Giving

I've made passing reference to it in the past, but I want to bring it up because it's important to me.

When I was 11, I was being raised on a temporary basis by my great grandparents. My Pa-Paw was a mechanic with a sixth grade education and was essentially the sole breadwinner of the household. He passed away suddenly of advanced lymphoma with no savings, no insurance, nothing but around $1,000 in the checking account. We spiraled down in a matter of days from poor to I take it there will be no side items with our waffles tonight poor.

That Christmas, people who I had never met donated things so that we could have a "normal" Christmas. I got clothes, toys, jewelry from people who knew nothing more than my name. We survived the next few years on food stamps and church handouts. And every year, we spent our Christmas eve delivering food baskets to others because we knew what it was like to be hungry.

My experiences pale with what the people suffering from the Hurricane are going through. For those that were insured, the losses may be redeemed in part - but that will not replace family heirlooms, it will not put Shannon's graduation pictures and Aunt Meredith's antique christening gown back in their homes.

My concern though, is for those that weren't insured. Who, like us, were making it paycheck to paycheck when their world literally washed away. Those who no longer have even the luxury of a roof over their head or food to eat.

You may ask if you can be sure that your donations will go to someone who can use it... who will appreciate it. I can't obviously guarantee that, but I know that in my heart I'm greatful for everything that people did to help me out. To show me that there was hope, that there was a splinter of good left in the world.

My employer is matching all employee contributions to the Red Cross. I don't know who - or to what you would be comfortable donating money to, but I ask that you dig deep. And look at your life and see how lucky you really are. And remember, it could have happened to any of us.

Pay it forward.

T minus three days

We are still in BOX mode. Yes, we have been here a month and we are STILL UNPACKING because we are such good little capitalists that we have more shit than we know what to do with.

Well, sort of - but mostly because we're both packrats.

My parents, my three younger sisters (20, 16 and 15) and my 4 year old cousin are driving up from Ft. Worth* this weekend to see the new digs. They're staying with us in our two bedroom house. It's going to be cozy to say the least.

We're going to be in Manhattan (the little apple - not the big one) for the FIU/K State game on Saturday, and then driving back home to meet them. Home. It hasn't quite sunk in yet. I'm used to seeing 'Canes and Seminoles on people's cars, not Tigers and Wildcats and Jayhawks. It still feels a little off.

*Michael always laughs because I say that I'm from Dallas and not Ft. Worth. Technically I'm from neither - but right smack in the middle. I remember being in high school and there was an Absolut Vodka ad that was an Absolut Dallas and Absolut Ft. Worth photo spread on opposite pages of a lot of magazines. The woman that was Dallas was refined, in dark clothes and diamonds. Ft. Worth was a cowgirl hat and turqouise.

Is this really what's important?

There are close to 80,000 people in shelters along the Gulf Coast because of Katrina. There are BODIES floating in the flood waters. HUMAN BODIES.

Nearly 1,000 people died today when the rumor of a suicide bomber caused a human stampede.

The hunger crisis in Niger is getting worse by the moment.

So why should I give a fuck that Martha Stewart's getting her ankle bracelet off today?

Is this really news? Is this what's important?

*sigh* Sometimes... I just don't understand people.

Is it just me?

So, the new town actually has an "alternative" station - granted it's The Buzz... but considering that Miami didn't have one at all, it's still an improvement.

Every. Single. Morning. on the way to work this past week I've heard the Jack Johnson song "Where'd All the Good People Go. " Given that I have a fifteen minute commute, I'm a little concerned about their playlist diversity. But whatever... the song is strangely hypnotic. I found myself humming along to it today standing in front of the printer while I was standing there obliterating acres of rainforest waiting for the longest document to ever cross the planet to finish before the toner just decided to up and quit.

His voice seemed so familiar, but I couldn't place it... then I realized that Jack's voice reminded me strangely of John Wozniak of Marcy Playground.

Alcohol and file clerks

Seeing as how I' m infected with the plague, well sick.... I've tried to keep myself as quarantined as possible. I just opened my office door and a file clerk walked by with a stack of mail and was taking a swig from a beer bottle.

