My second entry this week on yesterday's theme (don't worry ladies, I'm merely writing as the Spirit moves me--I do not have a planned writing for each day of the week!) has to do with what not only I but most women I have experienced when either bearing or having been a caregiver of young.
A heightened sense of awareness surrounds us when pregnant, as if our modern selves have assimilated a past trait, dormant until released by hormones, that creates in us an almost animalistic sense of who we are, what surrounds us and how we must protect that which grows deep inside of us. Some of us develop a very acute sense of smell, while others' hearing becomes extremely sensitive. I found myself wondering, at various points throughout my 2 1/3 pregnancies, how much of this was part of evolutionary design; just as our ancient relatives had to constantly be aware, sense danger, protect themselves from nature, flora and fauna that we present-day homo sapiens likewise have an innate sense of survival unlocked while childbearing. It was, in fact, the disappearance of this heightened sensitivity that signalled for me the end of the pregnancy I miscarried; my body told me it was over before modern medicine did.
My husband could not seem to comprehend this heightened sense of smell, as he would bring the stinkiest gyro sandwiches filled with onions, peppers and garlic; or organ meats grilled to perfection by his African classmates, and then wonder why I would run from the room with my hand over my mouth.
Just protecting me and my baby.
The basic senses return to normalcy following pregnancy, only to be replaced by learning to discern need from want from the tone of a cry, to be able to spot a lost child in a crowd of people and assist appropriately, and to become more patient toward children who cannot be quiet when inopportune to be, well, noisy children! Remember how loud we thought our newborns cried? Now we hear a newborn and think their cry is so tiny and precious, while we reassure the new parents that we are not bothered and that such a sound is so incomparable to what we now live with!
Our senses have adapted and evolved with our experiences.
I was reminded of this last night, when dining with my children in a small restaurant. A young child had cried out, squealing with what I heard was delight--I never even turned to look, as I didn't want the parents to feel they were bothering me. It was a family place, not a formal adult restaurant--taking setting into account, I could choose to go to a different place had I not wanted to be bothered by children's squeals. Yet my children had other opinions. Young Prince remarked, "Gee, it sure is noisy in here. Why is it so noisy in here?" while La Princesita, trained by her Mama Llama in tolerance etiquette, merely looked at her plate and continued eating silently ("When nothing nice to say, say nothing at all."). I explained with a siloloquy of reasons of which I am certain my 4 year old understood (or rather, listened to) 25%. However I knew, without even having to turn my head to look, that these were happy sounds.
This is not a gender-defined issue, but rather a skill that we all possess, some more inclined than others, and it is our choice to learn to hone this skill or not. We sense and, consequently, we learn and grow. Sometimes that is the key to survival.
lunes, 27 de octubre de 2008
domingo, 26 de octubre de 2008
The ability to sense and learn new ways
The diamond-shaped girdle of Venus prominent on my right palm says that I have a very highly developed sixth sense. My Mars line is also prominent on both hands, dictating a high degree of sensitivity to my surroundings that is not only innate (left hand) but that I am living up to my potential (right hand).
I am sensing and sensitive, and sensibly so.
Open to new ideas but with my code of ethics intact, I enjoy stepping out of my comfort zone to stretch my senses, to experience all of that which Life has to offer and to discover ways of keeping that spark lit. I have allowed that spark to be extinguished once, and I suffered a complete breakdown. Never again will I permit my spirit to be dampened by another. Yet that agreement with myself comes with a comprehension that only I have the power to maintain, nourish and permit that spark to grow into a fire that pushes me into new experiences and out of comfortable complacency.
I cannot depend on any other to make me sense Life; others can only strengthen or discourage this power, depending on the positive or negative influence they exert over me.
I can give pages of examples of when my sixth sense has told me that somebody close was in grave danger, or has saved my life. Some stories I have to tell I may, one day, weave into a perhaps rather narcisstic short story collection. I can experience physical manifestations of pain and the great trials of my loved ones, those with whom I share a multi-leveled bond. In my musician days, I permitted that the music would enter my being and carry me; indeed I was not a master of technique but instead it was my ability to sense and learn to make others feel the music I could offer that made me a good musician.
I allowed my senses to empower me rather than to hold me back. Yet there is a certain degree of maturity and being open to learning new ways that must accompany this sensing. And I cannot speak for all here, as we are all following different paths, but the numbing of my senses through medication or a dictatorial brainwashing of right vs wrong that does not jive with my inner being creates in me conflict so great that I feel forced into hiding, away from that which I feel is a true danger to the good in my soul, to the marvelous and unique creation that I am.
If I inhibit, or allow the inhibition of, my power to sense, how will I be capable of feeling?
Trusting my senses guides me, most often than not, toward a path that I might not normally have taken. The free will of decision still exists, but that intuition exerts great influence over which steps I take next. This often is the fabled "road less traveled" so alluded to by Frost, but I have seen from an early age how that does, in fact, make all the difference.
