let me tell you, you do not realize how much stuff
you have until you are UNpacking it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have been in our new house for one week. I am now at the
point where I cannot unpack anything else because prior to moving we got rid of
some of the furniture that all this stuff was resting on or in. We were trying
to save moving costs by freeing ourselves from older, heavy furniture. Makes
sense, right? Now it seems we didn’t go far enough in the freeing ourselves
effort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_SbD6U8hfrFJqaBeL5YlspRsQqtHBXcmthfJPgLey9gEwzM1aO6MYPGJGnpAh89r5dbG-J3VuRK0p6lwBUY_91CTQW89s-lHUc6lDDlgrtHLXcfr_r3SYpUmSZE3a0bn8HEOxBlDbwY6/s1600/Frames.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_SbD6U8hfrFJqaBeL5YlspRsQqtHBXcmthfJPgLey9gEwzM1aO6MYPGJGnpAh89r5dbG-J3VuRK0p6lwBUY_91CTQW89s-lHUc6lDDlgrtHLXcfr_r3SYpUmSZE3a0bn8HEOxBlDbwY6/s320/Frames.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">About 1/10 of the total amount of frames I have...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve written before about purging a household, <a href="http://shapeofx.blogspot.com/2012/06/keepin-it-realsimple.html" target="_blank">about only keeping what you use </a>and not <a href="http://shapeofx.blogspot.com/2014/11/saving-time-in-picture-frame.html" target="_blank">attaching too much sentimental worth to items</a>. I
thought I was ahead of the stuff game. And yet, I found myself unpacking a
carefully wrapped <i>empty</i> Tiffany’s
box. I found an empty Ziploc sandwich baggie (used). Random screws. Far too
many pillows and picture frames. At least 20 misshapen t-shirts. Years-old door
mats covered in dog hair. Sigh. How did this stuff get through the cracks?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me, I was caught up in what I “might” need in the new
house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was thinking ahead to when guests would stay with us…you
must have abundant pillows! People need comfort! Well guess what, we don’t even
have a guest bed, so extra pillows are pointless. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaGd9IfD10fOY_oGthCGkikIDBHGiGM14zPX88YUNyVkvNiA5JJ6P8gS2Wh8NUYanVsM0PN2tlbE0zUbx-ZnS_2PfPHZXHSif0HCHxxaTP66AMxY8vL9iS7XoFEb9oT2WdtP2bEFfSpUj/s1600/Pillows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaGd9IfD10fOY_oGthCGkikIDBHGiGM14zPX88YUNyVkvNiA5JJ6P8gS2Wh8NUYanVsM0PN2tlbE0zUbx-ZnS_2PfPHZXHSif0HCHxxaTP66AMxY8vL9iS7XoFEb9oT2WdtP2bEFfSpUj/s320/Pillows.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Princess and the Pea re-imagined.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Another heavy was our multiple
boxes of books. We both went through and donated a LOT of books beforehand, but
neither of us could totally break free. Again, I kept my better books in the
thought that guests staying with us might want something to read. My husband
kept 100 or so paperbacks (a significant decrease from what he originally had)
because he says he will re-read them. It was a battle not worth engaging in. We
each have stuff the other thinks should be released. Ten-pound bag of Mardi Gras beads from 1998, I'm looking at you.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By day 3 of unpacking we agreed to spend the next year
purging. It took us 3000 miles and 200 boxes to embrace minimalism. Not just
keep only what we use, but for the next phase, move only what we use A LOT. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The kicker in all this is that because of strange interior
design, we still have some cupboards and drawers that are empty, so like the
family in the aforementioned commercial we could easily think “Hey! We need
more stuff!” But I’m not giving in. I can’t go through this mountain of baggage
again. <o:p></o:p></div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-14423656514517582702014-11-09T13:15:00.004-08:002014-11-09T13:15:48.116-08:00This Secret Will Self Destruct in 10 Seconds<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0JBa-LvjcJmgg8CS2iUCxIPb_2Kqf92vzeVd4M2EuzJkEfQFH-nctRFpselI_tRsJ_yNDJQnLVjxhgNLZvFB0gk6Xgqz7u4O_r1_emzG4fD_2VMc6kVLnH-OvyKteVv44UKxa8AmQaZu/s1600/shhhh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0JBa-LvjcJmgg8CS2iUCxIPb_2Kqf92vzeVd4M2EuzJkEfQFH-nctRFpselI_tRsJ_yNDJQnLVjxhgNLZvFB0gk6Xgqz7u4O_r1_emzG4fD_2VMc6kVLnH-OvyKteVv44UKxa8AmQaZu/s1600/shhhh.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Secret-keeping, or the inability thereof, is common fodder
for sitcom scenarios. One character has something they’re dying to tell, but
their best friend/sister/crotchety grandmother is notorious for being unable to
keep it to themselves. As the scene unfolds, character #1 invariably tells the
juicy tidbit to character #2 and hijinks ensue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On an episode of <i>Modern Family</i>, Mitchell found out that his
friend Brett had gotten calf implants but didn’t want anyone to know so he
could make them believe he’d been working out. “Don’t tell anyone, especially
Cam!” Brett admonished Mitchell. Cam is Mitchell’s partner, notorious for
blabbing any secret. ("OK, well I didn't know that was my reputation.
Maybe that's a secret people have been keeping from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>.") <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5B_VCvgpY3Hd5TH4DBSn2tF207kymSp9DWBg-6DKJhFsOTT9Jrt-wRQH14tssW63kSJdt9Gj3Kv4BOg_RoSXxClyGJJlJi3BCTyd2F9tziWijdG8pNopQQx8x-9k9lo5NOtB_yd-Bpcf/s1600/camsurprise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5B_VCvgpY3Hd5TH4DBSn2tF207kymSp9DWBg-6DKJhFsOTT9Jrt-wRQH14tssW63kSJdt9Gj3Kv4BOg_RoSXxClyGJJlJi3BCTyd2F9tziWijdG8pNopQQx8x-9k9lo5NOtB_yd-Bpcf/s1600/camsurprise.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After much prodding by Cam, Mitchell gives in and spills the
beans about Brett’s legs. Cam immediately mass-texts all of their friends…giggle
giggle, hijinks, apologies, end scene.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Similarly, every season of every incarnation of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real Housewives</i> franchise has seen at
least one betrayal *dun dun DUN!* because someone violated a confidence.
Watching the most recent reunion show, one woman tried to deflect blame off
herself by inferring she didn’t have a choice in the matter. “YOU put me in a
bad position by making me aware of this information” she told her cast-mate. In
essence, she thought she couldn’t be blamed for perpetuating gossip simply
because she was given the knowledge of it. Personal accountability be damned.
Self control? Never heard of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I understand that sometimes you hear things that make
you go not only "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hmmm…"</i> but flat out "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Whoa!"</i> It’s thrilling to hear something
we perceive to be breaking news. We can feel a sense of power telling others
what we know about someone else. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere around my college years I realized that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">keeping</i> secrets actually displays MORE
power. I guess I’d been betrayed enough that I decided I didn’t want to be like
the people who’d hurt me before. Through very concerted effort I kept a couple
secrets that came my way. Shortly after seeing an episode of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seinfeld</i> I half-jokingly told my
roommate, “You can tell me. I’ll put it in the vault,” a reference to character
Elaine’s euphemism for keeping a secret. Since I said I would, I kept my word. With
time, I noticed people told me <i>more</i> secrets. It’s not something anyone really
mentioned; no one ever told me that they noticed I don’t blab so therefore I
was their go-to confession booth. But that’s what happened. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Retelling secrets gives a short-time high, but keeping
secrets earns long-time trust. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last evening an entertainment show did a story on
everyday people who sell out celebrity secrets for a payout from paparazzi. A
waitress might get 100 bucks to tip off a photographer about a starlet barfing
in a nightclub. “They’re not my friend. I don’t owe them privacy,” said one
club worker who wished to remain anonymous (I bet!). The same show interviewed
a limousine driver who had seen his share of ill behavior by celebrities. “I
could have sold her out,” he said about one young actress who passed out in the
back seat of his vehicle after a night of partying. “But I didn’t. I drove her
home. I carried her into her house and made sure she was safe.” And he never
told who that was. And he has steady work as a nicely-paid private driver. He won't sell out a client just to make rent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again I say, telling secrets gives a short-time high (or
payout), but keeping secrets earns long-time trust. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv51VfSBgxQQ5NH4PJTayvPOLx01yFm01bLkDZI79N8WCXeGXPVbUskLxTekvdafLV6ILGVKmpeTxrvb0UWHK8f8HXwWhAJk2P6lgsCpoT-wxe-wVsMNz79Br0RV-2h8hI5q_jLM3LWMAq/s1600/RaidersLastScene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv51VfSBgxQQ5NH4PJTayvPOLx01yFm01bLkDZI79N8WCXeGXPVbUskLxTekvdafLV6ILGVKmpeTxrvb0UWHK8f8HXwWhAJk2P6lgsCpoT-wxe-wVsMNz79Br0RV-2h8hI5q_jLM3LWMAq/s1600/RaidersLastScene.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
The truth is, I still get the high from hearing a secret. If
there wasn’t something juicy about them it wouldn’t be a big deal to keep
quiet. For various reasons people sometimes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i>
to tell their secrets. “Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets” said Swiss
author Paul Tournier. Sharing them creates a connection with another person and
can unburden the secret-holder. But I have learned to receive them, offer whatever support the confessor needs in that moment, and then lock the secret away in a mental safe deposit box. Processed and sealed up like the Ark of the Covenant was in the final scene of <i>Raiders of the Lost Ark,</i> deep in a vast warehouse with countless other sealed crates.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZ792AjgluogZa2F_rx7OD4VTve0f1zIvp1AOIufB3eM3LJBEdwpxNDWtqtHlzr0jyNLCmIJ0WGC-LesiZuLYk-agzG0Ez5RBWi-e3YDFvA8MyU7lka47gQNP4H84k4vGywYoz3qlm-44/s1600/secretpost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZ792AjgluogZa2F_rx7OD4VTve0f1zIvp1AOIufB3eM3LJBEdwpxNDWtqtHlzr0jyNLCmIJ0WGC-LesiZuLYk-agzG0Ez5RBWi-e3YDFvA8MyU7lka47gQNP4H84k4vGywYoz3qlm-44/s1600/secretpost.jpg" height="207" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A confession from Postsecret.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Consider the popularity of the website <a href="http://postsecret.com/" target="_blank">PostSecret</a>. What began as one man's blog forum for people to mail in postcards with a single anonymous secret has grown into multiple published books and an ongoing nationwide speaking tour. Everyone has secrets. Sharing them, even anonymously is therapeutic and allows us to connect with others via our own fears and faults, regardless of whether we actually meet or speak in person.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But don’t mistake that personal connection as