Once I roused myself from my sudafed induced stupor I realized that there was a happy hour for a departing partner going on down the hall. Nothing like employer sponsored alcohol at 4:00 in the afternoon.

Unfortunately I am too sick to go down there, but the noise is penetrating the four inch thick door like it was a dryer sheet.

Sigh.

And they even have margaritas and I'm not going.

You know I'm sick.

No I'm fine

I just hab a weally bad cold.

I sound ridiculous, my sinuses are about to explode from pressure and all I want is to go home and lay down.

Topeka and Zealots

This weekend we were in Topeka cleaning out the entire lifetime's worth of trinkets held by a family member now resigned to living in a nursing home.

We went through boxes and boxes of newspaper clippings, torn out recipes, expired prescriptions, costume jewelry, mismatched gloves. My heart was so heavy during this time. I shuddered to think about someone later going through my life - casually throwing out the artifacts that were precious to me, scrutinizing the value of tiny trinkets that I had tucked carefully into little boxes, their worth questionable - but nonetheless sentimentally important.

It was truly heartwrenching.

When I got home, weary from heavy labor moving 1960s furniture (wow furniture was heavier then than it is now), I thought I would relax a bit and read the news.

Apparently Fred Phelps, the psychotic zealot from westboro baptist "church " (and yes, I use that term very loosely - refusing even to acknowledge it as a proper noun), a person who has routinely advised his congregation that they should beat their wives and children, that AIDS was a plague caused when Truman Capote had an orgy with African tribesmen, passed it to JFK and Robert Fitzgerald by playing football with them, and they - during a menage a trois - passed it to Marilyn Monroe - and then the CIA was forced to assasinate all three of them to stop the spread of the disease. I mean doesn't this man sound like he's just a few cards short of a deck?!?!? Anyway, he has his zombies, er parishoners protesting at the funerals of National Guard members killed in the line of duty in Iraq. While these Guardsmen and women were being laid to rest, and their families were grieving openly alongside their caskets - the members of Phelp's church were screaming that they deserved to die... that G-d hates them and they are burning in hell.

What frightens me most about this situation is not that this one man is deranged. It's pitiful, and I honestly believe the man should be treated for mental illness. If it is not in fact mental illness that has spawned his unspeakable actions, I am confident that there will come a time where he is forced to answer for the atrocities that he has committed cloaked in the veil of false religion. What scares me is that he is merely a spokesman for a much larger population of people who utilize their "faith" to extol a community of hatred and bigotry. People who have traded in blind acceptance of their leadership in exchange for what they feel will be redemption and reward in the afterlife. People who point to scriptural references as validation for their hate, picking and chosing book and chapter based on their personal agenda, neglecting the very tenents of a religion supposed to be based on forgiveness, respect, and humbleness. Overlooking the verses of tolerance, carefully glossing over the admonitions that do not meet their personal goals.

I am not an overtly religious person, but I still consider myself a deeply spiritual person. I do not put my unyielding faith in the literal interpretation of a text that was written, and revised a number of times over hundreds of years - largely from oral history by human beings who by their very nature are fallible. Perhaps this is why Phelps and his progeny of hatemongerers disturb me most. They claim that they are in G-d's favor, they mock religion and place themselves in a position to cast judgment - including eternal damnation - on anyone whose beliefs deviate (even slightly) from their interpretation of Truth. I shudder to think that any person would be able to make such a judgment.

Living in America's heartland for the last month, I have seen a number of people profess that we will win in Iraq, because we are the chosen people - we are in God's favor. They say we should be on a spiritual journey to decimate Islam. We have our own holy war, and to fight, and die for it means you will be rewarded in the afterlife. I ask you, how is this rhetoric any different than the beliefs and propoganda of terrorists? Is it because we claim to act under the favor of our G-d that we are immediately absolved of any ethical or moral consequences?

Sigh. I'm not sure where this rambling is going other than to say that I don't profess to know all the answers. I think any human being who does is to be feared. And I pray every night for G-d to protect me from those people who are professing to be his followers.

