It's borderline ridiculous to state the following: I have always loved music. I mean, who hasn't? But I am almost in love with it, need it, crave it, want it at all times...and let's face it, had I not opened with my first sentence, music may not have been your final answer back to Regis.
I grew up in the 80's and therefore am a connoisseur of all things Rock and Metal. Additionally, total ambiekinesis is created in my head when anything with a good beat, good refrain, or meaningful lyrics comes on. Allegretto and I'm done. Much like my every day penchants for a myriad of pastimes, I also enjoy a multitude of genres. Except Country. Don't sing to me in twang about your hillbilly pickup truck and front porch which doubles as a laundry mat. Don't sing to me about Earl or Jim-Bob or Jim Beam. (However, you can sing to me about a guy straight-up named Bob because I used to spin to that song - something about a Yacht Club - with dear friends of mine who could make me laugh at anything).
Transportation back in time, to a specific conversation, to a specific feeling, and definitely to a specific person - I can get there instantaneously through a few notes. While in the office, I listen to Jazz. Unless I'm feeling like I can conquer anything and anyone in that moment and then it's Alternative. You get the point. Music. Man, can it emote.
So imagine my utter contempt anytime I'm in the car with my now-driving-legally daughter. WHAT is that noise? Am I old? Don't answer that. No, I have taste. An appreciation. An understanding. I love all things new, but whatever "New-Age" this is, I don't want to be.
Liv loves, loves, loves Taylor Swift (a/k/a "Can I be a Kennedy now that I own a home in Hyannis Port?"). Absolutely adores her music. In fact, I think her iTunes cards may even be emblazoned with Taylor's mug sporting Jackie O's big black shades.
Each and every time a new Taylor Swift song is released - I really want to hate it. I dismiss it as completely horrible, totally country, and ostentatiously annoying.
But guess what? "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together."
Rock on, girl.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Love Wins.
And I'm not talking about my once in awhile "elephant in the room" love, I'm talking about true love. The kind we can only find one place.
So it's Sunday morning - 8 days after my left foot told me I am on hiatus. Funny how God uses not only unlikely people but our broken bones, too. Apparently it is time for me to slow down, re-focus on Him, and rejoice in all that is around me instead of trying to zip past it at an 8:20 pace.
I'm sitting on my back deck drinking coffee, listening to Mercy Me, and watching this beautiful sun rise through the overgrown trees in my back yard. His timing again. Immediately after I begin to write this entry, I do my usual mind wandering, multi-tasking thing. That deficiency (or, high-functioning ability) usually leads me to Facebook which is another post altogether. And it is there that I read an article. One that apologizes to non-believers on behalf of us. The believers that sure as heck aren't living like it.
Like I do well with criticism.
But it could not be more true. Not only do I see it everywhere I look, I see it when I try with all my might not to look at myself. Even worse, I feel it when I try not to discuss this, or the myriad of other faults, flaws, and sins with God. I try to outrun Him instead. He and my left foot are laughing in irony. One more reason I love my God - His comedic timing is excellent.
Most days, I don't even stop to consider what I'm running towards. Some other self-imposed goal is usually the answer. Once in awhile when I reach it, do I stop and give thanks, change my inner self, or keep my new nice and appreciative leaf turned over? Stupidly and sadly, almost as an affront to God, I just set another one.
Happily however, our God is big enough to save us from not only the macro, but our nagging micros as well. He meets us - these delicate works in progress - exactly where it is that we need to be met. He is light; and His light shines on us, in us, and through us depending on what it is we're going through in this journey of life.
My favorite quote in the article I just read is as follows: "This is why the triumph over the cross was a triumph over everything ugly we do to ourselves and to others. It is the final promise that love wins." This morning, I am giving thanks and praise for that promise, and for being made fearfully and wonderfully (Ps. 139:14). There is nothing but hope for those of us who are, and have always been, simultaneously fragile and solid.
Broken feet, broken hearts, broken souls - we are never down and out. We must always get back up, fight the good fight, and finish this race well. While watching laps around a track, I was reminded just how strong people are; yet, with one wrong move, they and their "worldly" goals go down.
We must not look like Morgan Uceny in our own Olympics, for my faith allows me to know with certainty that the medals we'll receive in eternity someday are way better than the ones we keep trying to chase here anyway.
Now, if there are Boston Marathon jackets in Heaven that is totally another story.
So it's Sunday morning - 8 days after my left foot told me I am on hiatus. Funny how God uses not only unlikely people but our broken bones, too. Apparently it is time for me to slow down, re-focus on Him, and rejoice in all that is around me instead of trying to zip past it at an 8:20 pace.
I'm sitting on my back deck drinking coffee, listening to Mercy Me, and watching this beautiful sun rise through the overgrown trees in my back yard. His timing again. Immediately after I begin to write this entry, I do my usual mind wandering, multi-tasking thing. That deficiency (or, high-functioning ability) usually leads me to Facebook which is another post altogether. And it is there that I read an article. One that apologizes to non-believers on behalf of us. The believers that sure as heck aren't living like it.
Like I do well with criticism.
But it could not be more true. Not only do I see it everywhere I look, I see it when I try with all my might not to look at myself. Even worse, I feel it when I try not to discuss this, or the myriad of other faults, flaws, and sins with God. I try to outrun Him instead. He and my left foot are laughing in irony. One more reason I love my God - His comedic timing is excellent.
Most days, I don't even stop to consider what I'm running towards. Some other self-imposed goal is usually the answer. Once in awhile when I reach it, do I stop and give thanks, change my inner self, or keep my new nice and appreciative leaf turned over? Stupidly and sadly, almost as an affront to God, I just set another one.