permission to do with the information as you wish. Instead, use it to strengthen
a bond of human trust. Put it in the vault. At some point the secret may become irrelevant, but the fact that you kept it will not.</div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-46785906467720585132014-11-03T20:52:00.001-08:002014-11-03T20:52:46.497-08:00Eat, Play, Love<div class="MsoNormal">
Our second dog trainer told us one day that, “You don’t get
the dog you want, you get the dog you need.” Ahh, philosophical dog trainer
Mike, trying to calm me out of my frustrations with a knuckleheaded puppy. He
meant well, but I wasn’t falling for his zen of dog training.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve heard countless testimonies from people who’ve adopted
rescue puppies like we did, who speak emotionally of how they thought they were
rescuing a dog, but in actuality <i><span style="font-size: large;">the dog rescued
them</span></i>. Sigh. It’s become the overused mantra of the rescue dog adopter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt1NGql2DlU2D5nA94i2DyGmNZrOjy1IxpfY0WMXf3Wwa8Hpv_-Lo1kCBFfKxv_IZBGsk4ebNqqCVw6CSqLuIDm8ENMxHpAYNJ9RZbV2JqHzhG_gqVd9x9vKCG0SR1si1yruHJiDFDLF-5/s1600/day1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt1NGql2DlU2D5nA94i2DyGmNZrOjy1IxpfY0WMXf3Wwa8Hpv_-Lo1kCBFfKxv_IZBGsk4ebNqqCVw6CSqLuIDm8ENMxHpAYNJ9RZbV2JqHzhG_gqVd9x9vKCG0SR1si1yruHJiDFDLF-5/s1600/day1.jpg" height="196" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 1. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t bought into that philosophy. We clearly did all
the rescuing. We saved our pup from a shady rescue organization that <s>played
dumb </s>claimed ignorance of his Parvo disease. Another week in their “care” and
he would have surely died. In turn, Milhouse saved US from having any money in
the bank (Parvo treatment ain’t cheap). Did I <i>need</i> to go through that emotional and financial crisis? I don’t think I did. I have been poor before
and didn’t need a reminder. I have also been emotionally drained and taken advantage
of by dishonest businesspeople; lessons still fresh in memory and not in need
of reminders. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also did not need the blood draws I incurred from puppy
teeth, the resulting bruises, or the deep scratches. I am reminded of this
everyday by the 3-inch permanent scar on my right shin from a sickle-like dew
claw sustained in the midst of behavior training. The only thing that taught me
was that I should wear thicker pants. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If my puppy was cosmically sent to me to teach me a great
truth, or to save me from something, it has yet to be revealed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that’s fine. We did not adopt him because we thought the
universe was trying to tell us something. We adopted a puppy to save him from being unduly euthanized,
and we wanted an energetic exercise buddy. (Here’s a tip: always aim <i>lower</i> in the energy level you think you
want.) Plus, we wanted a schmoopyface to cuddle up with. Ok, that was just me; I
never had a pet growing up and I felt I was long overdue for one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCKJc_f3h542MKfHXWvlkG3pBv8JLd34KhPvB-bhVsOXUCTFXvJH0PN5i0-SnuyQWr6_MJV2phXY47RT7Mv7skEzGZN5KRhFxxk-x58KaVXS9eLkcw0dv87sa6KS7s9cF1_yMW2z8Mvzw/s1600/OrangeAframe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCKJc_f3h542MKfHXWvlkG3pBv8JLd34KhPvB-bhVsOXUCTFXvJH0PN5i0-SnuyQWr6_MJV2phXY47RT7Mv7skEzGZN5KRhFxxk-x58KaVXS9eLkcw0dv87sa6KS7s9cF1_yMW2z8Mvzw/s1600/OrangeAframe.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Conquering the A-frame like a champ!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At almost two years old, Milhouse is allegedly a teenager
*in dog years*. In reality he’s still a knuckleheaded puppy. He enjoys agility
classes where he rocks the hurdles but hates the teeter-totter. He gets
countless daily walks and has mastered double tennis ball soccer. He defies us
daily, is sneaky as a weasel, and has covered my house in a permanent layer of dog hair. We have
gone through 3 behavioral trainers, each with varying levels of success, but
none of whom have earned testimonials of success from us. But no puppy is more
loved and snuggled. He is my<span style="font-size: large;"> Englebert Schmooperdink</span>, a nickname he clearly dislikes,
as evidenced by his teenager-like groan every time I call him that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZi091jEjhZvLy8yO55NDAZiUTOXmV5KlAIe9nLqB6_k0aJlIojSYrVhc2T-IAngoJdur_2XitD1ZQO7z0r6l6lZ-vxr19LAWzU8xIVKSERK3NZ0sCyq6db9EW9Sy72drKhvu9_V2LUGI/s1600/snoozymilhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZi091jEjhZvLy8yO55NDAZiUTOXmV5KlAIe9nLqB6_k0aJlIojSYrVhc2T-IAngoJdur_2XitD1ZQO7z0r6l6lZ-vxr19LAWzU8xIVKSERK3NZ0sCyq6db9EW9Sy72drKhvu9_V2LUGI/s1600/snoozymilhouse.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's a mama's boy at heart, but dad has a good lap, too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not going to wait for the universe to reveal to me a
great truth through the eyes of my dog. Happiness is a warm puppy and all that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sleep, eat, play; repeat.</span> <o:p></o:p></div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-65749037939934378042014-11-02T20:23:00.000-08:002014-11-02T20:23:05.892-08:00Saving Time in a Picture Frame<div class="MsoNormal">
Today was my mom’s 72<sup>nd</sup> birthday. I once again
experienced a day that was a collision of life passing by meeting things
staying exactly the same. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I was there, her aunt Vonna called to wish her happy
birthday. Her aunt…in whose wedding my mom had been flower girl. Before he died
a few years ago, my mom’s uncle Fritz had always called her on her birthday,
and now his wife Vonna carries on the tradition. I can remember being 8 years old
and Uncle Fritz calling at 6 a.m. because he knew mom worked the early shift. So
of course it made sense to get that phone call today. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBWYeFJMwiMaL_x8Ql0sXGRmDcESctEpGsG7zkjTkCOI7lYPDNX_-kJQWoCzw7hLXR2TW_8izgA2eSeKkOhZ84wxElx-c0vm841bhF0yC9pV2rCmb6TP8ayJMDqfha1fWpfLHvBhyphenhyphenAOZu/s1600/Mom72bday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBWYeFJMwiMaL_x8Ql0sXGRmDcESctEpGsG7zkjTkCOI7lYPDNX_-kJQWoCzw7hLXR2TW_8izgA2eSeKkOhZ84wxElx-c0vm841bhF0yC9pV2rCmb6TP8ayJMDqfha1fWpfLHvBhyphenhyphenAOZu/s1600/Mom72bday.jpg" height="320" width="308" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom still gets candles on her birthday cake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family has enjoyed extraordinary luck in terms of long
lives. No one has died unexpectedly, no one has died young. Every parent,
sibling, cousin, aunt, and uncle I’ve ever had is still living. My grandparents
were into their 70s and 80s when they passed, as were the great aunts and
uncles I knew. This is part of the reason things seem the same year after year. </div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this year my mom seemed a little older, though most
people would agree she doesn’t look her age. She’s
recovering from a recent car accident and isn’t moving around as well as she’d
like. I couldn’t really hug her because of her injury. She’s fragile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We spent part of the day going through closets. She’s been
trying to pare down things in her house that are taking up space. I’ve written
before about how much I enjoy going through my own closets and getting rid of
non-essentials. My mantra has become Keep Only What You Use. I embrace this
because I have hopes and dreams of moving to a new state, of keeping my baggage
light, of not being weighed down by my stuff. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I suspect my mom has a different view of thinning out
their possessions. Her resistance to my attempts at getting rid of what I saw as
just a few duplicate items and outdated decorative things seemed out of
proportion to my pushing. She took multiple attempts and made various excuses
to stop what we were doing, to delay it until another time.<i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>But there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them...</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe
everything she owns has a memory attached, and getting rid of anything feels
like throwing away a part of her life, or her kids’ lives. I reassured her that
she should not feel guilty for getting rid of something that was a gift, that
we’re not keeping track. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have the best of intentions. I'm trying to make her life easier, to help unclutter some dark corners that might be weighing her down. I don't know where the line is between taking control and respecting a boundary, even if that boundary is purely sentimental. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-60561346315206065492014-11-01T16:18:00.001-07:002014-11-01T16:19:43.140-07:00The Headline Said These Are the Best of Times<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A recent Buzzfeed list was <i><a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/kirstenking/reasons-your-college-friends-will-be-your-friends-for-lif" target="_blank">19 Reasons Your College Friends will be your Friends for Life</a>.</i>
It was posted on Facebook by a grad school classmate who’s 15 years younger than me;
much closer to college and more <strike>gullible</strike> likely to <i>wan</i>t
to believe this headline. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Before you call me cynical—which I totally am—I will
admit that I have my moments of sentimentality and dedication to certain friends
with whom I shared utterly humiliating situations between the ages of 18-24.
But I don’t have a core circle of friends that has lasted for two decades as
this list infers should have happened. Many of my freshman friendships didn’t
last through sophomore year. Nonetheless, a few of the items in the list
hold weight for me 25 years after I began college:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSVa8cNfdVrh4ZpJTUlSJ3uwE2CxnpA6eZDdhg1omaa4Cc7Q90SAnozxwM5a2TDgA7YkDa9DkBWEdq_HeAFN7_0hJQEsbDz-i_uor4WQZsKAagn5CuYRhCzFbCudsoPgMvMQQPE2aocuz/s1600/meandlis18cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSVa8cNfdVrh4ZpJTUlSJ3uwE2CxnpA6eZDdhg1omaa4Cc7Q90SAnozxwM5a2TDgA7YkDa9DkBWEdq_HeAFN7_0hJQEsbDz-i_uor4WQZsKAagn5CuYRhCzFbCudsoPgMvMQQPE2aocuz/s1600/meandlis18cropped.jpg" height="320" width="259" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1990, me and Lisa on my 18th birthday</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<h3>
You lived together.</h3>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is something about sharing a 12 x 12 dorm room with a
stranger that makes you learn things you never thought you’d learn about
another person. Somehow knowing those things binds you together in ways you
can’t undo. You learn ways of knowing when they’re lying, when they’re upset, or
when they’re hiding something by the most subtle, and sometimes unusual, of
ways. Wearing certain shoes means she’s lying about who she’s going out with.