*---*
In a combined thematic writing effort shared with The Quest for T and The Exception, this is the first theme put forth. I had so many thoughts I first typed, then deleted, then tried again. Some of those thoughts might come forth later--we shall see. This topic will be discussed throughout the week, I am sure, in posts and comments; for any parties interested in becoming involved or posting on this same topic, please link in so we all can derive the maximum benefit from each other's points of view.
I am sensing and sensitive, and sensibly so.
Open to new ideas but with my code of ethics intact, I enjoy stepping out of my comfort zone to stretch my senses, to experience all of that which Life has to offer and to discover ways of keeping that spark lit. I have allowed that spark to be extinguished once, and I suffered a complete breakdown. Never again will I permit my spirit to be dampened by another. Yet that agreement with myself comes with a comprehension that only I have the power to maintain, nourish and permit that spark to grow into a fire that pushes me into new experiences and out of comfortable complacency.
I cannot depend on any other to make me sense Life; others can only strengthen or discourage this power, depending on the positive or negative influence they exert over me.
I can give pages of examples of when my sixth sense has told me that somebody close was in grave danger, or has saved my life. Some stories I have to tell I may, one day, weave into a perhaps rather narcisstic short story collection. I can experience physical manifestations of pain and the great trials of my loved ones, those with whom I share a multi-leveled bond. In my musician days, I permitted that the music would enter my being and carry me; indeed I was not a master of technique but instead it was my ability to sense and learn to make others feel the music I could offer that made me a good musician.
I allowed my senses to empower me rather than to hold me back. Yet there is a certain degree of maturity and being open to learning new ways that must accompany this sensing. And I cannot speak for all here, as we are all following different paths, but the numbing of my senses through medication or a dictatorial brainwashing of right vs wrong that does not jive with my inner being creates in me conflict so great that I feel forced into hiding, away from that which I feel is a true danger to the good in my soul, to the marvelous and unique creation that I am.
If I inhibit, or allow the inhibition of, my power to sense, how will I be capable of feeling?
Trusting my senses guides me, most often than not, toward a path that I might not normally have taken. The free will of decision still exists, but that intuition exerts great influence over which steps I take next. This often is the fabled "road less traveled" so alluded to by Frost, but I have seen from an early age how that does, in fact, make all the difference.
*---*
In a combined thematic writing effort shared with The Quest for T and The Exception, this is the first theme put forth. I had so many thoughts I first typed, then deleted, then tried again. Some of those thoughts might come forth later--we shall see. This topic will be discussed throughout the week, I am sure, in posts and comments; for any parties interested in becoming involved or posting on this same topic, please link in so we all can derive the maximum benefit from each other's points of view.
viernes, 24 de octubre de 2008
my greatest teacher
I always knew that I wanted to be a teacher.
Constant example was perhaps key in this decision. My father was one of the best-known and well-respected teachers in the school district in which I was educated. I was thus raised with an awareness of the hours of behind-the-scenes work that teachers must employ to create magic in their classrooms, the exhaustion that follows a full day on your feet working to make that one lightbulb in the eyes of that student in the back corner desk to flicker on and to capture that child's attention, and the extras (the coaching, the extra-curricular activities) that all help to boost a teacher's salary so as to be able to financially raise a family, pay a mortgage, and live comfortably...on a meager teacher's salary.
I was thus raised with a high degree of respect, before I fully even understood the concept, for all my teachers and all they do--just for me.
I remember the names of each and every teacher of mine, and hold in my heart an enduring memory of each of them. Yet it was my father who was my first teacher. He taught me by example, not by endless lecture. He taught me of the qualities I would need to nurture in my soul to be able to be a truly great teacher, and that I can do anything I wanted, as long as my heart was in it. This lesson did not come through words; it came through a set example and implicit expectations.
Both my sister and I were pretty much straight-A students. I fell to one B+ in geometry Freshman year of high school one quarter, and that ruined my chances for any state school scholarships. Yet I was never chastized for grades; I was instead taught to take anything in which I may not have excelled and learn from it...indeed, often one learns more that way than through the mere memorization to be able to excel for the grade.
Cheating was unacceptable, and that was a question that would never cross my mind. Knowing that one of the class valedictorians, going off to Hahvahd in the fall was sitting with his jacket over his notebook page with calculus equations so he could move it with his foot and look made me lose all respect for him. It's not the school or the grades; it is the ethic you use to acquire the necessary information and apply it. Now, looking back, I feel bad for him--I know his mother put a huge amount of pressure on him to get the grade "or else". I know because she called me one night to complain to me about a B we had received on an Honors English project--so received as her darling son chose NOT to attend that class. I called the principal--evidently, so did she, and succeeded in getting his grade changed.
I have written on ethics in the educational workplace that do not jive with the simple ethic of teaching with which I was raised. It became increasingly difficult for me to mesh with an educational system that places higher priority on factors other than the ability to teach the students well.