Blown away

The eye of Hurricane Katrina came onshore exactly 1 mile from the house we just moved from. Considering that the eye was 15 miles wide, it would have definitely passed our house.

I am so happy we are gone.

As much as I miss the beach, and the sun, and the warm weather - I am so thankful to be gone.

A sneaky suspicion

I have a rather sneaky suspicion that my animal crackers are closet republicans hell bent on converting me.

I have a giant tub of them from Costco in my "stash" in my office. I just grabbed a handful (ah - lunch on the go) - and there were eight elephants and one donkey. No lions and tigers and bears oh my - nope just the animal cracker version of t&a (trunks & ass).

The donkey's head was missing.

It is all a vast right wing conspiracy. So help me God - if I find that donkey head in my bed tonight I think I'll have a heart attack.

Dear USPS

It has now been 1 month since we put in our change of address. We have been at the new house for the same amount of time.

We have not received a single piece of mail. We have called three times now to check, and have been told that "someone will look into it and will call us back." Strange, no one has called.

I called back today and was told "it would be documented." WTF?

You officially suck.

Sell! Buy! Hold!

Apparently I'm the last to know these sorts of things because I'm admittedly pretty technologically inept.

But apparently there are groups of people who are buying and selling "shares" of blogs on blogshares. And my two - they're on there.

How bizarre.

Seriously.

Pat Robertson, you make me physically ill.

You are everything that someone who purports to be a Christian should NOT be - bigoted, inciting calls to violence, intolerant, unforgiving, spiteful, gossiping, and evil.

The fact that people turn to you for advice and guidance in their spiritual lives makes me even sicker.

May God have pity on your soul.

So sleepy

I went to bed around 2.

I've been in the office since 6.

I am so sleepy.

I bought new fancy pants (as in nearly $100 a pillow) down pillows this weekend for the new bed. I rarely buy expensive items for myself, but I love to buy nice things for my "nest." I bought them "extra firm" because seriously how hard can down be right?

Uh. Wrong.

I have a WICKED knot in my neck from that damn pillow. I look vaguely Quasimodoesque slumped over at my desk because it's the only position that's comfortable.

Bad juju

Apparently I am bad luck to my newly adopted teams.

Saturday, we went to a football game - and wow is it different here. People actually cared about a preseason game. The fans had decorated buses, vans and even a HEARSE. A hearse decked out in red and gold ... it was unbelievable. The starters played well, but by the second half when it was largely third and fourth stringers on the field it started to be a waste of time. We left at the end of the third quarter, but still had a good time even though the Cardinals summarily kicked their rear.

And boulevard unfiltered wheat is on tap at the game. Fantastic.

Yesterday we left the house around 7:30 a.m. to drive to St. Louis for the game. Once again - wow was it different than Miami. The fans were pretty polite (aside from the drunk 21 year old in front of us with his underage girlfriend), but sweet mother was it hot & humid.

As we were going to get something to eat at the game, my heart was torn into thousands of pieces.

There was a young marine watching the game, who at most was 22. He was unbelievably gorgeous - chiseled features and the most stunning crystal blue eyes. His gaze was stern - focused. Both of his legs were gone, amputated above the knees. I started crying... for him, for the ones who can't come home to their spouses and parents, for the children who will grow up without them, for the ones who will come home to find that their sacrifice was far greater than they signed up for. I wept for all of them.

This isn't right. We shouldn't be there. I am strongly against the war because I support our troops, not because I'm unpatriotic. Bring them home. NOW.

What she never had the courage to say

I forgot to tell you.

Actually,
in all honesty, I didn't forget.
I never have in all this time,
I didn't have the courage,
I didn't have the chance.

The timing was off,
It wasn't proper.
I couldn't.
I shouldn't have.
But I did.

I do.
I always will,
and I think you understand.

But due to circumstances,
the words will not escape my lips.
It's changed too... more pure
more innocent, but just as much.

I'm afraid to see you, afraid
my eyes will deceive me....
pouring forth the emotion
that I have worked to restrain.