Eating squeeze cheese means she’s homesick. And no matter how hard you try to </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">not</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> know, you always know when she needs
to poop.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
They’re the best people to do absolutely nothing with.</h3>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I experienced this just last week when my freshman year
roommate, Lisa, and I got together for a girls’ weekend. We live 2 hours apart but
haven’t seen each other in 3 years. So
we rented a place on the beach halfway between our homes for 2 days. Midway
through day 1 Lisa said she was going out to read on the patio. I took a nap on
the couch inside. We were only going to be together for 30 hours or so, and
some might think we should have been DOING STUFF and hanging out TOGETHER…but I
was happy just having her nearby. I didn’t need her literally at my side
nodding at my conversation to know she was still one of my besties. Despite
many years apart, we still share brain waves. I say with complete seriousness
that we have conversations without speaking. I cannot explain it, but it’s the
closest I’ve come to understanding the connection twins have. Our *doing
nothing* is never nothing.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Nothing can beat the hours your spent bonding in the dining hall, gaining the freshman 15 together.<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 21pt;"> </span></h3>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For real. The dining hall at FSU was the best place to
people watch, and it’s where Lisa and I came up with endless nicknames for cute
boys and sorority girls, watched couples meet and break up, and eavesdropped on
other groups who were most likely doing the same thing we were doing. There was one guy in particular we called <b>Cool
Hand Luke</b>. If he only knew the great pleasure we got watching him build his
lunch at the salad bar…. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<h3>
You’ve witnessed each other’s terrible decisions.</h3>
<div>
And pass no judgment. Because whatever dirt I have on her, she has on me. It’s a Mexican standoff. As long as nobody tells, nobody gets hurt. But like a mom who can scold her kid with a side-eye glance, Lisa and I can still remind each other of a long-buried memory of a behavioral indiscretion merely with a raised eyebrow or nonverbal utterance…those well-timed grunts and snorts that convey entire scenarios that would rather be forgotten. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But in all honesty, you’re actually thrilled that she still remembers, because it means<span style="font-size: large;"> you mattered</span>, and that you were important in that time in her life. When you are at someone’s side through their best and their worst, over time it ALL becomes <span style="font-size: large;">the best of times.</span><br />
<h2 style="background: white; line-height: 21.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXOOyo4qWGEniInCObpDSMMkKOgVmaAx5JuNpmcYtPPSq0Z1dLniCXJGvkhIOWD8uv-rMdxRgUfjPHOgdItTfLVyyIOJwpRRYhQRR9LkJcOzH44qxrlXvtHmXGPZ_-hztkVTzFm9qmDITR/s1600/meandlis2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXOOyo4qWGEniInCObpDSMMkKOgVmaAx5JuNpmcYtPPSq0Z1dLniCXJGvkhIOWD8uv-rMdxRgUfjPHOgdItTfLVyyIOJwpRRYhQRR9LkJcOzH44qxrlXvtHmXGPZ_-hztkVTzFm9qmDITR/s1600/meandlis2014.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Summer 2014, me and Lisa 25 years after meeting as college freshman</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></h2>
<h2 style="background: white; line-height: 21pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #121212; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 19.5pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></h2>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-78175156677645500732014-03-30T20:17:00.000-07:002014-03-30T20:17:01.859-07:00America's Biggest Threat: Little Girls<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: left;">
It’s been a tough week for 8-year-old girls in America.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjROix5Er_jjoV1qoks_OceUHk4jgudUQ4fr4wPmH6bmTHztXKJt4MrECmx8Ne84UYDgbTVmlo_jR5VxVDdrJLwPjbhMBE4Mgm0g4-EbGmN6QrEA-gTE02UKy2VjiIQFP6kFEDMFYZRow1k/s1600/SunnieK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjROix5Er_jjoV1qoks_OceUHk4jgudUQ4fr4wPmH6bmTHztXKJt4MrECmx8Ne84UYDgbTVmlo_jR5VxVDdrJLwPjbhMBE4Mgm0g4-EbGmN6QrEA-gTE02UKy2VjiIQFP6kFEDMFYZRow1k/s1600/SunnieK.jpg" height="320" width="210" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In Virginia, Sunnie Kahle was denied return to her current Christian school for not being girly enough. In a letter to her grandmother--her legal guardian--the school inferred that Sunnie’s <i>alternative gender identity</i> was causing confusion among other students and that it was not in line with the school’s biblical teachings. Administrators admitted that she was a very good student and that they “love” her, but I guess not enough to let her keep learning in their institution…unless she wears a dress and grows her hair. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In South Carolina, Olivia McConnell asked her state representative
to sponsor a bill making the Wooly Mammoth the official state fossil. With
strong historical and scientific support behind his young constituent’s
proposal, Representative Robert Ridgeway brought it to vote in the House, and
it passed 94-3. All was a go until Senator Kevin Bryant insisted on amending
the bill to include a passage from the Bible explaining the creation of
life…which is another banging-head-on-desk essay for another day. Olivia’s bill
is currently stalled, not for lack of historical significance, but because a Christian
fundamentalist cannot remember that religion has no place in our government, or
that the earth is over 6000 years old. He must've missed third grade.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEfWBnoYmdxuNNo3-PrpC7tAGw9ULEnhpSRruks7EePSYgCszzTt6vRsOTT6mkrxgFlFcam84jieBiARp9plZGD5JnYCh0bq-Yy69kfa72NfP54M_cpCtqcoOcoe6WoyDoJZ1UxbP69Et3/s1600/KamrynR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEfWBnoYmdxuNNo3-PrpC7tAGw9ULEnhpSRruks7EePSYgCszzTt6vRsOTT6mkrxgFlFcam84jieBiARp9plZGD5JnYCh0bq-Yy69kfa72NfP54M_cpCtqcoOcoe6WoyDoJZ1UxbP69Et3/s1600/KamrynR.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a>And in Colorado, Kamryn Renfro was suspended for shaving her
head, which she did in support of her best friend who was bald due to the
effects of chemotherapy treatments. Her crew cut was deemed <strike>courageous and supportive</strike> <i>dangerous and distracting </i>by school officials<i>.</i><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So we’re punishing young girls for being themselves, for
honoring scientific discovery, and for standing with those who are too weak to
stand themselves. We’re alienating them, diminishing them, and telling them to
hush up and sit pretty.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">What. The. Heck.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At an age where these girls should be encouraged in their research,
individuality, expression, intelligence, initiative, and ability to connect with others,
these schools and politicians are stifling their mental and emotional growth which
so necessary is to become well-adjusted adults.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know the circumstances that led to Sunnie being
raised by her grandparents, but situations like that rarely arise because the
actual parents are doing an awesome job. So let’s assume she has had some
emotional discourse in her past. If she does indeed have gender identity
issues, kicking her out of school and away from her friends is not helping the
situation. Remember, this is a Christian school... I guess they forgot that
line in the Bible about “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” Nothing
in that passage about <i>just the pretty
ones.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kamryn said she shaved her head “because it seemed like the
right thing to do.” And it was. That sense of empathy is to be applauded in a
child, because it shows strong character. Instead of being sent home, Kamryn
should have been given an assembly in which to explain her action and inspire
her classmates. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
And really, Senator Bryant. Leave your Bible where it
belongs, in your church of choice and your own home. Keep it out of Congress. Try
to learn something from this third-grader today. Olivia will lend you her science book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPr5dPopxfA1eE-RfhTmaLg6ZO8Yk9S3I2qGV9TGQK3cUkNBuRHqfu7Mz7Jkc6tsOV6BPGAuOthcSB59UB_gZH80FIprUZJnix8-wtzD4EFiQILT_2XwG9_yfscgtJhMxPhL2P7LhxI9hK/s1600/HilaryQuote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPr5dPopxfA1eE-RfhTmaLg6ZO8Yk9S3I2qGV9TGQK3cUkNBuRHqfu7Mz7Jkc6tsOV6BPGAuOthcSB59UB_gZH80FIprUZJnix8-wtzD4EFiQILT_2XwG9_yfscgtJhMxPhL2P7LhxI9hK/s1600/HilaryQuote.jpg" height="320" width="319" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t banish these girls for their haircuts and their boyish t-shirts. Don’t dismantle their budding interest in government and science while hiding behind your Bible-shield. The times, they have a-changed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Keep at it, girls</span>. When grown men in positions of power are
threatened by your drive, your passion, and your fortitude, you know <span style="font-size: large;">you’re
doing something right. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-396323610155371772014-01-13T21:16:00.002-08:002014-01-14T20:34:17.389-08:00Doodling Hearts On My Trapper Keeper<div class="MsoNormal">
I love my husband. He’s awesome and cracks me up every day. But
right now, I have a new crush. He’s a 12-year-old boy named Adam Goldberg, and
he’s fictional. Sort of. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real Adam F Goldberg was 12 years old in 1980-something,
and was the dork who always carried around a VHS recorder, capturing the
shenanigans and hijinks of his suburban ‘80s family. Now he’s the almost-40-year-old
writer and executive producer of ABC’s new sitcom <i>The Goldbergs</i>, which
recreates those same shenanigans and hijinks in 22-minute capsules. Episodes are built around footage from those vintage tapes, glimpses of which we are treated to during the closing credits.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The show is brilliant and funny in a <i>Wonder Years-</i>for-the-Gen X-crowd way, but it’s the actor playing
Adam who has stolen my heart. Sean Giambrone plays the kid who is the aggregate
of every boy I went to middle school with in the mid-1980s. He’s my neighbor
down the street with the Midwest accent who thought his new Lightning Bolt t-shirt would finally make him popular. He’s my other neighbor whose prized
possession was his Lego Millennium Falcon set. TV Adam Goldberg is the real
Adam Goldberg reliving his childhood on film, and he is magnificent. He’s innocent and
genuine, excited and hopeful, frustrated and confused. And he’s so darn cute.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTECRDZdoMGkZn_xkCtBKBv6H4mUmWbtjz5BPfhScph4TBHnxi8GCrjtlvGYi0Tave_T77fkv1nSRSUEwpRRTJHYOmsybnuPSJb1hfXUEVqfVeUU1PiRUTHQzNRB8GV0s3Mu3VtzFs8rM/s1600/CavariciPants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTECRDZdoMGkZn_xkCtBKBv6H4mUmWbtjz5BPfhScph4TBHnxi8GCrjtlvGYi0Tave_T77fkv1nSRSUEwpRRTJHYOmsybnuPSJb1hfXUEVqfVeUU1PiRUTHQzNRB8GV0s3Mu3VtzFs8rM/s320/CavariciPants.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey mom, take my picture, I want to remember this outfit
forever!” Adam yells to his mom after his grandfather (“Pops”) buys him a new
pair of back-to-school Z.Cavaricci
pants.<br />
<br />
(Don't try to deny the existence of the same scene at your house featuring OP cord shorts, Duran Duran fedora, or "Frankie Says" t-shirt...)<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When Pops takes him to the movies to see<i> Poltergeist</i>, Adam is so scared of his clown doll at home that he fakes a tummy ache in order to sleep in his parents’ bed at night.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmeVgW3cOsx8j8Hg3NF83St_wuTLHpWKQaDfs6CDhK_4ba1BHkqDPmRjzeO62CI19gvjZErFxEYAnsUQrkc_rsrjjrPw5VXkbc5tpZ7S0RdItTVyfsplqP8PPUBziHRCrQ-C5wqoYz7Tu/s1600/PopsAdam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmeVgW3cOsx8j8Hg3NF83St_wuTLHpWKQaDfs6CDhK_4ba1BHkqDPmRjzeO62CI19gvjZErFxEYAnsUQrkc_rsrjjrPw5VXkbc5tpZ7S0RdItTVyfsplqP8PPUBziHRCrQ-C5wqoYz7Tu/s1600/PopsAdam.jpg" /></a>I just want to pinch his cheeks, give him a Fruit Roll-Up and juice box, and challenge him to a game of Missile Command.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To me he’s the nice boy who held the door open for me in the
school library. He’s the boy who didn’t notice the three girls giggling at him on
the bus because he was too busy drawing the<i> Star War</i>s logo on his spiral notebook. And
he’s the kid who didn’t understand why his dad was always yelling at him for<i> everything</i> because he was basically a
good kid who sometimes got too excited. Come on, he’s 12.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I live for this show. I don’t know how this millennial actor
has so expertly perfected a persona from an era long before his birth, but
somebody owes him a lifetime supply of Whatchamacallits and a subscription to
3-2-1 Contact magazine for his achievement. He wears a home-made Tron costume like a true Gen-Xer, and seems to genuinely understand the zen of the Karate Kid.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
TV Adam Goldberg, my 7<sup>th</sup> grade self is leaving an intricately-folded note in your locker, written in sparkly purple pen, asking if you like me. Check
the 'yes' or 'no' box and meet me by the bus stop after school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luv, Me. <o:p></o:p></div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-13850909738803314892013-09-26T15:15:00.002-07:002013-09-26T15:21:25.327-07:00Achtung, Puppy!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
"So why haven’t you written lately?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a simple enough question but it conjured up anxiety when
I heard it a few times over the past month. Where I used to post here once a week, this blog has been
silent since January. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you giving up the blog?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you have writer’s block?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrug. Yeah, I guess. Both.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there’s more. Right after my last post went out to the
masses, this happened:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRnJhprrXSnS_p4UWFVvviDLVLkPMhTMuHHE09AB8wxLe_ZyAnvCHQdsMuY7etUP_oNjk1uAWJ23RBIrkauM21rHH2IEe0r3IKJjNxKoUj5-AxVY5GsmY6pL-1XMkWYWJ42vR1Zm62BIp/s1600/Conehead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRnJhprrXSnS_p4UWFVvviDLVLkPMhTMuHHE09AB8wxLe_ZyAnvCHQdsMuY7etUP_oNjk1uAWJ23RBIrkauM21rHH2IEe0r3IKJjNxKoUj5-AxVY5GsmY6pL-1XMkWYWJ42vR1Zm62BIp/s320/Conehead.jpg" width="311" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s Milhouse, a rescue puppy. As best as we can tell, he’s
part Pug, Beagle, and Rhodesian Ridgeback. We adopted him on February 2, and on
February 7 he was diagnosed with Parvovirus. The evening prior to the 7<sup>th</sup>
he was on the porch with me and ate a begonia flower, which he threw up shortly
after. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just to be safe, I Googled “are
begonias poisonous to dogs.” Yep, they are. Crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, he threw it up, he should be okay, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>6 a.m. we got up to take him to pee. He did more than pee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot. And he was trying to throw up again.