Education has become an ego-driven profession, rather than one in operation for the best interests of the students. We see this now in so many ways:
Parents push for their students to be in the classes of those who teach for the test instead of those who teach--well, to teach. They fear that their child will be categorized as "stupid" if not in a GT program, or that they will not go to college if not pushed hard enough by grade 3. They forget that we all did just fine...without having an hour's worth of homework a night pushed on us until at least 5th or 6th grade, if not later.
Teachers feel the need to teach to the test for fear of losing funding, in *some* schools for a better salary as the teacher's salary and test scores are intertwined, for fear of parent fall-out when their children don't make the cut for GT programs, and for ensuring good student evaluations at the university level. The last parent night I attended left me disappointed at the highly defensive tone of my daughter's teacher; it was apparent to me that she felt need to defend her way of educating our children. I am in tune with my daughter and can see she is not only learning but also enjoying her experience, that couples education with a great emphasis on citizenship. Thus, I trust her teacher is doing a fine job.
When leaving the university two years ago, I was stunned that I had students who had the gall to say that they expected grades to be "given" if they complained loud enough. A close friend and colleague left Tulane for that same reason--this was a trustee's daughter who flunked and this professor was asked to "reevaluate" the grade. Evidently, these students have learned something from their parents...
Yet my father taught me that, when you love something enough, you will learn to capture your students and teach them in a way dictated through your passion. When he died, I had been teaching for almost ten years already, in some form or another. I didn't realize how many lives he had touched with his style, influence and humor until his funeral. The large church was filled with colleagues, recent students still in high school and even some of his very first students from 1967. He was lauded for his laughter and his ability to relate to the students at the junior high level--a true feat, learned from one who has taught middle school for three years. He was loved because he loved to teach.
Last night, my private student told me that he could always go find another Spanish class but that "you just don't find teachers like you." I am remembered and I am deeply honored when that occurs. I know people who are quitting their jobs, going back to school and earning their teaching certificates because they want to teach. That usually comes with a huge financial sacrifice. However, ask any teacher and s/he will tell you that we don't teach for the money, we teach for the love.
I can feel my father still guiding me in many steps I take daily. He taught me to ride a bike, to drive a stick and to not be afraid of the ball. He taught me to stand up and face consequences when I err, and to gracefully accept recognition when honored. I am blessed to have had my father as my greatest teacher, as were so many others with whom I shared my father.
Today is Blog Blast for Education. There is so much about which I could write. Instead, I ask that today you take a moment and think about the teacher who made the greatest impact on your life. And give thanks.
Constant example was perhaps key in this decision. My father was one of the best-known and well-respected teachers in the school district in which I was educated. I was thus raised with an awareness of the hours of behind-the-scenes work that teachers must employ to create magic in their classrooms, the exhaustion that follows a full day on your feet working to make that one lightbulb in the eyes of that student in the back corner desk to flicker on and to capture that child's attention, and the extras (the coaching, the extra-curricular activities) that all help to boost a teacher's salary so as to be able to financially raise a family, pay a mortgage, and live comfortably...on a meager teacher's salary.
I was thus raised with a high degree of respect, before I fully even understood the concept, for all my teachers and all they do--just for me.
I remember the names of each and every teacher of mine, and hold in my heart an enduring memory of each of them. Yet it was my father who was my first teacher. He taught me by example, not by endless lecture. He taught me of the qualities I would need to nurture in my soul to be able to be a truly great teacher, and that I can do anything I wanted, as long as my heart was in it. This lesson did not come through words; it came through a set example and implicit expectations.
Both my sister and I were pretty much straight-A students. I fell to one B+ in geometry Freshman year of high school one quarter, and that ruined my chances for any state school scholarships. Yet I was never chastized for grades; I was instead taught to take anything in which I may not have excelled and learn from it...indeed, often one learns more that way than through the mere memorization to be able to excel for the grade.
Cheating was unacceptable, and that was a question that would never cross my mind. Knowing that one of the class valedictorians, going off to Hahvahd in the fall was sitting with his jacket over his notebook page with calculus equations so he could move it with his foot and look made me lose all respect for him. It's not the school or the grades; it is the ethic you use to acquire the necessary information and apply it. Now, looking back, I feel bad for him--I know his mother put a huge amount of pressure on him to get the grade "or else". I know because she called me one night to complain to me about a B we had received on an Honors English project--so received as her darling son chose NOT to attend that class. I called the principal--evidently, so did she, and succeeded in getting his grade changed.
I have written on ethics in the educational workplace that do not jive with the simple ethic of teaching with which I was raised. It became increasingly difficult for me to mesh with an educational system that places higher priority on factors other than the ability to teach the students well.
Education has become an ego-driven profession, rather than one in operation for the best interests of the students. We see this now in so many ways:
Parents push for their students to be in the classes of those who teach for the test instead of those who teach--well, to teach. They fear that their child will be categorized as "stupid" if not in a GT program, or that they will not go to college if not pushed hard enough by grade 3. They forget that we all did just fine...without having an hour's worth of homework a night pushed on us until at least 5th or 6th grade, if not later.