Happily however, our God is big enough to save us from not only the macro, but our nagging micros as well. He meets us - these delicate works in progress - exactly where it is that we need to be met. He is light; and His light shines on us, in us, and through us depending on what it is we're going through in this journey of life.
My favorite quote in the article I just read is as follows: "This is why the triumph over the cross was a triumph over everything ugly we do to ourselves and to others. It is the final promise that love wins." This morning, I am giving thanks and praise for that promise, and for being made fearfully and wonderfully (Ps. 139:14). There is nothing but hope for those of us who are, and have always been, simultaneously fragile and solid.
Broken feet, broken hearts, broken souls - we are never down and out. We must always get back up, fight the good fight, and finish this race well. While watching laps around a track, I was reminded just how strong people are; yet, with one wrong move, they and their "worldly" goals go down.
We must not look like Morgan Uceny in our own Olympics, for my faith allows me to know with certainty that the medals we'll receive in eternity someday are way better than the ones we keep trying to chase here anyway.
Now, if there are Boston Marathon jackets in Heaven that is totally another story.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Dorian Gray
It's 11:00am-ish Saturday morning. Let the record show that this is the first Saturday in no-way-can-I -remember-how-long that I've not run. According to some female "P.A." at Fort Wayne Orthopedics, my left foot has some bone which is broken. Whatever x 2. There are like 1,000 bones in the human foot and you have initials after your name lady, not before.
So here I sit. Yes, sit. With my left leg, in its Transformer-looking boot, flung over the neighboring bar stool. Hey - Optimus Prime...you wanna go out? Good. Something to look forward to.
But this is not even what I want to write about. I've reconciled the situation; I'm good with it. Went to see Evan at 8:00am this morning. I sent him a text from the exam room on Thursday, inquiring if he could be creative with the workouts for 2 weeks (poser doctor told me maybe 6-8 weeks in this thing, but all I saw were italics). And if by "creative" I actually meant render my arms disabled, his answer was yes.
What I intended to write about this morning was Lance. Given the coverage, I'm over it already, however there are a few high points to note. After first seeing the headline pop up on my computer screen, my immediate reaction was simply disappointment. For him - not necessarily in him. My shoulders slumped, a little breath and grunt came out, and my gut was sucker punched. Those were my natural reactions to reading one line about some man that I don't even know.
But do I know him? Have I ever known a Lance? Some of the lessons I've learned on this crazy journey would indicate a resounding YES.
Lance Armstrong is arguably one of the best athletes that has walked the planet. No question, he is the best cyclist of all time. Was his performance always on the up and up? I have no idea and neither do you. His teammates might, but that's neither here nor there. Lance knows.
Here's what we do know: what we see. All that we've seen, read, discussed, debated. We know the image and persona that he wanted us to know. And in that respect, we are all Lance's. Just check with Oscar Wilde...
Will the stripping of seven Tour de France titles cause me to change my opinion of Mr. Livestrong? No. Would anyone with a brain in their head ever race the guy on a bike? Of course not.
I will continue to respect him for all that he has accomplished, because as a poser athlete, I know with certainty that he trained and trained and trained some more. That he ate, slept, and breathed training. Preparation. Endurance. Dedication. The kind of hard work and discipline that very few people are ever willing to do.
Lance Armstrong is a fierce, fierce competitor. A warrior. A survivor. One that some people try, with epic failure, to emulate. And when they find out they don't have it in them, they do what most jealous second-rate human beings do: tear him down to make themselves feel better.
At the end of the day, what is in him - legally or otherwise - is something he and he alone will have to live with. As someone who not only has known a Lance or two in her lifetime, but is perhaps the female version of one can attest - there is nothing that anyone can say, do, or think that will make him feel any worse about himself than he already does.
If he does.
So here I sit. Yes, sit. With my left leg, in its Transformer-looking boot, flung over the neighboring bar stool. Hey - Optimus Prime...you wanna go out? Good. Something to look forward to.
But this is not even what I want to write about. I've reconciled the situation; I'm good with it. Went to see Evan at 8:00am this morning. I sent him a text from the exam room on Thursday, inquiring if he could be creative with the workouts for 2 weeks (poser doctor told me maybe 6-8 weeks in this thing, but all I saw were italics). And if by "creative" I actually meant render my arms disabled, his answer was yes.
What I intended to write about this morning was Lance. Given the coverage, I'm over it already, however there are a few high points to note. After first seeing the headline pop up on my computer screen, my immediate reaction was simply disappointment. For him - not necessarily in him. My shoulders slumped, a little breath and grunt came out, and my gut was sucker punched. Those were my natural reactions to reading one line about some man that I don't even know.
But do I know him? Have I ever known a Lance? Some of the lessons I've learned on this crazy journey would indicate a resounding YES.
Lance Armstrong is arguably one of the best athletes that has walked the planet. No question, he is the best cyclist of all time. Was his performance always on the up and up? I have no idea and neither do you. His teammates might, but that's neither here nor there. Lance knows.
Here's what we do know: what we see. All that we've seen, read, discussed, debated. We know the image and persona that he wanted us to know. And in that respect, we are all Lance's. Just check with Oscar Wilde...
Will the stripping of seven Tour de France titles cause me to change my opinion of Mr. Livestrong? No. Would anyone with a brain in their head ever race the guy on a bike? Of course not.
I will continue to respect him for all that he has accomplished, because as a poser athlete, I know with certainty that he trained and trained and trained some more. That he ate, slept, and breathed training. Preparation. Endurance. Dedication. The kind of hard work and discipline that very few people are ever willing to do.