All he wanted to do was curl up on his pillow. He was listless, but still awake
and still licking our hands and wagging his tail. We still
thought it was “just” the flower and thought it would pass with time since he
had thrown in up entirely. Even so, we took him to the vet first thing. On a hunch the vet asked to run a Parvo test because the symptoms
were similar. We agreed. We really didn’t think that would be the case as the
paperwork from the rescue indicated he’d had his Parvo shot before we'd adopted him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It didn’t matter. He was Parvovirus positive and also
positive for Giardia, which is an intestinal bacteria. Parvo usually kills
puppies this young, and we knew that. Five days we’d had him. We were already
fully attached to him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He spent four full days at the vet getting constant IV
fluids to keep him hydrated and instill nutrients. Parvo destroys the
intestines’ ability to hold onto food, so an infected puppy cannot retain any
nutrients from food. Death typically occurs from dehydration and malnutrition. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>There is no cure for Parvo, you have to wait
it out and hope for the best. Treatment is palliative. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFpHs1AJ_u_FxRAe_QGRiiQqIjiLCGT5Bl5raFxB6dSIiG7Ya-rfXww4SSM03LKZRqm9y7kuXUYKFWaCsbiaAVML00AIyTuSq5R2Wv7kh1XTWBbGLWq8jAhHiv7_-4oaowV8th9UKfBR2/s1600/SickPuppy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFpHs1AJ_u_FxRAe_QGRiiQqIjiLCGT5Bl5raFxB6dSIiG7Ya-rfXww4SSM03LKZRqm9y7kuXUYKFWaCsbiaAVML00AIyTuSq5R2Wv7kh1XTWBbGLWq8jAhHiv7_-4oaowV8th9UKfBR2/s320/SickPuppy.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
We visited him twice per day, every day. Because the virus
is so contagious, we had to clean everything at home that he might have touched
with a bleach solution…the floors, his crate, our driveway/sidewalk/porches/yard
where he’d “gone”, his toys and bedding. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The virus can live in an environment for up to
six months so treating the outside was imperative to keep other neighborhood dogs
from<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>becoming infected with it should
they step in our yard. When we visited him at the vet we had to step in
bleach water at the doorway to prevent tracking out any contaminant on our
shoes. We had to wear scrub gowns to hold him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poor pup was quarantined in a tiny room all alone, but the vet techs
there quickly fell in love with him and gave him lots of attention. I believe
this had a big impact on his recovery. Even now when we go to the vet for a
checkup Milhouse makes a beeline for those girls and showers them with licks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those four days were utterly exhausting. When we weren’t cleaning,
we were cursing the rescue (who refused to return my phone calls!!) or crying.
It was emotionally draining, terribly expensive, and we were angry. We thought
we had done a good thing by supporting a local dog rescue, but it turned out
that once they had our money they didn’t care one bit about this puppy.
Our faith in this rescue was demolished. But we comforted ourselves knowing
that we rescued him from such a shady outfit where he surely would have died
that week if we had not adopted him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somehow that little guy persevered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spent the night of Day 4 at the emergency
vet office to get one last full night of IVs. It was there I caught this moment
between Milhouse and my husband. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3En80KGvg1le8JXuXdZb7z9r5if-EhGrsNxffIUObdDzoiW901gtMtr7a2IRCarzZ4mLtk0B0aZhTOFDVbXitUuZ6HU1kxg9zUP4DHgHgOVAksHlJ4SAkpXMivH0GaMyzoEIXSeg6t2nb/s1600/OKDaddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3En80KGvg1le8JXuXdZb7z9r5if-EhGrsNxffIUObdDzoiW901gtMtr7a2IRCarzZ4mLtk0B0aZhTOFDVbXitUuZ6HU1kxg9zUP4DHgHgOVAksHlJ4SAkpXMivH0GaMyzoEIXSeg6t2nb/s320/OKDaddy.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i> “OK, Daddy. I’ll get better for you.”</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXVIVT-zIs9qaEtuXZTDTw15runcI91-zAiHmiGwVQEpiLeQ_MXjSm38UQl61IrVavlmoANA66t1S5FCcsN8kf1aHfLmsPM_hZTt5fTwccVQnGt6zy-s09Btsm4sng0H8m_jzJzWhWgFw/s1600/BackHome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXVIVT-zIs9qaEtuXZTDTw15runcI91-zAiHmiGwVQEpiLeQ_MXjSm38UQl61IrVavlmoANA66t1S5FCcsN8kf1aHfLmsPM_hZTt5fTwccVQnGt6zy-s09Btsm4sng0H8m_jzJzWhWgFw/s320/BackHome.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When we brought him home he was down to 7-1/2 pounds. But he
ate. For the first time in 5 days, he ate solid food, out of Jeff's hand.<br />
<br />
What followed was 10 days
of multiple medications to make sure the bacteria was gone, to help heal his
gut, to promote digestion, and fight other flu-like symptoms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pills, powders, squeezy-syringes at
round-the-clock intervals. We needed a spreadsheet to keep it all organized. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday he reached 10 months old. He’s now 30 pounds, all
muscle, and runs like a cheetah.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt1Gf42nTteZd4dqj9X1nHzpVszMbBq_ceS89icT5kI0I5jXcpVqgcV5zDNqEYiIqKrMr9tO37S0oKXsuJJUxT0DtJ7S5QikT867Z0h0Dad14wQ1WYP2ZfAkQp2FuhyphenhyphenL-Hc32HJERIM_r3/s1600/SoccerDog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt1Gf42nTteZd4dqj9X1nHzpVszMbBq_ceS89icT5kI0I5jXcpVqgcV5zDNqEYiIqKrMr9tO37S0oKXsuJJUxT0DtJ7S5QikT867Z0h0Dad14wQ1WYP2ZfAkQp2FuhyphenhyphenL-Hc32HJERIM_r3/s320/SoccerDog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
He has a girlfriend down the street named
Charley. She’s a one-year-old Beagle who also survived Parvo. From the first
day they met each other they’ve been in love. They whimper and howl if they
catch a glimpse of each other in the neighborhood. When set loose in the house
they tussle ‘til exhaustion. It’s freaking adorable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The past eight months have been so tiring. Even after the
illness, we had behavior issues to address. Countless hours of training
sessions and constant trips to the off-leash dog parks for socialization have
helped immensely, though he’s still a rockhead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
But when he hops up on the couch, rests his chin on my lap
and sighs deeply, I swoon. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBQkJB6hZlnU5mGf9v42PN7ruez19elrV2d50PGC79DeQ81dKsOOXMuUlNFrs4Nwn7yQUKLdSeaL2msBTxpP0ag2JzBC1SK59u1vO3TmM9VxnvJItdezN9e2gx5MKV1CXB5PoviOX62vg/s1600/IMG_20130803_160751_072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBQkJB6hZlnU5mGf9v42PN7ruez19elrV2d50PGC79DeQ81dKsOOXMuUlNFrs4Nwn7yQUKLdSeaL2msBTxpP0ag2JzBC1SK59u1vO3TmM9VxnvJItdezN9e2gx5MKV1CXB5PoviOX62vg/s320/IMG_20130803_160751_072.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So no, I haven’t written lately. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-24446731639344708972013-01-20T19:04:00.001-08:002013-01-20T19:13:27.142-08:00If (Gen)X = 40, Solve for Why<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I was really excited when I first saw the preview for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9Vt9sP8OY8" target="_blank"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is 40</i></a>, the latest movie from GenX
writer and director Judd Apatow. I turned 40 this year, and I love when movies
coincide perfectly with my life. In much the same way I was super psyched when<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion </i>came
out two years before my own 10-year reunion.I was also glad to see that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Forty</i> was a comedy, and not a total downer like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Big Chill </i>was for Boomers at this
age(though I totally concede <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chill</i> is
a great movie that still holds up). </div>
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<br /></div>
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So now that it’s been out for a month or two I finally got
around to seeing it today. Friends asked for a review. Okey doke. Here goes. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojJ0ERJPgkJ_Xpd9eTctQd8JDMI8hlFk9_9dIJQencmpeRAkWiVOgOlFqqZNDuuW0CL0RK5_dg6lRpxJRdHwrfUim_oiw1ewXrU0kHiqgAPPIeY53iRPfOsiiUN18asbrebZZxBVA8FcG/s1600/40terlet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojJ0ERJPgkJ_Xpd9eTctQd8JDMI8hlFk9_9dIJQencmpeRAkWiVOgOlFqqZNDuuW0CL0RK5_dg6lRpxJRdHwrfUim_oiw1ewXrU0kHiqgAPPIeY53iRPfOsiiUN18asbrebZZxBVA8FcG/s320/40terlet.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>
Holy crap. I didn’t expect it to be so emotional! In the
trailer it looks FUNNY. And it IS. Hilariously so. Many times I was near
peepee pants from laughing. But then suddenly and out of freaking nowhere I was
practically in tears. When the teenage daughter character had a breakdown at
the breakfast table I nearly had one of my own. When the two main adult characters
had one of their what-are-we-doing-in-this-marriage freakout spats (and there
are a lot of them) I held my breath that they wouldn’t break up. The
juxtaposition of the adoration between spouses and the shit that happens in
life was very real and relatable. The weird physical changes that come with
aging—the ones that are best not shown head-on but rather hidden behind a strategically
placed hand mirror—offer fodder for some of the funniest moments in this movie.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_06uIZuabLH2hTQH9QhO9GnnwtOQFVvJ8fb8yBTAxfLMvMqwy6UJ-OKJo8Tzaud4zP3wiJ8m2Xy0dQht2nudWeJQAYEqTme41bjOxjA4Ivwp34ajr7iX1Tnl3ttZPL_KK_reeHJPuC65q/s1600/40one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_06uIZuabLH2hTQH9QhO9GnnwtOQFVvJ8fb8yBTAxfLMvMqwy6UJ-OKJo8Tzaud4zP3wiJ8m2Xy0dQht2nudWeJQAYEqTme41bjOxjA4Ivwp34ajr7iX1Tnl3ttZPL_KK_reeHJPuC65q/s320/40one.jpg" width="259" /></a></div>
Some of the dialogue was overly clever, in a way that makes you realize nobody
is that adroit at witty repartee that spontaneously (I made the same comment
about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reality Bites</i> almost 20 years
ago). And though I personally love Leslie Mann, I could see how some people
might get a little tired of her whiny baby voice, but it’s not enough reason to
avoid seeing this movie. </div>
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Above all this is a movie that will make you laugh. You’re
in serious need of Zoloft if you don’t bust a gut, though you and your spouse
will probably find different scenes to be the funniest. But be prepared for a little
soul punching if you’re hovering around forty, a parent, married, having career
issues, money issues, health issues, parent issues, or any combination of those
problems. Just make sure you stay into
the closing credits; the outtake reel of a scene featuring Melissa McCarthy is
60 seconds of crass bliss.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
My just-turned-40-husband’s comment: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There were some very funny moments, but I
thought it was kind of disjointed. And it was predictable based on the preview. Leslie Mann and Paul Rudd played off of each
other well. They blamed everybody but
themselves...but that’s our generation.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Point
delivered, Mr. Apatow.</div>
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-68315359510069458432012-11-16T15:54:00.000-08:002012-11-16T17:50:21.258-08:00Her Name is Jenny and She Dances to the BandOn the first day of 6th grade in 1982 I met a girl named Jennifer. A quiet redhead, she quickly earned the label of smartest kid in class. One weekend she invited me to spend the night at her house. Upon walking into her room for the first time my eyes were immediately drawn upward. Taped to the ceiling directly above her bed was a poster of five guys, all dressed in black and white, one wearing a fedora. It was the iconic picture of British pop band Duran Duran.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBzDNzfVMZrr0sKMMMNp4KdvMWV9K_f46chp_Odb1WqgUxoWOtywRPuFvwEsGdisUcjwDpAaVAqL8gc2QtBdGe7XmWObGMBCYEpBhrsVENbzu4_7ZMyVf2FFEDSISUruFhyA_Sy3oOztK/s1600/DDposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBzDNzfVMZrr0sKMMMNp4KdvMWV9K_f46chp_Odb1WqgUxoWOtywRPuFvwEsGdisUcjwDpAaVAqL8gc2QtBdGe7XmWObGMBCYEpBhrsVENbzu4_7ZMyVf2FFEDSISUruFhyA_Sy3oOztK/s320/DDposter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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At the time I knew OF the group, but I didn't know anything <i>about</i> them. Jen quickly schooled me. She was already an expert.
30 years later, Jen is a little less quiet, happily married, and has a law degree, but is still one of the biggest Duran Duran fans around.