Written once,
on tearstained paper
after it was too late.
No return address.

Trust in your heart.

I cannot end the loneliness
or break you free,
but when the silence is too loud
remember, you are not alone.

You will never be alone.

Theory and Practice

Now that I live somewhere that actually has seasons, I'm excited about purchasing real fall clothes. I'm horribly allergic to wool, which just means I get to splurge more on cashmere and other luxury items. Well, as much as my budget will allow - so probably more synthetics than cashmere, but hey - a girl can dream.

As I was shopping online today, I was looking at the fall trend report on a couple of sites. I'm not typically a fashionista, but I love the deep earthy and jewel tones, the rich tweeds, leather, suede and the pleated plaid school girl skirts and soft knit sweaters that to me evoke memories of "back to school" (odd - considering that I grew up in Texas where back to school in August certainly did not mean any of those things), football, and leaves changing (which also didn't really happen in Texas - but I'm able to manufacture mass produced memories from advertising damn it).

As I've gotten older, I've learned to buy clothing and shoes that I truly love, not just that looks good or is on sale. I've become very picky about what's comfortable and refuse to wear something that's trendy just for the sake of fitting in. I may not be on the cusp of what others have determined is "in style" but I have a pretty signature style of my own.

I prefer quality, tailored pieces that are going to last and that will fit me well. Other than a few select places, I couldn't imagine buying clothes without first trying them on - measuring tapes be damned. The designers of women's clothes are insane. I could wear anything from a 4 to an 18 depending on who the designer is - and how the item's cut. While a "true" 7 1/2 - 8 size shoe, I've worn anything from a 6 to a 9 1/2 depending on the shoe. So while buying online certainly opens up a plethora of options - who really can? I don't understand. Are there legions of women out there who are able to simply throw on any piece of clothing and have it fit beautifully?

A lot of places were coupling longish tweed wool skirts with fishnets, and I love fishnet tights. Very retro styled (which I heart something fierce). And I've bought them for myself a time or two, but I can never bring myself to wear them. Once they're on, I feel like other people look at me like I'm a street walker. I'm just not comfortable enough in them to do it.

But we'll see. I feel a little braver than usual...

Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

The briefcase landed with a solid thud at the foot of the stairs, but part of me wished it had been louder - more defiant. I unbuckled the black leather straps encircling my ankles and discarded the shoes haphazardly at the top of the landing. Clothes flung with frustration precariously balanced on towel racks and melted, dripping from the window sill and puddled onto the tile floor. Dusk and mingled twilight filtered through the blinds, as I stood there, still - quiet - naked, contemplating turning the lights on. It was too much effort to expose and confront the rawness. The soft embrace of darkness seemed safer.

Scalding water poured over me, mixing with the salt - baptising my fear, eroding the last bastion of hope. At first, the cool porcelain tile supported the weight. You should be used to this. It's your own fault - isn't it always? You're selfish to think it would be different this time. You don't know what's worse - that he doesn't or that you have no other options. You should have known better. Why would someone - why should someone? No one does - and no one ever will. It was too much.

No longer strong enough to stand, I knelt there, letting the water pour over me. Prone, I humbly begged for guidance. I cried out beseechingly for help, for hope, for strength. No one answered. No one ever does.

The water kept pouring forth, the temperature slipping from lukewarm to cold. It was more habit than intention, more reflex than passion. As it swirled in the drain, I let go and accepted the undeniable state of the truth. Fingers numb, I shakingly turned off the water wrapped up in a towel and climbed into bed. Alone.

I'm here!!!

My new townhouse shares a narrow common driveway with three other townhouses that opens up in the back to a four car garage. From the front of the driveway, there are maybe two or three steps to the right up a small hill, and then a sidewalk leads to my door. There is, er was, a wrought iron guardrail up the side of the stairs. Granted, it wasn't incredibly secure, but it would have come in handy during the winter when the sidewalk will be an icefest.