Lance Armstrong is a fierce, fierce competitor. A warrior. A survivor. One that some people try, with epic failure, to emulate. And when they find out they don't have it in them, they do what most jealous second-rate human beings do: tear him down to make themselves feel better.
At the end of the day, what is in him - legally or otherwise - is something he and he alone will have to live with. As someone who not only has known a Lance or two in her lifetime, but is perhaps the female version of one can attest - there is nothing that anyone can say, do, or think that will make him feel any worse about himself than he already does.
If he does.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
OutOfMyVulcanMind.
I am realizing, no - I am admitting - that most of my posts either recount stories about something which recently occurred, or they recount stories which happened way, way back down memory lane.
This is a problem. Is this a problem? This is a problem. Is this...
Either way. I'm not going to spend $100 bucks on therapy to find out. Nor am I going to continue to write about my past. At least not as much.
I vow, henceforth, to primarily write about things which I'm looking forward to. To write about things which I ponder, struggle with, reflect upon, plan to fix, avoid. And yes...to talk about the elephant in this room of a blog.
Within Me
My story begins, revolving around a boy;
perhaps a man - a very great man,
who talks in circles or not at all but speaks the truth
The truth in lies but truth nonetheless;
for what is it Emerson said which we ignore?
he's lied behind and before but now no more.
My story continues, revolving around lists;
perhaps the planned path and decided journey,
playing by rules, conspiring the escape
My story can't end, it won't end here;
because behind every line is a lesson yet to learn,
by the final curtain call, I truly forgot how it was like to love.
You know. Something like that. Maybe even sprinkled with a numbering system of traits. Or qualities. Or a wish list from time to time. Just something different. I need different.
Yeah. I'll think I'll go forth it.
This is a problem. Is this a problem? This is a problem. Is this...
Either way. I'm not going to spend $100 bucks on therapy to find out. Nor am I going to continue to write about my past. At least not as much.
I vow, henceforth, to primarily write about things which I'm looking forward to. To write about things which I ponder, struggle with, reflect upon, plan to fix, avoid. And yes...to talk about the elephant in this room of a blog.
Within Me
My story begins, revolving around a boy;
perhaps a man - a very great man,
who talks in circles or not at all but speaks the truth
The truth in lies but truth nonetheless;
for what is it Emerson said which we ignore?
he's lied behind and before but now no more.
My story continues, revolving around lists;
perhaps the planned path and decided journey,
playing by rules, conspiring the escape
My story can't end, it won't end here;
because behind every line is a lesson yet to learn,
by the final curtain call, I truly forgot how it was like to love.
You know. Something like that. Maybe even sprinkled with a numbering system of traits. Or qualities. Or a wish list from time to time. Just something different. I need different.
Yeah. I'll think I'll go forth it.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Do As I Say, Not As I Have Done
At 2:00 yesterday afternoon, Liv sent me a text asking if I could pick her (and Mariam) up from school. There was just no way. Monday's are my standard nutso days at work and yesterday was no different. So I instructed her to take the bus home and call me.
When she called, she had the usual "plans" all mapped out.
"What do you want to do, sweets?" I ask.
"Mariam's brother might pick me up and bring me over to their house, or maybe her uncle, or she might come over here, or maybe you could come home and get us and go back to work and then we could eat, go to the Y, or..."
I love that she thinks that I don't have a life. I'm sure it may have something to do with her deductive reasoning skills and equating my social calendar with my work calendar.
After I left the office at 4:30, sped home, picked her up, dropped her off at Mariam's, it was after 5:00. Liv's "plan" was for me to pick her back up at 6:00 so she and I could go to the Y. Yeah, I knew that wasn't happening. Being the cool Mom that I am, I called her about ten till six.
"I'm tired, honey, want to skip the Y tonight?"
"YES! Good! I can run at home later." (To which I silently repeated the exact same response.)
The girl has been running. Nightly. She's up to 3 miles. I find it only slightly intolerable and ironic that I have a Dr. appointment this Thursday at FWO. I'm 90% sure I have a stress fracture. I'm also 90% sure they call it such for non-ironic reasons as well.
"How about I pick you up at 7:00?"
At 6:45, my phone rings. I could tell by the hesitation, tone, and pretend stuttering what she was about to ask.
"Um, I feel badly that you've been running me around all day, but do you think..."
"What boy, Liv?"
"HOW did you KNOW, Mom?!"
While I might not know a damn thing about it personally, I do get it. I have gotten it at one point or another in my life. I'm not living with the Tibetan Monks yet. Oh wait...could you imagine? Never mind, I still don't get it.
She wanted me to take her to meet him at the Whispering Meadows park. "A park? Liv, girls don't meet boys at the park."
"We're going to play basketball and throw the football around."
Man this child knows how to work me.
"Fine, but I'm going to meet him and he better have two balls in his hands when he arrives or I'll make sure he does when he leaves."
She actually laughed. Appreciation and excitment abounded.
And wouldn't you know. As he walked across the field (which was swarming with at least a hundred kids and parents for a practice, btw), his stupid teenage face was lighting up. The glare off the football and basketball which he carried made him look slightly angelic.
I look over at Liv in the passenger's seat, wearing jeans and some scrubby T-shirt. She is also beaming, except I know with every ounce of my being that she is an angel. My angel.
Great.
When she called, she had the usual "plans" all mapped out.
"What do you want to do, sweets?" I ask.
"Mariam's brother might pick me up and bring me over to their house, or maybe her uncle, or she might come over here, or maybe you could come home and get us and go back to work and then we could eat, go to the Y, or..."