Teachers feel the need to teach to the test for fear of losing funding, in *some* schools for a better salary as the teacher's salary and test scores are intertwined, for fear of parent fall-out when their children don't make the cut for GT programs, and for ensuring good student evaluations at the university level. The last parent night I attended left me disappointed at the highly defensive tone of my daughter's teacher; it was apparent to me that she felt need to defend her way of educating our children. I am in tune with my daughter and can see she is not only learning but also enjoying her experience, that couples education with a great emphasis on citizenship. Thus, I trust her teacher is doing a fine job.
When leaving the university two years ago, I was stunned that I had students who had the gall to say that they expected grades to be "given" if they complained loud enough. A close friend and colleague left Tulane for that same reason--this was a trustee's daughter who flunked and this professor was asked to "reevaluate" the grade. Evidently, these students have learned something from their parents...
Yet my father taught me that, when you love something enough, you will learn to capture your students and teach them in a way dictated through your passion. When he died, I had been teaching for almost ten years already, in some form or another. I didn't realize how many lives he had touched with his style, influence and humor until his funeral. The large church was filled with colleagues, recent students still in high school and even some of his very first students from 1967. He was lauded for his laughter and his ability to relate to the students at the junior high level--a true feat, learned from one who has taught middle school for three years. He was loved because he loved to teach.
Last night, my private student told me that he could always go find another Spanish class but that "you just don't find teachers like you." I am remembered and I am deeply honored when that occurs. I know people who are quitting their jobs, going back to school and earning their teaching certificates because they want to teach. That usually comes with a huge financial sacrifice. However, ask any teacher and s/he will tell you that we don't teach for the money, we teach for the love.
I can feel my father still guiding me in many steps I take daily. He taught me to ride a bike, to drive a stick and to not be afraid of the ball. He taught me to stand up and face consequences when I err, and to gracefully accept recognition when honored. I am blessed to have had my father as my greatest teacher, as were so many others with whom I shared my father.
Today is Blog Blast for Education. There is so much about which I could write. Instead, I ask that today you take a moment and think about the teacher who made the greatest impact on your life. And give thanks.
miércoles, 22 de octubre de 2008
my greatest fear
I am afraid of debt.
I don’t know debt. I know that I am lucky in that way. Credit cards are paid off to $0 each month under my home economics plan, at whatever price, and the only debt hanging over my head now is the house, on a 30 year fixed, locked-in at 5.5%.
I am terrified that divorce will push me into debt, all because I am afraid to leave this house and try to start anew in another residence. I want the impact on the children to be the least possible, and I feel that maintaining the residence, their neighborhood, friends and school is important. Plus, I don’t live in a very resell-able home; it is a 45+ year-old brick rambler with plenty of problems that, although on just under 1/3 acre, is on a lot adjacent to a cemetery. That does not bother me; I grew up across the street from a cemetery, it helps with the Halloween décor and hey, the neighbors are nice and quiet. But such a location does bother a lot of people.
Some say that filing for bankruptcy in divorce is the best thing that has ever happened to them; they can start anew, cutting old financial ties. My pride in having worked so hard in managing finances so as to keep my credit report stellar and my rating high doesn’t allow me to see this possibility as a positive. Instead, for me it would be yet another failure--I failed at marriage, I failed the hopes and expectations of so many, I failed with the finances…let’s see, what else can I add to the failure list?
I am well aware that I married for security. It was perhaps the adamant decision on his part to give everything up (income, insurance coverage, a place to live, EVERYTHING) to go and get a master’s degree in Sweden as only that institution would do. No compromise, no thinking of the fact that life was different and that sometimes plans need to change a bit once married, like I had to do. All my plans and goals had to change to fit with his, only to have my existence completely ignored once he got what he wanted.
But let’s not go there. The heart of the matter is, I realized that the “security” for which I married was not, in fact, so secure as I previously had believed it to be. I learned that this could come and go on a whim. I don’t believe that I should be 100% supported, so I have always worked. But I could not work in Sweden. It was illegal on my visa. I could have stayed back in the United States during that time, I suppose. However, we really hadn’t had a chance to be “married” since we had been married, and I felt that I needed to go with him and actually give this a try.
Long history made longer--go get some hot tea or a beverage of choice, I'll wait...
I don’t know debt. I know that I am lucky in that way. Credit cards are paid off to $0 each month under my home economics plan, at whatever price, and the only debt hanging over my head now is the house, on a 30 year fixed, locked-in at 5.5%.
I am terrified that divorce will push me into debt, all because I am afraid to leave this house and try to start anew in another residence. I want the impact on the children to be the least possible, and I feel that maintaining the residence, their neighborhood, friends and school is important. Plus, I don’t live in a very resell-able home; it is a 45+ year-old brick rambler with plenty of problems that, although on just under 1/3 acre, is on a lot adjacent to a cemetery. That does not bother me; I grew up across the street from a cemetery, it helps with the Halloween décor and hey, the neighbors are nice and quiet. But such a location does bother a lot of people.