Yesterday, a white van whipped back into the driveway and promptly plowed over the guardrail. The driver was backing up with such velocity that the guardrail went flying a good ten feet and smacked the side of the house with enough force to shatter a few bricks. The guardrail was around three feet higher than the driveway, so I'm still not really sure how it happened. The windows in the house were open, and the driver of the van hung his head out of the window and sang "I'm HERE!" in the most stereotypically gay voice you could imagine to no one in particular.

I was utterly speechless. It was so ridiculous I was beside myself with laughter. I bet it scared the bejesus out of the poor chipmunks that live under the porch.

Quiet.

Doors slamming. Cold shoulders.

The lonely sound of dialtone.

Voices escalating and neighbors peering over the bushes

I'm not good at this. I don't want to be.

Happy Anniversary.

Laughing at myself

I work with someone with the most grating laugh - it sounds like an enormous pack of dying hyenas. And she's a very bubbly person, so it's a sound that often bounces down the hallway startling me from the depths of concentration.

I've never been fond of the sound of my own laughter - or for that matter - the sound of my own voice. I hate listening to voice messages I've left for other people, they leave me appalled. I've always been teased about my voice, and I'm extremely self conscious about it. When I hear myself talking - it doesn't sound like that. I wonder sometimes what it sounds like to other people. Surely my own voice doesn't have that deep Texas twang. At least I hope it doesn't. Surely it doesn't sound that way. And it leaves me wondering, am I the person with the grating laugh that others are bitching about in their blogs?

A gentle reminder

I know, on at least some fundamental level, that no matter how difficult the trials you are going through - there is someone out there who is going through so much more. I didn't want to call, but sucked it up and e-mailed her back, thinking that if nothing else - we had our joint memories to fall back on if the conversation lulled too much. I now feel so guilty for thinking my problems were of anyone's concern.

She e-mailed me back almost immediately, pouring out the heartache that was her life for the last few years. Another failed marriage that lasted only months and other relationships that left her no better off, losing her job, her car, making the decision to let her three oldest kids live with their father and the youngest with her mother because she had no means to support them, living in a homeless shelter - someone who was once like a sister to me lived in a homeless shelter - because she had no where else to go. Dealing with fluid around her heart, and other serious health ailments - with no emotional or financial support system.

She's still struggling, the youngest baby girl lives with her full time now - and she's in preschool. She's trying to straighten out her credit and saving up to buy a house. She's working, and trying to scrap together the rest of her life. She's 27 years old and dealing with more than most people do in a lifetime.

My heart was breaking because I couldn't even imagine going through what she did. And she was so upbeat - saying that being homeless was the best thing that ever happened to her. That she was changed because of it - a better person. I don't know if she's found religion, or just hope.

All I know is that I wish I could help her. I wish I could make it better. That I could take away the years of pain she's had and give her the happiness she's always wanted. That she deserves. That every person deserves.

I feel so humbled.

confessional ridiculousness

At about four this morning, I woke up from a dream, and sat up startled, realizing I wasn't "home." The room was cold, the blankets damp from the morning breeze... and I couldn't stop shaking. I tossed and turned on the new mattress, silently cursing it's unbelievable firmness, and finally giving up and walking down the hall to the guest room. I curled up for a few minutes amongst the stacks of sheets and towels still waiting to be put in the linen closet. I have a very difficult time sleeping, as I fear the vulnerability that comes with the cover of night.

I have an especially hard time sleeping with someone else. Back in my earlier dating days, I hated the promise of sharing a bed with someone else - as I knew that I would be awake all night, never finding a way to be comfortable, never feeling "safe". I would fake sleep the way that other women faked orgasms, the deception necessary to avoid the uncomfortable reality of the truth.

I longed for the ability to curl up into someone's arms and feel safe, to feel home. To be able to lay my head into his nook, softly talking about everything and nothing at the same time, gently stroking his chest - and be warmed by his body as I slipped unaware into slumber. In reality, I never cared much for being held when I slept, but I loved the idea. Sophomoric as it may seem, I think it was just that the puzzle pieces didn't quite match. There was always something that was missing, or that was too much. Sleep seems like it should be so simple, and for other people I suppose it is. To me though, in some ways it was even more intimate than sex.