I love that she thinks that I don't have a life. I'm sure it may have something to do with her deductive reasoning skills and equating my social calendar with my work calendar.
After I left the office at 4:30, sped home, picked her up, dropped her off at Mariam's, it was after 5:00. Liv's "plan" was for me to pick her back up at 6:00 so she and I could go to the Y. Yeah, I knew that wasn't happening. Being the cool Mom that I am, I called her about ten till six.
"I'm tired, honey, want to skip the Y tonight?"
"YES! Good! I can run at home later." (To which I silently repeated the exact same response.)
The girl has been running. Nightly. She's up to 3 miles. I find it only slightly intolerable and ironic that I have a Dr. appointment this Thursday at FWO. I'm 90% sure I have a stress fracture. I'm also 90% sure they call it such for non-ironic reasons as well.
"How about I pick you up at 7:00?"
At 6:45, my phone rings. I could tell by the hesitation, tone, and pretend stuttering what she was about to ask.
"Um, I feel badly that you've been running me around all day, but do you think..."
"What boy, Liv?"
"HOW did you KNOW, Mom?!"
While I might not know a damn thing about it personally, I do get it. I have gotten it at one point or another in my life. I'm not living with the Tibetan Monks yet. Oh wait...could you imagine? Never mind, I still don't get it.
She wanted me to take her to meet him at the Whispering Meadows park. "A park? Liv, girls don't meet boys at the park."
"We're going to play basketball and throw the football around."
Man this child knows how to work me.
"Fine, but I'm going to meet him and he better have two balls in his hands when he arrives or I'll make sure he does when he leaves."
She actually laughed. Appreciation and excitment abounded.
And wouldn't you know. As he walked across the field (which was swarming with at least a hundred kids and parents for a practice, btw), his stupid teenage face was lighting up. The glare off the football and basketball which he carried made him look slightly angelic.
I look over at Liv in the passenger's seat, wearing jeans and some scrubby T-shirt. She is also beaming, except I know with every ounce of my being that she is an angel. My angel.
Great.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Of Course
The year was 1979 when I met my first best friend, Becky, while sitting in Mrs. Mudrack's second-grade classroom. She was an awful teacher; even as naive and impressionable little girls, we knew this. So the understood glances coupled with the simultaneous head nods were given, and off we went to play checkers. Competition. Of course we'd become fast friends.
Beck and I attended school together, church together, CCD together, and generally hung out and talked from phones attached to walls in our homes constantly. She was a country girl; I was not. So we each thoroughly enjoyed having sleep-overs at the other's house every weekend. It was highly enjoyable for her to be able to walk to my house after school while sometimes (if I could talk her into it) first making a pit stop at the Library. We'd race out the front doors as soon as the bell rang, waving good-bye to those losers on the buses. Of course the following week, the losers were the ones walking home.
With or without the extra stop at my favorite building - the one where learning actually occurred - the walk to my house at 400 Adelaide Street consisted of cutting through the school playground, up and over the grassy hill to the cemetery, and down an alley on the other side until we reached my backyard which was marked by pine trees (and the basketball court in later years). Becky and I would walk, skip, run and laugh all the way there, betting each other who'd reach the trees first.
We were inseparable until the sixth grade. There was another Elementary School in the Minerva district back then - simply called "West," so as not to infuse too many syllables into words the locals had to actually read and write - that fed into the one and only Middle school.
Chelsea and Beth attended West. And when they inseparably marched into that one and only Middle school, it was completely evident that they presumed the same level of we own this place as Beck and I did.
There was only one thing to do. But it took at least a month of scoping the other side out, watching interactions with one another and in particular, boys and teachers, before that one thing happened. Several notes were passed daily; multiple debriefing phone calls were conducted nightly before it was finally concluded.
Yet even after it was officially decided, nothing was announced. Nothing had to be, because nothing changed. We simply joined forces and this beautiful understanding as the female version of Al, Lucky, Bugsy and Frank was born. No questions asked.
---------------------
It was 1987 when we rolled into High School. Chelsea's Mom was a teacher in the Middle School, so we were quite used to working the politics by the time we encountered Beth's Dad as the Vice Principal of the High School. It was not uncommon for us to wave to Mr. Michael at Hardy's while he was there getting his morning brew, and we were in the drive-thru ordering those tasty little warm pastries. The ones with raisins and warm gooey icing that made your hands all sticky. Not exactly ideal for driving around town during the remainder of 2nd period...
We were all athletes, on the basketball team together. Becky and I ran cross country and track, while Beth and Chels played volleyball. When we were not running the court breaking the school record for most W's our Senior Year, we would cheer loudly during games at the others' respective sports.
We were all girls, in the game of life together. The fellowship which is required to understand, work, maneuver, cajole, avoid, stop, start, and fall in "love" with your first high school boyfriend by far supersedes all other activities we participated in together. From Rob to Ben to Todd 1 to Jamie to Jeff to Tony to Joe to Todd 2...wow did we have some doozies. So too, was that inseparable fellowship required when dealing with all the other catty girls in their respective gangs. More than once I found myself running my mouth and on the verge of taking a swing at some horrid know-it-all ("all" as in my boyfriend). That is, until one of the other three stopped me. Or finished selling tickets and collecting cash for the main event.
First dates, first kisses, and first heartbreaks - we went through them together. When one was down, the others grabbed her and raised her back up to proper position. Like an Olympian team, not only did we know where we would each be on the floor during fast breaks, give-and-go's, or plays I called from the top of the key off the cuff, we also knew where we each were in terms of emotions, difficulties, struggles, and, of course, while sneaking out with a boy.