Some say that filing for bankruptcy in divorce is the best thing that has ever happened to them; they can start anew, cutting old financial ties. My pride in having worked so hard in managing finances so as to keep my credit report stellar and my rating high doesn’t allow me to see this possibility as a positive. Instead, for me it would be yet another failure--I failed at marriage, I failed the hopes and expectations of so many, I failed with the finances…let’s see, what else can I add to the failure list?
I am well aware that I married for security. It was perhaps the adamant decision on his part to give everything up (income, insurance coverage, a place to live, EVERYTHING) to go and get a master’s degree in Sweden as only that institution would do. No compromise, no thinking of the fact that life was different and that sometimes plans need to change a bit once married, like I had to do. All my plans and goals had to change to fit with his, only to have my existence completely ignored once he got what he wanted.
But let’s not go there. The heart of the matter is, I realized that the “security” for which I married was not, in fact, so secure as I previously had believed it to be. I learned that this could come and go on a whim. I don’t believe that I should be 100% supported, so I have always worked. But I could not work in Sweden. It was illegal on my visa. I could have stayed back in the United States during that time, I suppose. However, we really hadn’t had a chance to be “married” since we had been married, and I felt that I needed to go with him and actually give this a try.
Long history made longer--go get some hot tea or a beverage of choice, I'll wait...
Ready?
Okay, I'll abbreviate as much as I can:
I was finishing my master’s when I got married in May 1999. July came and my father, who had undergone a horrible 14-hour liver surgery in January of that year and was not expected to live through it, ended up in another 13-hour surgery to conduct a bile duct bypass, as scar tissue had grown so hard that it created a blockage. Fly home to help, in the middle of heavy studying for master’s exams (literally reading at least 300 pages daily--in Spanish--hence I still can’t bring myself to read much). It was the last time I saw my father alive.
One more semester of teaching, classes and my exams for the degree, with calls from Mom saying that Dad had collapsed in a pool of blood, another 911 call in the middle of the night, master’s “hazing” by the tenured of the Department that had me in tears--I was miserable. I told the chair I couldn’t continue in the PhD program (it was a combined program) and, two days after I turned in all my final work, my mom called saying Dad had slipped into a coma. And he died. And then my world went into a tailspin, I got shingles, I had to return to teach the next semester as a visiting instructor since He was still 5 months away from finishing his tour in New Orleans and then returned to Oregon. That was Year One of marriage.
Year two began, literally, with Him leaving to go back to a ship. I worked at the local university but was there mainly to help my mother get back on her feet. My marriage almost ended then; we had little to no contact and I was a mess, feeling like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders and my “partner” left me alone to deal with it--not that he particularly wanted to have anything to do with my mother.
So for Christmas that year, the first anniversary of Dad’s death, we went to Hawaii, to His childhood home. With my mother. My sister was living there at my in-laws' home while finishing a residency requirement for PT, which caused even more strife between He and my family. Then we went from Hawaii directly to Sweden. In January.
Hell is not hot. Hell is cold and dark. That is what I learned in Sweden.
Classes began and I ceased to exist. He would literally return to the single-bed efficiency apartment (yes, I slept on the floor, in the entranceway, in the bathroom or in the study lounge) and, as the computer was at such an angle, he sat down upon returning and, back turned to me, stayed like that until 2 or 3 a.m., taking a break for the dinner I would prepare. Sex was the obligatory lay--let him do what he needed to do then he was back on the computer, back turned to me, default position.
So I left that room. I tried to leave that life, but I didn't try hard enough.
I should have left before I got pregnant, but I didn’t.
I should have left when he threw a yelling fit at my mother and my sister in the middle of the street in Copenhagen, but I didn’t.
I should have left when he threw the table at me, but I didn’t.
My sense of security was destroyed and I was with a man who had no clue, nor seemed to want to get a clue. And I started to wake up.
Perhaps I have been in debt, truly, for the past ten years. I just never banked on it being this kind of debt.
One more semester of teaching, classes and my exams for the degree, with calls from Mom saying that Dad had collapsed in a pool of blood, another 911 call in the middle of the night, master’s “hazing” by the tenured of the Department that had me in tears--I was miserable. I told the chair I couldn’t continue in the PhD program (it was a combined program) and, two days after I turned in all my final work, my mom called saying Dad had slipped into a coma. And he died. And then my world went into a tailspin, I got shingles, I had to return to teach the next semester as a visiting instructor since He was still 5 months away from finishing his tour in New Orleans and then returned to Oregon. That was Year One of marriage.
Year two began, literally, with Him leaving to go back to a ship. I worked at the local university but was there mainly to help my mother get back on her feet. My marriage almost ended then; we had little to no contact and I was a mess, feeling like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders and my “partner” left me alone to deal with it--not that he particularly wanted to have anything to do with my mother.
So for Christmas that year, the first anniversary of Dad’s death, we went to Hawaii, to His childhood home. With my mother. My sister was living there at my in-laws' home while finishing a residency requirement for PT, which caused even more strife between He and my family. Then we went from Hawaii directly to Sweden. In January.