When I find myself in that strange place of being unable to sleep, my mind wanders. A habitual worrier, I think about children starving in Niger, of the decimation of the world's natural resources. And aside from the serious contemplative issues that clog my brain, there are other questions - other issues that have perpetually bothered me since childhood. This morning was one of those mornings.

When I look at a color, and proclaim it's blue - is it really? Or is it just that I have been conditioned to associate that hue with the named color? When you look at it - is it what I would think is green, only green is blue to you?

Alms for a former leper...

I got an e-mail yesterday that disturbed me somewhat. Technically we still are under a lease in Florida, that was to be bought out by my new employer, so we are arguably still under the terms of the contract. We have a roughly $3,000 deposit that I am waiting to have returned to us on it as well.

My ex (er, whatever) landlord sent us an e-mail requesting a donation on her behalf for a charity. Now, I tend to be a rather generous person, and I spend a great deal of money on charity. Charity that I approve. I don't like being pressured for $$ from someone who has power over me, or who I might slight if I don't donate. If it was a friend or a family member, I would feel differently I think. But someone I don't socialize with, and who knows me only tangentially? Hmm.

My last boss used to ask for rather large donations to his favorite charity every year, and I felt it was inappropriate to NOT donate.


Charity should come from the heart, not from a desire to get your full deposit back, or to keep your job.

Please make the boxes stop

I am so tired of unpacking.

I am drowning in a sea of cardboard boxes, packing tape and uninked newsprint.

Summer breezes

It's unusually cool here today. The windows are all open, and the breeze is coming in, but it's damp, heavy and it clings to everything. I feel ungraceful as I trip through the cardboard maze, carefully stepping over the pictures left to hang, watchful not to tip over a glass of lemonade left on the stairs.

Everything feels off-kilter.

I got an e-mail from a girl I went to highschool with today. She and I were best friends for a long time, and I haven't heard from her in about five years. On my sixteenth birthday, she threw a surprise birthday party for me in her backyard. We used to go tubing together in the summer, in bikinis and cut off shorts, trying to pretend we were older than we were to get the attention of guys we had no business trying to talk to. We traded clothes, boyfriends, jokes, and got into more trouble than two teenage girls ever should have. We would each say that we were spending the night at the other's house and stay out all night together. She had a rough life, and got pregnant when she was only 17, and got married before graduation. She now has, from what I've heard through the grapevine, four kids. She's divorced, twice now I think. She never went to college after graduation, she was too busy rushing after kids and trying to make her marriage less miserable than it was.

She hated my first husband and begged me not to marry him. She said that I would never be happy, that I should follow my heart. I thought she was jealous, that she just wanted me to be unhappy like she was. When I married him, she refused to come to the wedding - she said she would object, that she would make sure that I didn't throw my life away. During the wedding, I hoped she, or someone else would come bursting through the church doors a la The Graduate, but no one did, and I wasn't brave enough to do it myself. She only called me one more time after that, and we talked maybe 20 minutes before she had to put the boys in the bath.

At Christmas, around five years ago or so, a few friends from middle and high school got together, and I saw her there. Her daughter was just a baby, and I held her most of the night as we caught up on where our lives were now. She was getting remarried, and asked me to be her maid of honor. I told her I would love to, but that I couldn't do it. She said I was stuck up, that I forgot where I came from, that I had no right to think that I was better than her because I had been in college for so long. She lit into me, yelling that because I drove a Lexus and had expensive clothes and jewelry did not make me better than her. I never thought it did.

I won't lie and say that I am not thankful that I got out of the 'trap' of being uneducated and living paycheck to paycheck. I won't say that I didn't wish she had done something more with her life. She sent me a scathing e-mail sometime later, that I never had the courage or the heart to respond to. I couldn't tell her that part of me would have given anything to be a mother... that she accomplished more by doing that than I did in three degrees.

I'm not sure how to respond to her, or if I will. I want her to be happy, and I would like to know how she is, but I don't know what we would talk about if I did call her.