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Part of a community of GenX women who travel the country following the band on tour, she recently attended her 33rd Duran Duran concert. They're like Deadheads but with better overnight accommodations.
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<br />
No doubt their resources as professionals allow them better seats and pre-concert drinks, but they also have more life-work responsibilities to work around. In 2005 Jen (who lives in South Florida) learned on a Monday morning of a one-night-only show that Saturday...in Southern California. She told herself all day that she couldn't possibly swing that trip on less than a week's notice. But that night she IM'd a fellow Duranie to discuss options, and by Tuesday she had a ticket, a flight, and a rental car. "It was a special show in many ways—intimate venue, no distractions, just the five of them," recalled Jen.
<br />
Totally worth it.
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7w6rHKt2afoO-vwYbijf8KJ7exCWHthASi8Pd3A-n4oQrJaK80lHooZLYxpClqyuh1uDEwJzhmWHkkNQYieL-fCb_tfk6kBZvXHFfZ8tBVlQyGRAs8SxIelSwhWCP4gtci7NiAw6hIcFV/s1600/GirlsOnFilm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7w6rHKt2afoO-vwYbijf8KJ7exCWHthASi8Pd3A-n4oQrJaK80lHooZLYxpClqyuh1uDEwJzhmWHkkNQYieL-fCb_tfk6kBZvXHFfZ8tBVlQyGRAs8SxIelSwhWCP4gtci7NiAw6hIcFV/s400/GirlsOnFilm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo was taken by Nick Rhodes while the band played "Girls on Film" at a show in San Francisco. Jen is in the front row...somewhere.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Attending so many shows--and those pay-extra pre-show events--does have its benefits occasionally. One of the ladies in the group was at an Atlanta show and asked Nick Rhodes for a picture after the concert, adding that it was her birthday. A few months later he saw her after another show and acknowledged her as “Birthday Girl.” He said that he didn’t remember exactly when or where it was because that all starts to run together, but he remembered her.
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8f8mB68L7KFN8c-m_OJdbg_AmfqQWcZkNLTUz5TvR4FleO3PqahE50Fv03cH9FqjpTb4DYhecgwtyo7GfbBMpyEJhL6An_DLQPp2w65zNHygM_xdOEcziaofXKqbDOcvLx7RctQRs1Pt/s1600/JenTaylor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8f8mB68L7KFN8c-m_OJdbg_AmfqQWcZkNLTUz5TvR4FleO3PqahE50Fv03cH9FqjpTb4DYhecgwtyo7GfbBMpyEJhL6An_DLQPp2w65zNHygM_xdOEcziaofXKqbDOcvLx7RctQRs1Pt/s320/JenTaylor.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...with John Taylor at a book signing in New York</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To anyone who's ever obsessed over a celebrity, this is huge. And I say "obsessed" in the nicest way possible.
<br />
<br />
While these ladies' admiration surely began with pre-teen hormone rages, they truly are music aficionados. No two live shows are ever the same, and the anticipation of hearing a rarely-played song is one of the things that keeps them following. Jen always tries to get tickets as close to the front as possible. "It may sound silly," she says, "but there is something about getting a smile or a wink from one of the guys who used to be totally untouchable idols in posters on the wall."
<br />
<br />
In fact, when the group went to a pre-show meet-and-greet with the band, they walked in and John Taylor said, “I know you guys. You go to a lot of shows.” EEEEEEEE!!!
<br />
<br />
Jen continues, "And I guess a part of it is that in a way, it does take me back to that time. For a few hours, all of the adult responsibilities go on the back burner. When I first started trying to explain this to people, I said that I had found my inner 14-year-old, only she has discretionary income and no curfew."
<br />
<br />
The relationships between these women go deeper than just a love of the boys in the band. What started out as online chats with other groupies has turned into a group that gets together outside of concerts for things like baby showers and 40th birthday weekends. "In some ways, the band is almost secondary now," said Jen. <i>Almost.</i>HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-63550699669587090082012-10-23T18:24:00.000-07:002012-10-23T18:24:11.562-07:00A Swift Kick in the PantsIn an old episode of <b>Sex and the City</b>, cosmopolitan attorney Miranda invites her bartender boyfriend Steve to a formal event. "So you'll have to wear a suit," she says. "You do have a suit...right?" Having only recently started dating each other, it was a valid inquiry.<br />
<br />
"Of course I have a suit," Steve replies. "It's gold."<br />
"<i>Gold</i>?" Miranda asks.<br />
"Yeah...like, corduroy," Steve says, as if implying something obvious.<br />
<br />
At this point Miranda's facial expression registers the knowledge that her new boyfriend may not be as up to the standards of current fashion as she'd hoped.
<br />
<br />
This is exactly the emotion I felt yesterday, except I wasn't judging my significant other. Rather, I was looking in the mirror.
<br />
<br />
Before heading to the grocery I threw on a favorite pair of jeans and t-shirt. A cursory glance in the full-length mirror caused me to do a double-take. Hmmm...something's weird, I thought. Turning, looking over my shoulder at my backside, turning back around, I scan myself from all angles. Did I shrink? Are the pants too long? I roll them once; no, no, not that. They're not dirty, or wrinkled, or on backwards. They still fit, I don't have muffin top. What the heck? <br />
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<br />
I ask my husband. He looks at me suspiciously, trying to guess what underlying issue I'm secretly asking him to dispel, a la <i>do these make my butt look big</i>? "They're fine," he says dismissively.<br />
<br />
Finally it dawns on me. These jeans are old. Not in a broken-in Levi's button-fly 501 blues way, but in a fodder for an SNL skit way. Not by any means "mom jeans"; I mean, they're not high wasted, pleated front, and peg bottomed, but they are distinctly of an era past, when denim was faded...really faded. And very evenly colored. I remember that they were deemed "boyfriend cut" by the catalog, but I can assure you that no boyfriend would wear these jeans. I can't remember exactly when I bought them, but I can narrow it down to when I was still single, and I've been married for nine years.
<br />
<br />
As a means of secondary confirmation I posed a question on Facebook: How old is too old for jeans...style-wise?
<br />
<br />
Most answers were noncommittal (I'm assuming my friends didn't want to insult me), and a few tried to be funny by referencing designer brands that were de rigueur in middle school (Gitano, I'm looking at you).
<br />
<br />
When one high school classmate suggested I post a picture on myself wearing the pants so everyone could vote, I panicked. As tempting as it was to relive the teenage experience of having classmates judge my clothing choices again, I declined this option. It occurred to me that had I worn 10-year-old jeans to high school, I would have been laughed right out of the cafeteria.
<br />
<br />
How did this happen to me? I've always had an interest in, and sense for, current fashion trends. Even when I didn't have money to spend on nicer clothes, I still knew what was hip and I knew what I WOULD buy if I could. I watched <i>Style With Elsa Klensch</i> for 15 years, dammit! But somehow these jeans escaped all of my periodic clothes-purging marathons (probably because I was wearing them each time).
<br />
<br />
Now that I'm 40, I feel like I need to pay more attention to not falling in ruts. I don't want to be that woman who's 45 and still dressing like she's 25 because that's when she feels she looked her best, but in the end she just looks sadly trapped in the past. Just because something fits, it shouldn't necessarily be worn in public.<br />
<br />
(For a glimpse at a pair of jeans I will never...ever...ever get rid of, read <a href="http://shapeofx.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-love-smell-of-bleached-denim-in.html" target="_blank">I Love the Smell of Bleached Denim in the Morning</a> ) HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-72307173359754839662012-08-27T19:21:00.000-07:002012-09-01T16:16:06.429-07:00Comfort is the New BlackI have a love/hate relationship with dress codes. I've typically always followed them without question, seeing them as an element of civilized society. With every new job I've always asked what the code is. I think dining in a fancy restaurant warrants wearing a fancy dress. I would rather be overdressed than underdressed in practically any situation.<br />
<br />
But as I've gotten older, I've grown to see some of the long-enduring rules of appropriate dress as both antiquated and unnecessary.<br />
<br />
As a college senior in the mid-1990s I was required to attend a mock job interview at my school's career center. This included dressing *professionally* as one would for a real interview. As luck would have it, a snowstorm hit the night before my interview. Awaking to find my car utterly snowed in, I put on several layers of clothing and laced up my snow boots for the half-mile hike to campus.<br />
<br />
Despite my intelligent answers and professional demeanor, the interviewer at the career center marked points off my evaluation for my "inappropriate attire." I suppose I should have trudged through the snow in pumps. A woman is only as good as her appearance, right? <br />
<br />
I later found out that a classmate who had an interviewed the same day was deducted points because the heels on her shoes were deemed "too fat and trendy." I'm so glad to know that our tuition money was well spent on footwear advice. <br />
<br />
Ellen Warren is a syndicated writer with the Chicago Tribune, currently producing a weekly shopping advice column. Back in March she focused on new college grads who would soon be facing the job world. Among her Dos and Don'ts was "hosiery is a must." Are we back to this debate again? Have we not come to the conclusion that lower extremity sausage casing does not in any way indicate a woman's qualifications to be an accountant/engineer/doctor?<br />
<br />
At a recent job interview, my interviewer walked into the board room wearing jeans and a hipster V-neck t-shirt. "Egads!", the Boomer would think. "Young man, you march back to your room and put on a necktie until you look respectable!" Oh, wait, this man had "director" in his title, and the company is a corporation with annual sales in the tens of millions. Somehow, despite the obvious lack of silken nooses, it was still a professional environment.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5-djhaTUgCFkH9YrSEKyW9QrFdrRQGftxD8Sf1J8whVjZ1TRGO7p9HM6ctbIclwlVoPrBh0y8gO1b1KKFkakOT_Y5U7lBEfnEWGvjSaZFt9cTHR8sNEHRFgjt9FTi966FLB5Yt0rCesu/s1600/businesscaz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5-djhaTUgCFkH9YrSEKyW9QrFdrRQGftxD8Sf1J8whVjZ1TRGO7p9HM6ctbIclwlVoPrBh0y8gO1b1KKFkakOT_Y5U7lBEfnEWGvjSaZFt9cTHR8sNEHRFgjt9FTi966FLB5Yt0rCesu/s320/businesscaz.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
It's important to note that my interviewer was slightly younger than me, because this is where the shift is taking place. Gen X and Gen Y professionals are finally in positions of power and influence where WE determine the rules of acceptable dress. Gen X realized and is forcing into acceptance that we should not judge a person's worth based entirely on their clothing. While Boomers like Ms. Warren cling to decades-old ideals of formality and conformity, Gens X and Y encourage comfort and personality. We realize that comfortable workers are productive workers. A closed toe shoe doesn't make me smarter. <br />
<br />
While a friend recently told me that he "wouldn't want to work for" somebody who didn't wear a suit to an interview, I told him I wouldn't want to work for a company where the interviewer couldn't see past my legs to notice my master's degree, 16 years of work experience, and glowing recommendations. Call me crazy.<br />
HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-67419443977958840212012-08-07T20:27:00.000-07:002012-08-07T20:27:11.431-07:00The Young and the HopefulCruising through Facebook during this past week I noticed that roughly 66% of the updates were regarding the Olympics. Of these, a recurring theme surfaced that went something like this: "Gillian has now decided she wants to be a gymnast"..."After watching Gabby Douglas, my Peyton is bouncing off the walls and trying to 'stick the landing'"... "Madison has been glued to the TV tonight, screaming GO FAB FIVE!"<br />
<br />
These girls are all quite young, one is only 3 years old. But, like I was in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ttc9aCSRqEY" target="_blank">1976 watching Nadia Comaneci score all those perfect tens</a>, they are completely entranced by the Olympic gymnasts. <br />
<br />