High School was pretty great for the four of us. Sure, we had mishaps, trouble, idiots we (fine, I) dated, but overall...I wouldn't change a thing.
-----------------------
The year was 1991. After graduating in May, summer flew by quickly. Chels and I went to OSU; Beth and Beck went to OU. Around our freshman year of high school, it was also an understood that Chelsea and I were solid-ly tight, while Beck and Beth were closer to one another. There was no separation among the four of us, as any would do anything for the other three, it was just more of that kind of bond you have with someone that you know will be everlasting. Through thick and thin. An always friendship with a level of intimacy which cannot be, nor should be, explained.
Columbus and Athens Ohio had another thing coming when we'd visit each other. 20-30 pounds gained, but nothing lost between the four of us. More maneuvering, more decisions about life, more boys, (way) more partying. But, we worked through those times together, too, albeit inside of dorm rooms, frat houses, and bars instead of classrooms or houses in the village.
In fact, so well did we work through those seemingly much more adult-like times that we decided to go to Clearwater for Spring Break together our Sophomore year as a reward. (And since I'm uncertain about that statute of limitations thing in Florida...a story for another day...)
-----------------------
It was 10 days ago. Chels and her daughter, Schae, drove to Minerva from Columbus. I drove to Minerva with Liv. Beth drove to Minerva from Ashland, having just moved back from Colorado.
As I drove down that long country lane to Becky's house - the one right next door to the house (and barn) in which she/we grew up - tears streamed down my cheek meeting the giant smile which had overtaken my face. Liv looked over at me and, already knowing the answer, asked anyway.
Why are you crying, Mom?
My mouth opened, but no words came out. For of course, no words could have done sufficient justice.
-------------------------
There's something about the early formation of a group. Its beginnings, the inception of a forever camaraderie, the makings of a team. Of course, as it was occurring, I had no idea how special it was or would remain. I only knew, when I was little and it was new, that it was fun. Easy.
While certainly none of our lives have been easy and, at age (almost) 40 we are far from new - we love each other still. Nothing will ever change that irrefutable fact.
I've always been a sucker for that kind of bond. It invariably creates a visual to me like the opening scene from Reservoir Dogs. I can hear the music, I can see the faces, I can feel the peace. Twice in my lifetime have I experienced that kind of commitment, adoration, camaraderie and friendship. And I neither take anything for granted nor forget anything about it.
So what does this girl do any time she hears from Mr. (or Ms.) Blonde, Blue, Orange, or White out of no where after a period of silent darkness?
Why she thanks God, of course.
Beck and I attended school together, church together, CCD together, and generally hung out and talked from phones attached to walls in our homes constantly. She was a country girl; I was not. So we each thoroughly enjoyed having sleep-overs at the other's house every weekend. It was highly enjoyable for her to be able to walk to my house after school while sometimes (if I could talk her into it) first making a pit stop at the Library. We'd race out the front doors as soon as the bell rang, waving good-bye to those losers on the buses. Of course the following week, the losers were the ones walking home.
With or without the extra stop at my favorite building - the one where learning actually occurred - the walk to my house at 400 Adelaide Street consisted of cutting through the school playground, up and over the grassy hill to the cemetery, and down an alley on the other side until we reached my backyard which was marked by pine trees (and the basketball court in later years). Becky and I would walk, skip, run and laugh all the way there, betting each other who'd reach the trees first.
Chelsea and Beth attended West. And when they inseparably marched into that one and only Middle school, it was completely evident that they presumed the same level of we own this place as Beck and I did.
There was only one thing to do. But it took at least a month of scoping the other side out, watching interactions with one another and in particular, boys and teachers, before that one thing happened. Several notes were passed daily; multiple debriefing phone calls were conducted nightly before it was finally concluded.
Yet even after it was officially decided, nothing was announced. Nothing had to be, because nothing changed. We simply joined forces and this beautiful understanding as the female version of Al, Lucky, Bugsy and Frank was born. No questions asked.
---------------------
It was 1987 when we rolled into High School. Chelsea's Mom was a teacher in the Middle School, so we were quite used to working the politics by the time we encountered Beth's Dad as the Vice Principal of the High School. It was not uncommon for us to wave to Mr. Michael at Hardy's while he was there getting his morning brew, and we were in the drive-thru ordering those tasty little warm pastries. The ones with raisins and warm gooey icing that made your hands all sticky. Not exactly ideal for driving around town during the remainder of 2nd period...
We were all athletes, on the basketball team together. Becky and I ran cross country and track, while Beth and Chels played volleyball. When we were not running the court breaking the school record for most W's our Senior Year, we would cheer loudly during games at the others' respective sports.
We were all girls, in the game of life together. The fellowship which is required to understand, work, maneuver, cajole, avoid, stop, start, and fall in "love" with your first high school boyfriend by far supersedes all other activities we participated in together. From Rob to Ben to Todd 1 to Jamie to Jeff to Tony to Joe to Todd 2...wow did we have some doozies. So too, was that inseparable fellowship required when dealing with all the other catty girls in their respective gangs. More than once I found myself running my mouth and on the verge of taking a swing at some horrid know-it-all ("all" as in my boyfriend). That is, until one of the other three stopped me. Or finished selling tickets and collecting cash for the main event.
First dates, first kisses, and first heartbreaks - we went through them together. When one was down, the others grabbed her and raised her back up to proper position. Like an Olympian team, not only did we know where we would each be on the floor during fast breaks, give-and-go's, or plays I called from the top of the key off the cuff, we also knew where we each were in terms of emotions, difficulties, struggles, and, of course, while sneaking out with a boy.