Baby the lucky ones for a moment or two...

Pat Green is going to be in town soon, and I would love to go - but last night when I asked if he would go with me, he gave a resounding "not a chance in hell." Guess that pretty much clears that up.

True, it's part of a tour with Kenny Chesney and Gretchen Wilson, neither of whom I'm really interested in seeing. And by not interested, I mean not even in the "we can still be friends kind of way." It's not going to be in a smaller venue, and I think that will take away from the dancehall charm. A huge arena is not exactly City Limits, you know? Given that he's a "special guest" and not the headline act, I'm wondering how many songs he'd actually sing. I'm also going to be driving back from St. Louis that day from a Cards game (one of the last in Busch stadium), so I know it's going to be difficult, if not impossible to get back in time.

But still. I've missed him now by two days in New Orleans, a day in the Dallas area.

So take me out to a dancehall
Slap my foot down to the rhythm
Tell 'em to play them old songs that we all love
And you tell me that you want me
And I tell you that I want you too
And I kiss your face,
Whenever you want me to.

Drenched

This morning, when the alarm went off the room was strangely dark. Then there was a booming crack of thunder and the heavens opened and the rain came down in sheets.

It smells wonderful outside. I had forgotten what the rain smells like mingled with cut grass - how warm and comforting it is. Some of my fondest memories were the summer that I lived in the coed dorm on campus, and we would all sit outside the front porch watching the thunderstorms - the sky a murky purple with tongues of lightening. It never smelled like that in S. Fla. when it rained, maybe because of the ocean? But it smells like it here, and it's wonderful...

It's taking all I have not to go outside and just sit there, watching the clouds rumble in.

Rainy days should be spent snuggled under a thick antique quilt with a steaming mug of cocoa or hot tea tinged with honey, listening to the rain on the windowpane and reading a good book.

The greatest thing

about the new house is my bathroom. It has a mosaic navy and white porcelain tile floor in an almost celtic love knot pattern. The paint is in all likelihood 100% lead, and the floor creaks, but I love the room. I took a bubble bath in there last night, and the tub is nice and deep. Not the claw foot I would love to have, but it'll definitely do. I'm putting a chandelier in there (candle lit) and can't wait to relax in the cold winter months with steaming hot water and a glass of wine. The tub in the old house just really wasn't worth the effort of a bath, but here - ahhhh I can't wait to get home.

Now if I only had someone to wash my hair for me... that would make it perfect.

Haiku, part deux

Spam clogging my blog
inbox overflowing it's
driving me insane

The Big E

My heart just got a little melty. I would totally leave my husband for this man, at least for a night or two, or as many as I could get away with.

Looks like Lindros is going to be back on the ice - and perhaps for Toronto, the team he has always wanted to play for.

I am elated. Lindros made me love hockey. He was roughly physical, but so graceful on the ice. And hot - let's not forget that. I love big bulky men and he was definitely easy on the eyes. Seeing him play (in person) before his latest concussion was one of the best sports memories I have. I get tingly just thinking about it.

On September 11, when I first found out about the attacks, I was wearing an old Flyers #88 jersey making pancakes and trying to figure out why there was some movie about the Pentagon being on fire on ESPN.

I was a Flyers fan, until I just couldn't stand Bobby Clarke anymore, and then I was a Rangers fan. Looks like a Maple Leaf is in my future.

Updated to say - indeed it is. And wow is he delicious.

Look Ma - a Cavity!

In 26 years, I have never managed to have a cavity in my teeth. Given that we were so poor growing up that I rarely went to the dentist, that's somewhat of a miracle. The only problem I ever had was my wisdom teeth were impacted, and I had to have them surgically excised in law school. My dentists always raved about how strong my teeth were.

The last time I went to the dentist, I complained that when I bit down hard that sometimes my teeth would sort of stick together - like I had a piece of hard candy between them. The masochistic dental hygenist told me that I had a spot of enamel that was 'a bit soft' on one of my bottom molars, but that it shouldn't be an issue. This morning I stopped for a drink at Sonic (can I tell you how excited I am that they have Sonics here?!?!?!) and as I took a swig horrible pain shot through my mouth and that tooth just throbbed.