Despite women competing in more events than ever before (even boxing and powerlifting), it remains the petite ponytailed powerhouses who capture the hearts of little girls. Neither the runners and jumpers, nor the tall tan volleyballers, the precision divers, nor the bedazzled synchronized swimmers wield the power to render 5-year-olds blinkless in admiration, to inspire 8-year-olds to push their stretch a little further, and to give 10-year-olds the confidence to finally attempt that aerial.<br />
<br />
I was four years old when I first saw Nadia, and for years after that my life's dream was to become an Olympic gymnast. Pesky things like growth spurts and an insurmountable fear of landing on my head eventually squashed that dream, but I had a good run of recreational gymnastics training at the local YMCA, and it remains one of my favorite memories of childhood. One of my fellow tumblers is still a friend and we still reminisce about the routines we performed, each time imagining we were flipping in a huge arena rather than in the multi-purpose room above the racquetball courts.<br />
<br />
I remember, too, the morning my mother told me that the United States was boycotting the 1980 Olympic Games in Moscow. When she explained that this meant NBC would not be going, and hence it would not be on television, I burst into tears, realizing there would be...no gymnastics. I was beyond crushed. These girls were the only heroes I knew. They had superhuman ability to defy gravity. Nadia's fluid, graceful lines disguised the intense strength that carried her through every apparatus. She was so tiny yet so .powerful. <br />
<br />
As I am writing this I just saw Gabby Douglas take a heartbreaking slip on the balance beam in her final competition. Despite such a medal-defeating falter, Gabby remained focused and continued her routine through to the end with more composure than most 16-year-olds could muster after simply tripping in front of a cute boy at the mall. Though as a child I didn't understand the concept of focus, I know that I and my fellow gymanstics-enthusiast friends could see it on their faces, and we imitated it. We had that "eye of the tiger" even if we didn't yet have the hearts of lions. <br />
<br />
As my bio on this blog has stated from day one, Nadia will always be my hero. But I continue to be enamored by every new team of Olympian gymnasts. Mary Lou Retton, Kim Zmeskal, Dominique Moceanu, and now Gabby and the rest of the Fab Five.There is something mystical about these girls. They perform what the rest of us can only accomplish in the dreams of our deepest sleep. Four years old or 40, us girls just want to fly...and then land on our feet with a flourish. <br />
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="250" data-width="202" height="250" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQDcKvyNYhVX4P03A_7yjRYLDjFIa5Gm9QGV-25jkwXpzRKzel_cQ" style="height: 250px; width: 202px;" width="202" />HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-67729382603163281882012-06-03T18:19:00.000-07:002012-06-03T18:19:43.255-07:00Keepin' it Real...Simple<br />
I love it when something I don't normally pay attention to gives me a life-altering sign.<br />
<br />
A few months ago my friend Jackie gave me some magazines she'd finished reading (such a great recycler, that Jackie). One was a copy of the April 2012 <i>Real Simple</i>, which I always see in the checkout line but have never bought, or read. So I took it to work to read during my lunch break.<br />
<br />
One article in it was a profile on a lady named Kim Sava, "who lives by an uncommon philosophy: Keep only what you use."<br />
<br />
I was hooked. I didn't need to read any further (although I eventually did, a month later). Seriously. It was so simple (duh, hence why it made that magazine) yet made so much sense. That enlarged and italicized line on the page slapped me just enough to knock loose some cobwebs in my brain. I couldn't wait to get home and put that philosophy to use.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfhiOJ6HFRfmf5PUb835XblJ3RfqezEFT9GNWeittQMBAOp0G5O5T8sD9E1wTDSiuO0HFV_qfx4AKiMLQwSWDCxTvsdeLIJ7dUAQPqOC4bwMKONgtz9dHTygNs-2IANK2qxYgWzQdUffnW/s1600/closetclutter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfhiOJ6HFRfmf5PUb835XblJ3RfqezEFT9GNWeittQMBAOp0G5O5T8sD9E1wTDSiuO0HFV_qfx4AKiMLQwSWDCxTvsdeLIJ7dUAQPqOC4bwMKONgtz9dHTygNs-2IANK2qxYgWzQdUffnW/s200/closetclutter.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>My guest room closet. Not so simple. </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Despite a few items held onto for sentimental reasons, I'm not one of those people who keeps <i>everything</i>, nor am I an OCD neat freak. I like order and I get satisfaction from organizing. But despite that, I knew I still had boxes and closets of random stuff that wasn't essential or sentimental, and probably hadn't been used in a few years. But I kept this stuff because "I might use it," or because it had been a gift that I felt obligated to keep.<br />
<br />
But not anymore. I started going through my closets, keeping my new rule in mind: Keep Only What We Use.<br />
<br />
It was almost magically easy. Old-timey-looking telephone that hasn't been plugged in since '05? Donated. Outdated college textbooks? Trash. Five lampshades for a chandelier I no longer own got mailed to friend who can use them. I had more extra pillows than I had room for bodies on beds. Gone.<br />
<br />
Very shortly I had three bags full of perfectly good items ready for the Salvation Army, a few things for the trash, and a few more for give-aways. And I've only just begun.<br />
<br />
For a long time I held on to the "good" stuff in the hopes I'd be able to sell it for profit at a garage sale (which I'm not even allowed to have in my neighborhood). But knowing that my husband and I hope to move out of state within the next year, I'd rather do a major purge now without the added burden of ohmygod-I'm-moving-in-two-weeks-and-have-to-pack-this-whole-house stress.<br />
<br />
My grandparents, who moved something like 43 times in their
62-year-marriage, were experts on keeping only what they used, but were
still able to hold onto sentimental items. Upon my grandmother's death
we found a boxful of all their congratulatory wedding cards, her wedding
gown, and my mother's baby shoes. So living simply doesn't mean living
like a pauper or giving up memories. It just means taking a definitive
look at what is necessary.<br />
<br />
Now I enjoy opening my closets and admiring the extra room (I will NOT buy more stuff, I will NOT buy more stuff...). Clearing the clutter is both freeing and calming for me. Without getting too philosophical, it's just a good way to live your life...unencumbered by extraneous bulk. Holding on to things we don't use is a burden. It can keep us from moving forward, literally and figuratively.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>The more you have, the more you are occupied. The less you have, the more free you are.</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
--Mother Teresa</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<br />
<br />HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-25595915249256844732012-05-15T18:55:00.002-07:002012-11-16T17:53:16.290-08:00Sweatin' in an OldieEvery time I watch an episode of <i>Hoarders</i>, at some point I think, "how can he/she possibly be attached to that (piece of fabric/empty box/magazine from 1991)?" I wonder why these people can't see that the object(s) in front of them are clearly garbage that should be tossed out. But the truth is, we all own something whose value is understood only by ourselves. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVKGFe3TdlLk4ITpChMDyk4nh_IvHetz5WSgSM-nTtDcpnBNvroO_CtPeWMj5qi_caabsPnKgo2HAcQCHuRhNCPpoBQzw9uauVdXScvvdcLY9vbFsfbjcevsSr-t_R1-PfNXlS1CvNcKh4/s1600/DukeSweatshirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVKGFe3TdlLk4ITpChMDyk4nh_IvHetz5WSgSM-nTtDcpnBNvroO_CtPeWMj5qi_caabsPnKgo2HAcQCHuRhNCPpoBQzw9uauVdXScvvdcLY9vbFsfbjcevsSr-t_R1-PfNXlS1CvNcKh4/s320/DukeSweatshirt.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1987</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One thing I can't throw out is a college sweatshirt I bought in 1986. At the time I was 14 years old and visiting my brother at his school during Parents Weekend. In anticipation of this trip I saved my allowance for weeks, knowing exactly what I wanted to buy at the student union store. Once purchased, I couldn't wait to put it on; this sweatshirt was the whitest, coziest, fluffiest sweatshirt I've ever felt. It was like wearing a cloud. <br />
<br />
Twenty-five years later it's threadbare, tinted a yellowish-gray color, and smells musty from hiding in a storage bin for 8 months out of the year. The neck, wrists, and waistband are completely stretched out. I look like a bag lady wearing it. Still, I hold onto it. I've worn that Duke sweatshirt EVERYWHERE: on vacations (all of them), to football games, and on dates. While jogging, while sick, and while studying. Through high school, through college, through graduate school. It has traveled from Maine to Florida to California to Washington. Every boyfriend I've had has held my hand in this sweatshirt. <br />
<div style="color: #990000;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: black;">
My<i> life</i> happened in this sweatshirt. </div>
<br />
So when I consider putting it to a final rest, a flood of memories always surfaces. I've come to realize over the years that when my life is going well I tend to purge excess items, and when it's less than ideal, I hold on to more. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgZ8mgjxC0EBoBCRFPdjtvYwXxVgc-juhyHerbuSElFst8sgu0pVTiYDUMN86uk8h-ZbCVXw5w5CxMFRk4GRKu7a2jtP3NnJSGXnkgUJe6muOe6eq4tVukzIpKGNqrNltMSkIjkWh99QH/s1600/DukeType.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgZ8mgjxC0EBoBCRFPdjtvYwXxVgc-juhyHerbuSElFst8sgu0pVTiYDUMN86uk8h-ZbCVXw5w5CxMFRk4GRKu7a2jtP3NnJSGXnkgUJe6muOe6eq4tVukzIpKGNqrNltMSkIjkWh99QH/s304/DukeType.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have other sweatshirts, mind you; sweatshirts from colleges I actually attended. And I have newer sweatshirts whose whites are whiter and whose brights are brighter. But the Duke sweatshirt...it's part security blanket, part historical artifact, like the teddy bear I received when I was three who still sits on a chair in my bedroom. I know it's way past its prime but I just can't let it go. It's my <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t2-NFhEI-DM">"Wooby."</a> Every time I've tried to throw it out, sentimentality places it back in the bin. Duke's not going anywhere.<br />
<br />HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-68567549579035867842012-04-09T18:21:00.024-07:002012-04-12T04:56:07.083-07:00Sail On, Silver GirlThe summer between my 6th and 7th-grade school years saw a horrific crime in my hometown. In July 1983, a 17-year-old high school senior and her 14-year-old friend were picked up by two men while hitching a ride to the beach. By the end of the day both were raped and the older of the two, Lynn Carol Elliott, was murdered while trying to escape. Her friend narrowly survived, found by police bound in the rafters of a house. Lynn's heroic attempt ultimately saved her friend's life and, as we came to learn, put an end to a serial killer's heinous obsession. <br /><br />Today, almost 29 years later, Lynn's killer is finally paying for his crime. After spending 28 years on Death Row, the monster will finally be executed, much to the relief of thousands of residents past and present. We cannot say "finally" enough. The anger and heartache have continued to broil all these decades because of how badly it rattled our community.<br /><br />When the news first broke, I read the newspaper and wondered if Lynn was related to the boy in my class with the same last name. A front-page picture of him and his mother at a court hearing soon after confirmed my connection. "This is such a small town and everyone is about two degrees away from everyone," said a friend recently while discussing the case. <br /><br />But it's not the crime I want to write about. It's Lynn.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsnNfiJbP10Pr-0c3ijQwdqQTnWWRgzGztoD56w22RwQ74pQ0Aavste237E6iq7zyVXzlFR2XPLsHik-DezjYTtgH2Y8s084fY-oC7EbAJrNdOujLBm2Svc6RsC3trK43liD5eyAoE71DG/s1600/LynnEll.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsnNfiJbP10Pr-0c3ijQwdqQTnWWRgzGztoD56w22RwQ74pQ0Aavste237E6iq7zyVXzlFR2XPLsHik-DezjYTtgH2Y8s084fY-oC7EbAJrNdOujLBm2Svc6RsC3trK43liD5eyAoE71DG/s320/LynnEll.