High School was pretty great for the four of us. Sure, we had mishaps, trouble, idiots we (fine, I) dated, but overall...I wouldn't change a thing.
-----------------------
The year was 1991. After graduating in May, summer flew by quickly. Chels and I went to OSU; Beth and Beck went to OU. Around our freshman year of high school, it was also an understood that Chelsea and I were solid-ly tight, while Beck and Beth were closer to one another. There was no separation among the four of us, as any would do anything for the other three, it was just more of that kind of bond you have with someone that you know will be everlasting. Through thick and thin. An always friendship with a level of intimacy which cannot be, nor should be, explained.
Columbus and Athens Ohio had another thing coming when we'd visit each other. 20-30 pounds gained, but nothing lost between the four of us. More maneuvering, more decisions about life, more boys, (way) more partying. But, we worked through those times together, too, albeit inside of dorm rooms, frat houses, and bars instead of classrooms or houses in the village.
In fact, so well did we work through those seemingly much more adult-like times that we decided to go to Clearwater for Spring Break together our Sophomore year as a reward. (And since I'm uncertain about that statute of limitations thing in Florida...a story for another day...)
-----------------------
It was 10 days ago. Chels and her daughter, Schae, drove to Minerva from Columbus. I drove to Minerva with Liv. Beth drove to Minerva from Ashland, having just moved back from Colorado.
As I drove down that long country lane to Becky's house - the one right next door to the house (and barn) in which she/we grew up - tears streamed down my cheek meeting the giant smile which had overtaken my face. Liv looked over at me and, already knowing the answer, asked anyway.
Why are you crying, Mom?
My mouth opened, but no words came out. For of course, no words could have done sufficient justice.
-------------------------
There's something about the early formation of a group. Its beginnings, the inception of a forever camaraderie, the makings of a team. Of course, as it was occurring, I had no idea how special it was or would remain. I only knew, when I was little and it was new, that it was fun. Easy.
While certainly none of our lives have been easy and, at age (almost) 40 we are far from new - we love each other still. Nothing will ever change that irrefutable fact.
I've always been a sucker for that kind of bond. It invariably creates a visual to me like the opening scene from Reservoir Dogs. I can hear the music, I can see the faces, I can feel the peace. Twice in my lifetime have I experienced that kind of commitment, adoration, camaraderie and friendship. And I neither take anything for granted nor forget anything about it.
So what does this girl do any time she hears from Mr. (or Ms.) Blonde, Blue, Orange, or White out of no where after a period of silent darkness?
Why she thanks God, of course.
 |
| 8/10/12 |
 |
| 1995-ish |
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Placements
Three things.
One. You may have noticed my background is now blue. Why, you ask? Oh, well that would be because I am utterly sick of seeing my mug pop up when I launch this site. Not only is it ridiculous that it's there in the first place (no idea what I was doing when I created this thing), but it reminds me of a time when I was on vacation. Relaxed. In Israel. So, as much as this pains me to admit, I cannot for the life of me figure out how to fix it. I mean, I'm sure I could, however my patience level will simply not allow that to occur at this given moment.
Two. I have innumerable stories to share, and the bug I have to write - really write - is more colossal than the hairy spider which was taking uninvited refuge in my garage earlier. That sucker would have caused certain death had I not immediately gotten right back in my car and reversed over and over and over it. I don't care if a spider is a bug, an insect, some type of -pede, or Charlotte. Whatever the correct classification, I hate them. But I do love to write and miss doing so. Blink and it's Friday; breathe like a horse and it's the weekend at mile 15. So, I need to find some time.
Three. I have a buddy who also blogs, albeit very inconsistently. Today I fell victim to intellectual asset thievery, although he'll never admit it since he was a little piggy and went to the market with it first.
Now, is the "it" all that compelling? No, not really. Not really at all. It was just some random rant about people overusing certain words and phrases of which, apparently, I am an offender.
Interesting. The only thing I find offensive is the incorrect usage of punctuation in conjunction with quotation marks.
"They go inside."
One. You may have noticed my background is now blue. Why, you ask? Oh, well that would be because I am utterly sick of seeing my mug pop up when I launch this site. Not only is it ridiculous that it's there in the first place (no idea what I was doing when I created this thing), but it reminds me of a time when I was on vacation. Relaxed. In Israel. So, as much as this pains me to admit, I cannot for the life of me figure out how to fix it. I mean, I'm sure I could, however my patience level will simply not allow that to occur at this given moment.
Two. I have innumerable stories to share, and the bug I have to write - really write - is more colossal than the hairy spider which was taking uninvited refuge in my garage earlier. That sucker would have caused certain death had I not immediately gotten right back in my car and reversed over and over and over it. I don't care if a spider is a bug, an insect, some type of -pede, or Charlotte. Whatever the correct classification, I hate them. But I do love to write and miss doing so. Blink and it's Friday; breathe like a horse and it's the weekend at mile 15. So, I need to find some time.
Three. I have a buddy who also blogs, albeit very inconsistently. Today I fell victim to intellectual asset thievery, although he'll never admit it since he was a little piggy and went to the market with it first.
Now, is the "it" all that compelling? No, not really. Not really at all. It was just some random rant about people overusing certain words and phrases of which, apparently, I am an offender.
Interesting. The only thing I find offensive is the incorrect usage of punctuation in conjunction with quotation marks.
"They go inside."
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
The Show
In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on.