I think I have a cavity. I just elected not to get dental insurance through work. I am not particularly pleased.

Daily Haiku

I sometimes wonder
what life would be like with you
by my side always

Settling in

I'm here. I'm alive, but I can't say much more than that.

Well, to recap - here's the story.

The bar exam was horrific, I stayed in a hotel that advertised great room service and a relaxing pool only to get there, be refused my room - and have the restaurant mysteriously "under rennovation" and the pool be a 2 foot deep extravaganza of black sludge. At least I had semi-operative air conditioning, something a lot of other hotel guests did not have. Although I did have a rather poorly skilled clarinet player in the room next to me during the night inbetween day 1 and 2 of the bar.

We were supposed to leave on Friday morning, after I flew back from the bar exam late Thursday. Now, what is the ONE thing that would be bad to happen on a flight where you have to leave from your destination at 6 a.m. and drive across country? Hmm. that would be 1) a delay and 2) the airline losing your luggage. Guess which happened to me? That's right - BOTH. As I was sitting in the DFW airport - some period of time close to FOREVER on the runway - I had a sneaking suspicion that somehow my bags were not on the plane with me. This is also about the time that we had been sitting on the tarmac for close to 30 minutes with me needing to have gone to the bathroom before we left St. Louis and listening to the inebriated women behind me go on and on about nothing in the thickest Texas drawl I've ever heard. My bags decided that they would like to take the scenic route to S. Florida and ended up at around 2 a.m. at my house.

As he was coming to pick me up from the airport, his check engine light came on. Now I've been known to be a daring person upon occasion, but somehow moving across country didn't seem to be the time to have a car breakdown, especially when faced with finding service for one of them 'foreign cars' in backwoods Mississippi. So we thought we'd drop the car off at the dealership, tell them the importance of us getting it back quickly, and be on the road later that afternoon. Since his car was being dropped off, we thought we'd have mine looked at too. Nine hours later, two nails had been removed from my front tires, and his oxygen sensors were replaced. Storms were rolling in, so we decided to leave the next morning and suffer one more night on an air mattress.

As we were finally getting ready to leave, after packing an ungodly amount of stuff into the cars that the movers neglected to take (although - upon unpacking last night I did find that they so nicely decided to pack FRESH plums in a silver decorative basket for me.... oh that was retched. Nine days without temperature control does not make for an especially fresh plum) We each hauled one cat into the freshly catnip induced front seat of our respective cars, and bode the beaches, sand and waves goodbye. After driving for awhile I decided to let Alex out of the carrier because he seemed so calm. Seemed. What occurred next was a disaster of sorts involving a longhaired cat with exploding diarrhea who took shelter in a rubbermaid tub full of cactus, a devastating rainstorm that made it impossible to roll down the windows in the car, and no place to turn off the highway for around forty minutes, about three packages of baby wipes and a stench that I am not sure will ever get out of the upholstery in my car. And did I mention at that point all he wanted to do was to crawl in my lap. Good times. It was so awful that I couldn't stop to eat, afraid that when I rolled down the window the stench would hit the fast food attendant so hard that they would pass out.

And here I thought the bar exam was rough.

We made the 26+ hour drive in two days, and have started settling into the new place. I don't think I've ever been this tired though, and am so busy at the new job I can barely see straight.

I love having my own bathroom again, and I'm going to have killer legs given how many times I go up and down the stairs in the new place. It doesn't feel like home yet, but the neighbors are salesmanagers for a high end wine and beer distributor, and made us welcome with two wonderful bottles of wine that I can't wait to sample - assuming I ever find the wine glasses in the ENORMOUS FLOOR TO CEILING stack of boxes on ALL THREE STORIES OF THE HOUSE.

But yeah, I'm here. The people are really nice, and I like my new job a lot but sweet jesus am I busy.

I find out if I passed the bar around mid September. That's a long time to wait. A long long time.