Hell is not hot. Hell is cold and dark. That is what I learned in Sweden.
Classes began and I ceased to exist. He would literally return to the single-bed efficiency apartment (yes, I slept on the floor, in the entranceway, in the bathroom or in the study lounge) and, as the computer was at such an angle, he sat down upon returning and, back turned to me, stayed like that until 2 or 3 a.m., taking a break for the dinner I would prepare. Sex was the obligatory lay--let him do what he needed to do then he was back on the computer, back turned to me, default position.
So I left that room. I tried to leave that life, but I didn't try hard enough.
I should have left before I got pregnant, but I didn’t.
I should have left when he threw a yelling fit at my mother and my sister in the middle of the street in Copenhagen, but I didn’t.
I should have left when he threw the table at me, but I didn’t.
My sense of security was destroyed and I was with a man who had no clue, nor seemed to want to get a clue. And I started to wake up.
Perhaps I have been in debt, truly, for the past ten years. I just never banked on it being this kind of debt.
lunes, 20 de octubre de 2008
just plain tired!
I had full intention to sit down and try to write something tonight. But alas, it is 9:10 and I can only barely keep my eyes open while I yawn so hard tears run down my cheeks.
Plus, I have the most adorable little boy sleeping next to me who is lulling me into dreamland with his baby snores and his desire to cuddle up close and tight with his mama llama. It was so hard to pull myself from his mouse-like cuddle position this morning to face the cold, dark kitchen and start the morning. This was the first below-freezing morning of the season here, and I would have loved to have spent a bit more time sharing his warmth.
But we all eventually made it out of bed, nice hot steel-cut oats for breakfast with some decorative M&Ms as the proverbial spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down. With tummies happy and warm, we braved the great outdoors in our treks to school, and maintained warmth in laughter as our hot breath let loose dragon-like "smoke" in the 32 degree air.
"Jack Frost came to visit!" is how the Young Prince greeted his preschool teacher this morning.
It warmed up over the course of the day, although I only got out to enjoy the weather for about an hour and a half in the late afternoon for softball practice. A quick visit to She-ra's place for great company, a glass of wine and half her dinner (geez, guess I was hungry...) and that puts us at bedtime back at my house.
I have had worse Mondays. These are hard days usually as He takes Monday as his weekly RDO. So He's around. Which means I pretty much hang in my room as I am afraid I'll have to deal with him if I leave my room; inevitably, I go to the kitchen and voila! guess who appears? I now just take my food and eat by myself in my bedroom, unless it's just the monitos and I.
So much is on my mind, and I will find time to sort through to blog about some of it during the week. Until then, I relish the season's change, the Hand of Mother Nature showing off one final display of colorful spendor before the gray, cold, colorless winter sets in.
Plus, I have the most adorable little boy sleeping next to me who is lulling me into dreamland with his baby snores and his desire to cuddle up close and tight with his mama llama. It was so hard to pull myself from his mouse-like cuddle position this morning to face the cold, dark kitchen and start the morning. This was the first below-freezing morning of the season here, and I would have loved to have spent a bit more time sharing his warmth.
But we all eventually made it out of bed, nice hot steel-cut oats for breakfast with some decorative M&Ms as the proverbial spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down. With tummies happy and warm, we braved the great outdoors in our treks to school, and maintained warmth in laughter as our hot breath let loose dragon-like "smoke" in the 32 degree air.
"Jack Frost came to visit!" is how the Young Prince greeted his preschool teacher this morning.
It warmed up over the course of the day, although I only got out to enjoy the weather for about an hour and a half in the late afternoon for softball practice. A quick visit to She-ra's place for great company, a glass of wine and half her dinner (geez, guess I was hungry...) and that puts us at bedtime back at my house.
I have had worse Mondays. These are hard days usually as He takes Monday as his weekly RDO. So He's around. Which means I pretty much hang in my room as I am afraid I'll have to deal with him if I leave my room; inevitably, I go to the kitchen and voila! guess who appears? I now just take my food and eat by myself in my bedroom, unless it's just the monitos and I.
So much is on my mind, and I will find time to sort through to blog about some of it during the week. Until then, I relish the season's change, the Hand of Mother Nature showing off one final display of colorful spendor before the gray, cold, colorless winter sets in.
sábado, 18 de octubre de 2008
a spreader of the love
Harrassed Single Mom was spreading some around today, and I was graced with some of those droplets of goodness. Thank you.
In acceptance of the Love, and in accordance with the Rules, a meme must be completed. As I am completing this task along with a glass of Tempranillo, the responses might become quite wordy.
So here it goes:
1. Where is your cell phone? On my nightstand. Easily...too easily...within arm's reach.
2. Where is your significant other? Waaaay the hell too far away.
3. Your hair color? Chestnutty? Been described as "fawn" by a gay friend's boy toy in N'awlins once. Not kidding. My mother was actually with me--boy, her eyes were opened that night.