--Robert Frost
I went back "home" to Ohio for our family reunion last weekend. My family has never been large and in fact, it keeps getting smaller. In the last two years, I've lost both grandmother's and an uncle.
Most days, everything functions like it always has: up early, exercise, shower/yogurt/coffee, work, Liv, dinner, work some more, read, yada yada. Nothing stops. That is, until something forces you. A decision. A choice. An event. The other day, it was a smell. Cover Girl powder. My Grandma used to swipe that across her face religiously, right before she dabbed the wrong shade of pink across her lips. Prior to that out of no where stop, it was Velamints. My other Grandma used to keep those in her right corner kitchen cabinet, along with her Tic-Tacs and liquid cancer-causing sweetener.
But on Sunday, it was something else. I stopped in the middle of reunion chaos to just soak it all in. Family. The ease of conversation, the roots, the ribbing, the laughter, the memories, the "what is her problem?" look, the void of other relatives who used to be there.
In typical family reunion style, we were sitting around after consuming burgers, dogs, pasta salad, fruit salad, cookies and wine, swapping stories. Of course Liv's little ride in the 5-0 cruiser led the discourse. Lots of laughs, followed by lots of our own 1980's teenage stories. The apple didn't fall far, nor did it miss any extended family lines either.
My only female cousin, Lynn, shared a similar yet didn't-almost-end-up-in-Juvie, "I can't find my kid" story. She has three boys: Chris and Josh are twins and the same age as Liv; her other son, Zach, is a year younger. All three are gifted cross-country runners. In the 15's for a 5k. They asked me if I wanted to go for a run, but, um, I didn't have my shoes.
So the three of them attend a XC camp in Mentor, Ohio. The very first day, as Lynn arrives to pick them up, Chris and Zach trot exhaustively to her car while Josh is no where to be found.
"Where's Josh?" she asks.
"No idea. Haven't seen him for 2 hours," they respond.
On and on it goes until the camp director tells them to wait there and he'll go out and search for Josh around Mentor. They don't hang out in Mentor. They are unfamiliar with Mentor. The route was 11 miles and it was 100 degrees. Not great.
The counselor finally appears - Josh in tow - and my cousin smothers her twin son with hugs and tears. (Again, that apple...)
She mumbles something to the guy who responds oh-so-stupidly, with: "If your kid can't hang, he shouldn't be here."
Lynn ended her expletive-ridden retort with, "When I'm done with you and this death camp - there won't BE anywhere to be!" (Yep...)
As we're all listening to her finish the story, Lynn's older brother, Rob, just kind of smirked and said: "I don't know what the big deal was. You have another one just like him."
Ah, my family. Even though we don't see each other often - even though we simply try to keep up with one another via texting, Facebook, or the occasional phone call - there's something that just "is." Something that cannot be replaced, cannot be manufactured, cannot be expressed. There is no pretense; there is no show.
Our lives just go on.
--Robert Frost
I went back "home" to Ohio for our family reunion last weekend. My family has never been large and in fact, it keeps getting smaller. In the last two years, I've lost both grandmother's and an uncle.
Most days, everything functions like it always has: up early, exercise, shower/yogurt/coffee, work, Liv, dinner, work some more, read, yada yada. Nothing stops. That is, until something forces you. A decision. A choice. An event. The other day, it was a smell. Cover Girl powder. My Grandma used to swipe that across her face religiously, right before she dabbed the wrong shade of pink across her lips. Prior to that out of no where stop, it was Velamints. My other Grandma used to keep those in her right corner kitchen cabinet, along with her Tic-Tacs and liquid cancer-causing sweetener.
But on Sunday, it was something else. I stopped in the middle of reunion chaos to just soak it all in. Family. The ease of conversation, the roots, the ribbing, the laughter, the memories, the "what is her problem?" look, the void of other relatives who used to be there.
In typical family reunion style, we were sitting around after consuming burgers, dogs, pasta salad, fruit salad, cookies and wine, swapping stories. Of course Liv's little ride in the 5-0 cruiser led the discourse. Lots of laughs, followed by lots of our own 1980's teenage stories. The apple didn't fall far, nor did it miss any extended family lines either.
My only female cousin, Lynn, shared a similar yet didn't-almost-end-up-in-Juvie, "I can't find my kid" story. She has three boys: Chris and Josh are twins and the same age as Liv; her other son, Zach, is a year younger. All three are gifted cross-country runners. In the 15's for a 5k. They asked me if I wanted to go for a run, but, um, I didn't have my shoes.
So the three of them attend a XC camp in Mentor, Ohio. The very first day, as Lynn arrives to pick them up, Chris and Zach trot exhaustively to her car while Josh is no where to be found.
"Where's Josh?" she asks.
"No idea. Haven't seen him for 2 hours," they respond.
On and on it goes until the camp director tells them to wait there and he'll go out and search for Josh around Mentor. They don't hang out in Mentor. They are unfamiliar with Mentor. The route was 11 miles and it was 100 degrees. Not great.
The counselor finally appears - Josh in tow - and my cousin smothers her twin son with hugs and tears. (Again, that apple...)
She mumbles something to the guy who responds oh-so-stupidly, with: "If your kid can't hang, he shouldn't be here."
Lynn ended her expletive-ridden retort with, "When I'm done with you and this death camp - there won't BE anywhere to be!" (Yep...)
As we're all listening to her finish the story, Lynn's older brother, Rob, just kind of smirked and said: "I don't know what the big deal was. You have another one just like him."
Ah, my family. Even though we don't see each other often - even though we simply try to keep up with one another via texting, Facebook, or the occasional phone call - there's something that just "is." Something that cannot be replaced, cannot be manufactured, cannot be expressed. There is no pretense; there is no show.