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729576215718302674" /></a> <br />I never knew her, but I will never forget her. I have thought about her a thousand times since 1983. When I've walked alone where maybe I shouldn't have, I thought of Lynn. When I took a self defense class in college, I thought of Lynn every day. When my roommate said she could walk home after work in the dark because "it's not that far," I thought of Lynn and made sure I was there to give her a ride home. <br /><br />Lynn's senior portrait is indelibly imprinted on my mind. She's one of the most recognized faces in the city of Vero Beach, Florida, despite having been gone for nearly 30 years. <br /><br /><br />Every year on the anniversary of her daughter's death, Lynn's mother, Jeanne, has published a memorial in the local newspaper. "Sail on Silver Girl," it always reads. Every year those of us who saw the full story emerge comment to each other on the mind-boggling frustration of seeing yet another year pass without justice for the family. <br /><br />So while today finally delivers some retribution for the Elliott family, I hope that they will also know the legacy their daughter continues to sustain. Many of us girls DID learn from her tragedy. We took cautions to heart because of her. And we continue to be the influence on younger generations of girls to protect them from ever meeting a similar fate. Lynn will not be forgotten, I promise you that.HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-30603362378758400852012-04-07T12:38:00.019-07:002012-04-07T15:12:25.571-07:00Running Into the SunI have a love/hate relationship with running. <br /><br />I like the way I feel <span style="font-style:italic;">after</span> I've done it but I don't really enjoy <span style="font-style:italic;">doing </span>it. <br />I like the shoes but not the shorts. <br />I like that at a lot of races they hand out beer afterwards. <br /><br />I fully understand the benefits of regular running, and I see how great my runner friends look, but I still struggle with motivating myself to do it. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2TGR_GCYLP4-piS4wSymH3Q16apF-BlTtKPHs6VRwnkJO4E6ArBn1sP91oEheKAdfkQoRpKOFJMcuu8hmjfkMqY29lTPFWqpxRV1ouWvBIGONt_zhEvfKb6v3wacMYsWQ9IyJA1VN-M4/s1600/runfancy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2TGR_GCYLP4-piS4wSymH3Q16apF-BlTtKPHs6VRwnkJO4E6ArBn1sP91oEheKAdfkQoRpKOFJMcuu8hmjfkMqY29lTPFWqpxRV1ouWvBIGONt_zhEvfKb6v3wacMYsWQ9IyJA1VN-M4/s200/runfancy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728758819387433298" /></a><br />When I got up this morning after sleeping in late, I opened up Facebook. The top-most post was a picture of four women who'd just completed a 5K run. Good grief, I thought, I've only made it downstairs and they've already competed in athletic pursuits. One of the women in the photo is a good friend of mine, let's call her Fancy. <br /><br />Fancy has been through a lot health-wise, more than most women her age. And she's done it all while raising her young kids and maintaining a seriously busy career. She's the type of person who looks at the life cards she's dealt, plays them as best she can despite sometimes ominous odds, and impressively keeps winning the game. <br /><br />Her most recent medical episode involved a pretty serious surgery, which went well. But during her recovery she developed pneumonia. And then a pulmonary embolism, which can be fatal if not caught and treated immediately. Because of this, Fancy suffered a pulmonary infarction: tissue death of a portion of her right lung. Through quick action and modern medicine, Fancy survived, and a mere two weeks later was able to throw her husband a big 40th birthday party. This lady doesn't slow down for nuthin'. <br /><br />So when I saw her pictured at the finish line of a foot race, I was more than happy, more than impressed. I was <span style="font-style:italic;">motivated.</span> If Fancy can do it six months after cheating death, with only 1-1/2 lungs...I can surely do it with two. Let's run!<br /><br />From Jackson Browne's <span style="font-weight:bold;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jC-pkV1s0Zc">Running on Empty:</a></span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Everyone I know, everywhere I go<br />People need some reason to believe<br />I don't know about anyone but me<br />If it takes all night, that'll be all right<br />If I can get you to smile before I leave </span>HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-27053524220643026342012-03-05T15:17:00.015-08:002012-03-11T08:38:31.437-07:00Introverts: A User's Manual (part II)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Ois17Go97W047VaB8tgtkHv7KtX2qBqk41USd4x1amsim306HSDhWd_HGOsflcPnHTkLkei-jBd_URAkSZNPpWQTi4gIIhfLI2vS99sGv3TNoO8dww8ONBHZ251UCBILILvNOPvdy97N/s1600/hideface.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 190px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Ois17Go97W047VaB8tgtkHv7KtX2qBqk41USd4x1amsim306HSDhWd_HGOsflcPnHTkLkei-jBd_URAkSZNPpWQTi4gIIhfLI2vS99sGv3TNoO8dww8ONBHZ251UCBILILvNOPvdy97N/s320/hideface.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716596336209124626" /></a> My mom says she knew I was introverted even as a baby. Long before I could verbalize my needs, Mom knew.<br /><br />She said that I would be playing with someone, giggling and smiling, and then at some point I'd just get fussy for no obvious reason. I wasn't hungry or need a diaper change, but I was agitated. So she'd take me into a quiet room for a bit and I'd relax. And this was even before I could walk or talk. <br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6gpcnTml6aL4INRUZt-YqZSLI7Y4PkG1W91bA6Utu8VBBX_Ozcxp0vgtch5-hFlZ0jl28lmefHoVEwQ9r1zYqn4ZsaeSh7NOYJHVwg_yzLirIx5R6dIZTH3c5rwC4AiPiNqcakFsGA3j/s1600/canscupboard.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 159px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6gpcnTml6aL4INRUZt-YqZSLI7Y4PkG1W91bA6Utu8VBBX_Ozcxp0vgtch5-hFlZ0jl28lmefHoVEwQ9r1zYqn4ZsaeSh7NOYJHVwg_yzLirIx5R6dIZTH3c5rwC4AiPiNqcakFsGA3j/s200/canscupboard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718663908380933362" /></a><br />As a small child I used to spend time in our cans cupboard. It started out as a good place to play peek-a-boo, but then I started going in there just to hang out. I'd scoot the canned peaches and soup to the side and just...sit. The space was beneath the in-wall oven, so if Mom was baking it would be nice and warm in there. And it was dark, and quiet. It's funny to think about now, but at the time I really just liked to do nothing in there. I was the child who went to Time Out voluntarily.<br /> <br />But I wasn't hiding; the introvert typically isn't afraid of the world or her immediate situation or environment, she just needs a buffer from it. In that cupboard I still could hear what was going on in the house, and I usually let Mom know I was heading in there. It was like my own little office.<br /><br />Decades before I knew how to label myself, I knew what I felt about my personality. As a kid I remember hearing a song by Gino Vanelli and identifying with the lyrics: "...and I am lost, living inside myself...somewhere inside my own dreams." At 8 years old I already knew that the life inside my mind was far more intricate and colorful than the life outside my bedroom door. It was also more sensical. I would think about situations in my life and then act out all the parts in my mind, concocting various options for how a scene could play out, as if I was writing a screenplay. Except the story lines were everyday occurrences like what I would say to the cute boy in my class if we ended up sitting next to each other in the cafeteria. This <a href="http://giftedkids.about.com/od/socialemotionalissues/tp/introverts.htm?rd=1">"mental rehearsal" is extremely common </a>among introverted children. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhVpQfWqgom_uEnYuqyb4AM1sum41kv0ny4gwDaOI18tnpvPs4I_J40T1CsDFWa2b8lZzlN1JaIKGf1aiDmaZzmSg8ulQwFb5-DRSxNXdT1hPCxdoJUvBMwQI03RP9sZRKEJh-whSLw0R/s1600/girlwritingclipart.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhVpQfWqgom_uEnYuqyb4AM1sum41kv0ny4gwDaOI18tnpvPs4I_J40T1CsDFWa2b8lZzlN1JaIKGf1aiDmaZzmSg8ulQwFb5-DRSxNXdT1hPCxdoJUvBMwQI03RP9sZRKEJh-whSLw0R/s400/girlwritingclipart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716583793898942658" /></a><br />It's no wonder I took to creative writing assignments with great fervor early on. It was an outlet for all the scenarios I'd been formulating in my head. The more I wrote creatively--with no rules and with total freedom--the more I <span style="font-style:italic;">wanted</span> to write. Introverts get their energy from within themselves, and writing is a very solitary venture. <br /><br />Writing isn't the only time I come alive, but it IS when I am most purely myself. So when I'm lost, somewhere inside myself, that's where I find my vibrancy.HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-88843301237418184092012-02-14T13:26:00.000-08:002012-02-14T17:35:21.759-08:00More Than ChocolateAs a general rule, 7th-grade boys are gross. They smell funny, their voices are changing, and they think they're cooler than they are. Straddling the age between kid and teenager, they're still wearing boy scout uniforms, but stuffed in their pocket is a crumpled page from a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition that they swiped from their uncle's garage. Their idea of humor is fart jokes, shooting girls with rubberbands, and stepping on the backs of our shoes to give us "flat tires." Charming.<br /><br />But Ryan was different. He was my 7th-grade boyfriend in 1984. A preppy boy with green eyes and freckles, he played tennis and wore one of those braided rope bracelets. I had my eye on him in 6th grade but it wasn't until 7th that I mentioned my affinity for him to a girl at the busstop. The loudmouth promptly told everyone at the busstop, and upon reaching school that morning went directly to Ryan to tell him that I thought he was cute. Nothing is secret in 7th grade. I silently prepared to have my affections rejected. <br /><br />To my surprise, that didn't happen. In fact, Ryan said hi to me in the hall. And then I started running into him more between classes. We wrote notes back and forth. He'd walk me to class, and hold my books while I went to my locker. Sometimes he'd call me in the evening. He was a really sweet boy, genuinely nice, and never once made fun of me or blew me off. He was my introduction to the Nice Guy. When I cut my hair, he told me it looked nice, which is funny because it looked like a boy's haircut to me. And he didn't care that I was 6 inches taller than him.<br /><br />Best of all, on Valentine's Day he gave me a great big heart-shaped box of chocolates; so big that every other girl could see me carrying it (yesssss!). And every girl on the bus was suddenly my best friend--the ones who'd previously laughed at me when they found out I liked Ryan now wanted a piece of my prize. Sorry, suckers. <br /><br />In our yearbook he signed, "Love Always, Ryan" and drew a heart around the words in red pen. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjleDMk2tYemJap2FPLPCPP4JtM3kfWJEzeUM5KHJ5YA7qsS4XPTR2GayIa5QOMb_KHTa_5hyl2ixgdsfPzkGbj5CnAzvP3WFKh-0JsbobfOJix54q1NKsGCt4jp7KAaRAi_9gVPkvExNnb/s1600/yearbooksig.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 82px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjleDMk2tYemJap2FPLPCPP4JtM3kfWJEzeUM5KHJ5YA7qsS4XPTR2GayIa5QOMb_KHTa_5hyl2ixgdsfPzkGbj5CnAzvP3WFKh-0JsbobfOJix54q1NKsGCt4jp7KAaRAi_9gVPkvExNnb/s320/yearbooksig.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709169632322232322" /></a><br /> As it turns out, the last time I ever saw him was the last day of the 7th grade school year. That summer my family was out of the country for a few weeks on vacation, and when we returned I called Ryan to tell him about my trip. His phone number was disconnected. I like to think that he tried to call me before he (assumedly) moved away, but this was pre-voice mail, pre-caller ID, and my family didn't have an answering machine. <br /><br />This photo was taken on that last day of school. I grabbed a friend to snap it just before Ryan got on his bus home. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfZSklElqOVh_Q1gtFo53QZ5yaIh_bipV-aH857beUbU3QC_wUpaBgR9ZBrgxTIRHisvV7U3qMbIaUlnENquVJWXd_m7a8SbPiBTk6AVhaS5TKYz4zwrUgglqw8yuxQrn8xHSkGzcP8rg/s1600/RachelRyan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfZSklElqOVh_Q1gtFo53QZ5yaIh_bipV-aH857beUbU3QC_wUpaBgR9ZBrgxTIRHisvV7U3qMbIaUlnENquVJWXd_m7a8SbPiBTk6AVhaS5TKYz4zwrUgglqw8yuxQrn8xHSkGzcP8rg/s320/RachelRyan.