4. Your mother? Visiting my sister in Vegas. Some of us have all the luck...and then again...
5. Your father? Watching over me, my guardian angel.
6. Your favorite thing? I would have to say my music..and my ability to appreciate all music.
7. Your dream last night? Labrynth-esque. That's all I can seem to recall.
8. Your dream/goal? To live and love fully.
9. The room you’re in? My bedroom.
10. Your hobby? Drinking wine seems to be most apt to mention at this moment, although I do consider myself rather well-practiced in a variety of different hobbies.
11. Your fear? Being left all alone on this Earth.
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? I'll take this question as "where in life" as opposed to a geographic location. I want to be well into starting my life anew. Period.
13. Where were you last night? At home, where else? I really *don't* get out much.
14. What you’re not? A good cook. Healthy, yes, but not creative nor original en la cocina.
15. One of your wish-list items? I want my violin bows rehaired. Badly. Can't play again until that is done.
16. Where you grew up? Southern Oregon.
17. The last thing you did? After pouring myself a glass of wine, I engaged in a brief tickle-fight with my monitos.
18. What are you wearing? Heavy socks, heavy gray men's sweats from Old Navy, a magenta camisole under a heavy pink with dark pink flecked v-necked sweatshirt, with my hair pulled back in a bun. Three rings, two pair earrings, toe ring, anklet--they never come off--and I think that about covers things.
19. Your TV? PBS Brit-com reruns. Absolutely NOTHING else on Limited Basic Cable service on a Saturday night.
20. Your pets? My male binge-and-purge striped short-hair kitty cat.
21. Your computer? Mac and Mac. This one is a laptop; the other is a "desktop".
22. Your mood? So mixed--happy still in having met The Exception yesterday; jealousy of T and the great sex I know she is getting right at this very moment; cachonda from my extremely high libido that hasn't found any degree of relief lately; frustration resulting not only from the libido issues but the fact that today was my day with the kids but that He barged in and took them (I wrote IN INK on the calendar that next weekend is MINE); happy in that the wine is making me care less and less as I finish the current glass; relief that the game this morning is done; exhaustion just from The Day...oh, like always, just so damn moody!
23. Missing someone? Hell yeah.
24. Your car? Dark gray ever-so-slightly sparkly special from Subaru. Outback, to be exact. Saved our lives once--will never go back from Subaru.
25. Something you’re not wearing? A bra. Not that I really need one anyway. But perhaps that's too much information (insert wine-induced giggle here).
26. Favorite store? Depends upon that for which I am shopping. Sometimes Target, sometimes Old Navy, sometimes Restoration Hardware, sometimes Whole Paycheck, sometimes whatever online merchant can best fulfill my needs.
27. Your summer? Oh, not as hot as usual. Ought not complain since I'm freezing my ass off now.
28. Love someone? Oh, yes. Deeply.
29. Your favorite color? Purple. Black. Deep blue. Deep green. Deep red. When I'm in the mood, white does me good--in August. I like white linen. I also like some pinks, and fuschia works great in certain moods. No yellows or oranges, please. Nor puke greens. Ick. "Camo" ain't me.
30. When is the last time you laughed? Oh, dear. It has been a while. Perhaps I need another glass of wine.
31. Last time you cried? Oh, yesterday. Or was that earlier today? I forget. I cry much, much more than I laugh. Pretty sad, eh?
In acceptance of the Love, and in accordance with the Rules, a meme must be completed. As I am completing this task along with a glass of Tempranillo, the responses might become quite wordy.
So here it goes:
1. Where is your cell phone? On my nightstand. Easily...too easily...within arm's reach.
2. Where is your significant other? Waaaay the hell too far away.
3. Your hair color? Chestnutty? Been described as "fawn" by a gay friend's boy toy in N'awlins once. Not kidding. My mother was actually with me--boy, her eyes were opened that night.
4. Your mother? Visiting my sister in Vegas. Some of us have all the luck...and then again...
5. Your father? Watching over me, my guardian angel.
6. Your favorite thing? I would have to say my music..and my ability to appreciate all music.
7. Your dream last night? Labrynth-esque. That's all I can seem to recall.
8. Your dream/goal? To live and love fully.
9. The room you’re in? My bedroom.
10. Your hobby? Drinking wine seems to be most apt to mention at this moment, although I do consider myself rather well-practiced in a variety of different hobbies.
11. Your fear? Being left all alone on this Earth.
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? I'll take this question as "where in life" as opposed to a geographic location. I want to be well into starting my life anew. Period.
13. Where were you last night? At home, where else? I really *don't* get out much.
14. What you’re not? A good cook. Healthy, yes, but not creative nor original en la cocina.
15. One of your wish-list items? I want my violin bows rehaired. Badly. Can't play again until that is done.
16. Where you grew up? Southern Oregon.
17. The last thing you did? After pouring myself a glass of wine, I engaged in a brief tickle-fight with my monitos.
18. What are you wearing? Heavy socks, heavy gray men's sweats from Old Navy, a magenta camisole under a heavy pink with dark pink flecked v-necked sweatshirt, with my hair pulled back in a bun. Three rings, two pair earrings, toe ring, anklet--they never come off--and I think that about covers things.