Our lives just go on.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Exit Stage 5
Work has been insane.
Not the usual self-induced insane, mind you, but the kind where I just need to stop.
Slow down
Not kill any co-workers in my office
(not even that one)
What day is it? Wednesday? Right now I'm drinking Seattle's Best decaf coffee, as warm drinks calm me down. Coffee reminds me of my Grandma Mar. I miss my Grandma's. At exactly 9:00pm, I have to go retrieve Liv and Mariam from Yo-Yo's where they are "just chillin, Mom" with two boys and a slew of other teenagers.
Seattle's Best. Yeah. I know someone who lives in Seattle thanks to evil social networking. Don't like her. Never met her, but she annoys the crap out of me. I'm sure she's extremely nice and all, but the woman "hearts" every stinking picture my buddy - fine, our buddy - throws up on FaceBook or Instagram. Does she really love every one? E-v-e-r-y single one? Please. I'd like to put a picture of Saran Wrap out there and see if she hearts hugs kisses x's and o's that.
Anyway, work. Clearly it is work which has me totally crabby at 8:38pm on a Wednesday evening. I've been training a new hire the last two days. Somehow, I always get stuck with them. Only I like this one. Smart. Personable. Go-getter. My (doesn't know 'lil miss Seattle clinger) buddy Yaves is friends with her husband, so she came to us through that channel.
Today Elsy had to sit next to me in my office all day while I did my thing. Non-stop calls, SalesForce, tracking, prospecting, new sales, old sales, customer service situations, in-depth conversations with customers about their families, their solutions, their needs.
On and on I talked, mentored, advised, and answered. Trust me - I know this sounds only slightly above Wal-Mart greeter in terms of grueling, but I would have rather been schlepping trash in those little flippy things with the matching whisk broom at an Amusement Park all day. Ok maybe not, but I'm still utterly wiped out from the whole thing. Tried to run the scheduled 6 miles at the Y a while ago and that even kind of sucked.
The highlight of my day was this:
As Elsy was sitting in my office, studiously taking copious notes, in walks our HR Director:
HR: Um, Elsy, I don't mean to sound, you know, like, well, I don't know how to, like, so here's why I'm asking...
Elsy: [Mirroring my look and patience level]
HR: So I have to fill out this EEOC thing, well I don't HAVE to but I like to, and I don't want to guess wrong or anything so, um, what is your, what are you, - are you from Canada?
Elsy: [Very professionally]: By nationality, yes. My citizenship is from Canada. Are you asking my ethnicity?
HR: Well, um, only if you want to, I mean...
Me: I think she dated Tiger Woods back in the day, but I don't want to confuse you.
Elsy: My parents are both from El Salvador.
HR: Oh good, I was going to guess Korean!
Me: [Dialing the phone]: Yes, is Col. Potter available?
Not the usual self-induced insane, mind you, but the kind where I just need to stop.
Slow down
Not kill any co-workers in my office
(not even that one)
What day is it? Wednesday? Right now I'm drinking Seattle's Best decaf coffee, as warm drinks calm me down. Coffee reminds me of my Grandma Mar. I miss my Grandma's. At exactly 9:00pm, I have to go retrieve Liv and Mariam from Yo-Yo's where they are "just chillin, Mom" with two boys and a slew of other teenagers.
Seattle's Best. Yeah. I know someone who lives in Seattle thanks to evil social networking. Don't like her. Never met her, but she annoys the crap out of me. I'm sure she's extremely nice and all, but the woman "hearts" every stinking picture my buddy - fine, our buddy - throws up on FaceBook or Instagram. Does she really love every one? E-v-e-r-y single one? Please. I'd like to put a picture of Saran Wrap out there and see if she hearts hugs kisses x's and o's that.
Anyway, work. Clearly it is work which has me totally crabby at 8:38pm on a Wednesday evening. I've been training a new hire the last two days. Somehow, I always get stuck with them. Only I like this one. Smart. Personable. Go-getter. My (doesn't know 'lil miss Seattle clinger) buddy Yaves is friends with her husband, so she came to us through that channel.
Today Elsy had to sit next to me in my office all day while I did my thing. Non-stop calls, SalesForce, tracking, prospecting, new sales, old sales, customer service situations, in-depth conversations with customers about their families, their solutions, their needs.
On and on I talked, mentored, advised, and answered. Trust me - I know this sounds only slightly above Wal-Mart greeter in terms of grueling, but I would have rather been schlepping trash in those little flippy things with the matching whisk broom at an Amusement Park all day. Ok maybe not, but I'm still utterly wiped out from the whole thing. Tried to run the scheduled 6 miles at the Y a while ago and that even kind of sucked.
The highlight of my day was this:
As Elsy was sitting in my office, studiously taking copious notes, in walks our HR Director:
HR: Um, Elsy, I don't mean to sound, you know, like, well, I don't know how to, like, so here's why I'm asking...
Elsy: [Mirroring my look and patience level]
HR: So I have to fill out this EEOC thing, well I don't HAVE to but I like to, and I don't want to guess wrong or anything so, um, what is your, what are you, - are you from Canada?
Elsy: [Very professionally]: By nationality, yes. My citizenship is from Canada. Are you asking my ethnicity?
HR: Well, um, only if you want to, I mean...
Me: I think she dated Tiger Woods back in the day, but I don't want to confuse you.
Elsy: My parents are both from El Salvador.
HR: Oh good, I was going to guess Korean!
Me: [Dialing the phone]: Yes, is Col. Potter available?
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