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709168201567626338" /></a><br /><br />I eventually married another Nice Guy. My husband is a genuinely sweet, honest, thoughtful man. It took me a while to find him, but I knew he existed out there somewhere. I knew since way back when that the Nice Guy was worth searching for. So today, on Valentine's Day, before I have a glass of wine with my lovey and cuddle on the couch, I give a quick thought to Ryan, wherever he is, and appreciate the hope he gave me about the existence of men worth holding out for.HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-31404674661088476072012-01-29T12:59:00.000-08:002012-01-29T17:43:39.376-08:00Introverts: A User's Manual (part I)You think you know yourself, and then one day BAM! You discover a third hand. Ok, maybe not quite that dramatic. But this is pretty much how I felt when I made the realization--at 39--that I am an introvert. I'd heard the term many times before, and I thought I knew what it meant. But until a friend showed me a tongue-in-cheek article from <span style="font-style:italic;">the Atlantic</span> called <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2003/03/caring-for-your-introvert/2696/">Caring for Your Introvert,</a> I didn't know I was so clearly one of them. Or that it wasn't a bad thing. I'd never seen it explained so succinctly and plainly before.<br /><br />My entire childhood I'd been told I was shy. I've been told I'm standoffish, and that I think too much, and that I "should get out more." I've been asked what my problem was when I wouldn't go to a jumping dance club, sing karaoke, or to popular rock concerts.<br /><br />As it turns out, I'm neither of those first two things and I don't have a problem. I'm simply introverted.<br /><br />It's important to understand that introversion is not a diagnosis or a condition, but rather an orientation. Yes, baby, I was born this way. There's nothing wrong with me, my dials are just set to different frequencies than extraverts. THIS one doesn't <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EbVKWCpNFhY ">go to 11.</a><br /><br />So I'd like to dispel some misconceptions about introverts:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9vVhiFn7nfVSwEkCrI7M74_SVR6HnA6YbODriodsaYx-gxWhnnTM8t45zV_irJWFfFFloa69F5j23bX6aBRROsDk5MTE-mu_c9V-VJCaochGky0EjRYONnNGnk_L8UCY6CIQ-G57akud/s1600/yeahintro.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 172px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9vVhiFn7nfVSwEkCrI7M74_SVR6HnA6YbODriodsaYx-gxWhnnTM8t45zV_irJWFfFFloa69F5j23bX6aBRROsDk5MTE-mu_c9V-VJCaochGky0EjRYONnNGnk_L8UCY6CIQ-G57akud/s320/yeahintro.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703170600714109554" /></a> --I'm not averse to social situations. What I have is a need to decompress, debrief, and re-energize after social activities. Intoverts find social interaction to be enjoyable but mentally draining. Inversely, reflective time spent alone bring us back to life, kind of like a laptop computer which needs periodic recharging at home.<br /><br />--I don't have an aversion to bright lights, big cities, loud noises, or hopping parties. I DO have time limits to all of them. I've learned to not commit to parties two nights in a row. I typically can't be fully socially "on" and at my best this often. Since being less than myself makes me feel worse than politely declining an invitation, sometimes I just have to say "no" and stay home. <br /><br />--Introverts don't only hang out with other introverts. We enjoy all types of friends, both quiet and dynamic. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidXW7eLORYOr6cTkZ6ydqFh9WqqBwaO9ICXCrm6ljMJe5eJ4UQyBAgavYPKPEbDbSPtGo1k-JC6sZfcj9f4EFTmaKx08b3Qw9FzMc3W48lay4uUp9ohAFfCYRHbF9x1uGUEnUqkBDFyTOu/s1600/bachtoon.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 215px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidXW7eLORYOr6cTkZ6ydqFh9WqqBwaO9ICXCrm6ljMJe5eJ4UQyBAgavYPKPEbDbSPtGo1k-JC6sZfcj9f4EFTmaKx08b3Qw9FzMc3W48lay4uUp9ohAFfCYRHbF9x1uGUEnUqkBDFyTOu/s400/bachtoon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703169496143966578" /></a><br /><br />--Introverts aren't afraid of crowds. One of my favorite places to vacation is Las Vegas, in all of its crowded, non-stop, over-stimulating gaudiness. But my limit is 4 days, and day 3 is usually a sleep-late-and-order-room-service kind of day. After bailing out early on a raucous bachelorette party there, I spent two hours sitting alone in my darkened, quiet 12th-floor hotel room watching planes approaching McCarran Airport at night. This is a perfect example of the introvert's deflation and recovery. The next day I was once again able to join our group and be fully involved in the wedding and subsequent reception, at 100% of my social capacity.<br /> <br />--Introverts don't go off to be alone because they're upset. We go off to be alone to maintain balance. Introverts are typically more introspective and mentally attuned to themselves than extraverts; trust them to know when they need time apart from the group. We are are productive and more receptive to others when we get silent moments alone.<br /><br />--Introverts are not always easy to spot. Until last month, I did not realize that a friend I've known for over 20 years considers himself an introvert. He related a story of being at a birthday party when he was 8 years old, and needing to get outside for a bit. He was sitting on the kid's swingset by himself when the birthday boy's dad came out and asked him what he was doing all alone. My friend said he just shrugged; he didn't really have an answer. Clearly not upset, the host dad back brought him back in to the house for birthday cake. Looking back on it now, he says, he just needed to get away from all the stimulation for a little while. Classic introvert behavior. And totally normal. <br /><br />After hearing that story, I felt closer to this friend. It's not easy for an extravert to "get" what an introvert needs because extraverts thrive on the same events that introverts fade under. So having friends who share your social orientation is comforting...even if you just now discovered what that orientation is.HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-88890305935234051242012-01-14T20:47:00.000-08:002012-01-15T08:07:09.507-08:00The Nylon Hurtin'In the movie <span style="font-style:italic;">Steel Magnolias</span>, Dolly Parton's character, Truvy, claims she hasn't left the house without pantyhose on since she was 14 years old. To this her friend Clairee confirms, "You were raised right!"<br /><br />Does this make you cringe, or raise your white-gloved fist in prim solidarity? <br /><br />Generation X women came of age on the cusp of the change in dress code attitudes, balancing on the cotton crotch of the Great Pantyhose Divide. We grew up when hose were still the norm, but we entered the professional world realizing we weren't so keen on spending our paychecks on clothing that had a life span of about 2 wearings. When casual Fridays became popular the first thing we tossed were the pantyhose. And yet, I still struggle with "appropriate" times to wear them, much as I struggle just to put on the blessed things. <br /><br />On Friday I had a job interview, and while dressing I once again pondered my bare legs with apprehension. My stylish-yet-conservative dress fell just above the knee--the norm for me at just shy of 6 feet tall. I worried it was too informal this way. Surely the second skin of some L'eggs would solve this problem and make my ensemble more...respectable.<br /><br />This is where it gets weird.<br /><br />Why do pantyhose equal "respectable"? <br /><br />Why did I think that going bare-legged would somehow negate the validity of my master's degree and corporate experience? Why did I place so much weight on the power of an ounce of woven nylon? Years and years of condemnation from older generations, that's why. Gen X girls were taught that to be perceived as mature, professional, and/or proper we must wear pantyhose. Without question. <br /><br />I worked my way through college in about 20 different retail jobs. Most of them <span style="font-style:italic;">required</span> me to wear pantyhose. At least one even prohibited us girls from wearing pants. That was 1992. <br /><br />But we have a powerful woman on OUR side now. Our own First Lady, Michelle Obama (by broadest definition a member of Generation X herself), has been quite vocal in her disdain for pantyhose. As a guest on The View she said, "I stopped wearing pantyhose a long time ago. They're painful...it's inconvenient."<br /><br />She garnered some vitriolic backlash from this comment, being called everything from "unfeminine" to "vulgar" because of it. Crazy, isn't it?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlV3Q1n6z1ADM5SpCFCPst7vffSbNAYQlQCdMzCT2t2Y-xc58KG3HQzomIW_RIv1ytvf9lXQYta30a5j0qkQ_Xcy5YOFayuNk5Ri10svhhcxabNhQtrNzRQg7K_Ql08I1VO2c56Si_7C0k/s1600/NoHose.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlV3Q1n6z1ADM5SpCFCPst7vffSbNAYQlQCdMzCT2t2Y-xc58KG3HQzomIW_RIv1ytvf9lXQYta30a5j0qkQ_Xcy5YOFayuNk5Ri10svhhcxabNhQtrNzRQg7K_Ql08I1VO2c56Si_7C0k/s320/NoHose.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697734075543026722" /></a> So I'm taking a stand, a bare-legged stand. Those pantyhose I wore to my interview, the ones that caused my shoes to fit too loosely and hence fly off my left foot in the lobby of said interview, they are history! Those fancy silk-like pantyhose that cost $8.95 a pair and still rip when I barely bump them with a hangnail...history! I'm done with you, you antiquated casings of synthetic torture. I refuse to allow my character to be judged (real or imagined) by the presence or absence of some Underalls. <a href="http://ask.metafilter.com/20995/Are-pantyhose-really-necessary-for-a-job-a-interview">The debate continues</a>, but I'm standing with the First Lady on this one.HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738215552516284966.post-11402766634357362102011-12-29T19:42:00.000-08:002012-01-02T19:50:25.597-08:00I Won't Go Gentle Into That New MillenniumTwo and a half years ago <a href="http://shapeofx.blogspot.com/2009/05/im-37-and-im-walkman.html">I wrote about my disdain</a> for a cute Asian girl who showed up on TV claiming "I'm a PC and I'm 4 and a half," while she showed off her deft technology skills. This little tyke put me to shame. At the time I was "37 and a Walkman."<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwsCHAYg_-52yEDoLaGswYLlitE7qvIubW-2gszWZDGVzOTzLWzanRUTOXA0lDpF-YQaJ42Ddt98fGpzm7gk3yWQcAd1xLsneQ1hwjpm1U5xtrzrnP9OiBo4S2pZ9vYvhXeYbiZLPwyO5/s1600/walkman.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwsCHAYg_-52yEDoLaGswYLlitE7qvIubW-2gszWZDGVzOTzLWzanRUTOXA0lDpF-YQaJ42Ddt98fGpzm7gk3yWQcAd1xLsneQ1hwjpm1U5xtrzrnP9OiBo4S2pZ9vYvhXeYbiZLPwyO5/s200/walkman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693242663082103410" /></a><br />I just--finally--got my first iPod this Christmas, exactly 24 years to the day after I got my first (and only) Sony Walkman cassette player. Last night I spent two hours trying to set it up. Download this program, register this gadget, create this account, autosign this legal agreement, oops you're due for updates (really, Apple? three sets of updates in one evening??). And every step contained several subsequent pop-up boxes with various options that required checking and unchecking tiny little boxes. <br /><br />I don't like this kind of commitment, mainly because I will NEVER find my way back to any particular set of checkboxes. Basically, the choices I made last night will stand forEVER. <br /><br />It's not that I don't embrace technology, I simply don't want all these blessed questions. My Walkman had the following instructions (in 8 languages): Pop in a cassette and push "play." <br /><br />DONE.<br /> <br />That is why I kept it for 18 years. <br /><br />Don't get me wrong, I love my iPod. I'm so glad to finally be caught up to 2001. I'm just a little awkward with it. I found myself listening to it while walking around the house, holding the thing in my hand. It's what, an inch and half squared and weighs all of one ounce? I could clip it to my earlobe and barely notice it, yet I felt like I had to CARRY it because that's what I know. Even more embarassing is that I *almost* needed to put my glasses on just to read the miniscule touch screen on my nano. I didn't have to READ my Walkman, it had four buttons. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY5D-qhdm44GWtSnJiyf-5yqVmFv9YgTDFQJh6SWIuDhUJOr1ZZTPcZBfsXuoC5btkSg2Qs2D8Z5__3xebOuqOMO4ev0T7rCwc4QZj7_hA-WObOJ903NrlXTQPZypRpQNqsb8RaPy9zk4-/s1600/iPod.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY5D-qhdm44GWtSnJiyf-5yqVmFv9YgTDFQJh6SWIuDhUJOr1ZZTPcZBfsXuoC5btkSg2Qs2D8Z5__3xebOuqOMO4ev0T7rCwc4QZj7_hA-WObOJ903NrlXTQPZypRpQNqsb8RaPy9zk4-/s200/iPod.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693247372528622962" /></a><br />So while I try to reconcile the fact that my entire iPod nano is smaller than the mere belt clip on my old Walkman, I'm reveling in the ease and speed at which I can now search for, find, purchase, download, and listen to songs I haven't heard in years, without having to buy nine other unwanted songs on an album. And without having to sit there while I re-record them onto a tape, hoping the tape doesn't run out in the middle of a song. <br /><br />Ohh, 2001, you've got your hooks in me.HeyRayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05362463490531008412noreply@blogger.com3