19. Your TV? PBS Brit-com reruns. Absolutely NOTHING else on Limited Basic Cable service on a Saturday night.
20. Your pets? My male binge-and-purge striped short-hair kitty cat.
21. Your computer? Mac and Mac. This one is a laptop; the other is a "desktop".
22. Your mood? So mixed--happy still in having met The Exception yesterday; jealousy of T and the great sex I know she is getting right at this very moment; cachonda from my extremely high libido that hasn't found any degree of relief lately; frustration resulting not only from the libido issues but the fact that today was my day with the kids but that He barged in and took them (I wrote IN INK on the calendar that next weekend is MINE); happy in that the wine is making me care less and less as I finish the current glass; relief that the game this morning is done; exhaustion just from The Day...oh, like always, just so damn moody!
23. Missing someone? Hell yeah.
24. Your car? Dark gray ever-so-slightly sparkly special from Subaru. Outback, to be exact. Saved our lives once--will never go back from Subaru.
25. Something you’re not wearing? A bra. Not that I really need one anyway. But perhaps that's too much information (insert wine-induced giggle here).
26. Favorite store? Depends upon that for which I am shopping. Sometimes Target, sometimes Old Navy, sometimes Restoration Hardware, sometimes Whole Paycheck, sometimes whatever online merchant can best fulfill my needs.
27. Your summer? Oh, not as hot as usual. Ought not complain since I'm freezing my ass off now.
28. Love someone? Oh, yes. Deeply.
29. Your favorite color? Purple. Black. Deep blue. Deep green. Deep red. When I'm in the mood, white does me good--in August. I like white linen. I also like some pinks, and fuschia works great in certain moods. No yellows or oranges, please. Nor puke greens. Ick. "Camo" ain't me.
30. When is the last time you laughed? Oh, dear. It has been a while. Perhaps I need another glass of wine.
31. Last time you cried? Oh, yesterday. Or was that earlier today? I forget. I cry much, much more than I laugh. Pretty sad, eh?
viernes, 17 de octubre de 2008
surprising revelations
I had a great morning!
I got to meet The Exception! And WHAT an exceptional lady she is!
2 1/2 hours was just not long enough for a chat, and coffee was probably the weakest thing to have been intaken while talking...but we make do with what we can.
What was perhaps most surprising to both of us was...
my height.
Or rather, the fact that I am much taller than she thought I would be--or that I was surprised to have come across so, well, short.
So, to set the record straight, here are my stats:
5 feet 9.5 inches tall. And love to wear heels. I have chosen to embrace my height.
125 pounds. Never more, sometimes less.
Bust-36A. Teenager bras. Proud of it...as one admirer of mine has said, "perfect handful, any more would be a waste on you."
Hips/Waist...hmmm...don't know. I wear junior size 7 long jeans--hipsters.
Hair: chestnutty, naturally darker than it is now due to sun and perm. I like curls.
So...what did you imagine? What do we imagine when we only have words (or a llama avatar) to work with? How do our words help to create the image we portray to others?
I was in awe of Exception...she was in shorts and a tank top, while I had on jeans, tights, boots, heavy socks, camisole and heavy (albeit short sleeved) sweater. It's not even supposed to hit 60 today--a 25 degree drop from yesterday. Brrr! I admire the strength that so many can demonstrate before these downright chilly temps!
So there you have it. And yes, pretty much each and every one of you were spoken of at some point in our conversation. So if your ears were ringing, you now know why.
I got to meet The Exception! And WHAT an exceptional lady she is!
2 1/2 hours was just not long enough for a chat, and coffee was probably the weakest thing to have been intaken while talking...but we make do with what we can.
What was perhaps most surprising to both of us was...
my height.
Or rather, the fact that I am much taller than she thought I would be--or that I was surprised to have come across so, well, short.
So, to set the record straight, here are my stats:
5 feet 9.5 inches tall. And love to wear heels. I have chosen to embrace my height.
125 pounds. Never more, sometimes less.
Bust-36A. Teenager bras. Proud of it...as one admirer of mine has said, "perfect handful, any more would be a waste on you."
Hips/Waist...hmmm...don't know. I wear junior size 7 long jeans--hipsters.
Hair: chestnutty, naturally darker than it is now due to sun and perm. I like curls.
So...what did you imagine? What do we imagine when we only have words (or a llama avatar) to work with? How do our words help to create the image we portray to others?
I was in awe of Exception...she was in shorts and a tank top, while I had on jeans, tights, boots, heavy socks, camisole and heavy (albeit short sleeved) sweater. It's not even supposed to hit 60 today--a 25 degree drop from yesterday. Brrr! I admire the strength that so many can demonstrate before these downright chilly temps!
So there you have it. And yes, pretty much each and every one of you were spoken of at some point in our conversation. So if your ears were ringing, you now know why.
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