So tonight I was in the laundry room and Cheryl was in the boys' bedroom reading them a story. It's a sweet scene, really, so I didn't expect to hear an anguished cry from the vicinity. So I ran in, and, oddly, there was the sweet scene I expected: Cheryl and the boys in the big, soft chair.
Then Cheryl told me that Eddie got into that chair by LEAPING FROM THE CHANGING TABLE. This entailed climbing up to the top of the changing table, which is about four feet high. So that's no small trick. Then he had to gather himself and sail across the two-foot gap between the table and the top of the chair. Cheryl was horrified. And I was, well ... impressed! And it took everything I had not to express that overmuch, 'cause, you know, it's bad for toddlers to leap from a height. Even if they seem really good at it.
Maybe I've been reading too much about Shaun White, aka "The Flying Tomato." But I'm actually kinda psyched at the boldness of my boy. Though I did rather firmly tell him that he needs to only do these kinds of things with me there.
(For an alternative take on this event from my other half, who says I was not really so firm in my words to Eddie, see: eddieandchasdiaries.blogspot.com.)
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Making headlines instead of writing them
Some people go through life without ever once being the subject of a newspaper story. Or, since this is the 21st century, the subject of a story on a Web site.
Either way, those people are lucky. Even when you know -- even trust -- the person writing about you, it's just not fun. Objectivity, fairness, all that stuff ... it only goes so far. There's no way a news story can capture a person's reality in 360 degrees. Usually, 180 or so is enough. Or so I tell myself.
My church is going to be torn down. It's an old church, built in 1916. It is, in the eyes of some, historic. It is also at risk of falling down. Not only from earthquakes (no one will insure it) but from generations of deferred maintenance. The roof. The foundation. The boilers. The crumbling wood that strains against the weight of the massive stained glass windows. You get the idea.
We figured that when people found out that the building might be torn down, they would freak out. And hopefully open wide their checkbooks, and help us save it. But when we held public meetings and congregational meetings last summer, the silence cracked like thunder. I told my friends at the local newspaper, where I used to work more than a year ago. But they didn't start covering the story until recently.
I wasn't too worried about media attention. I knew we'd covered our bases. But I didn't anticipate that they would do things like run a picture of our damaged dome with the damage somehow rendered invisible. The rest of the story was similarly fair and balanced (and I use the Fox phrase advisedly).
There will be another story tomorrow. I may not even look at it. Because ultimately, it doesn't matter to me. The reporter in me heard the quotable quotes, saw the tears, saw the telling details. And the person in me knew that there would be no way that the reporter (a good man, a smart man) would be able to tell my story. I've got that inside.
As with a lot of things in my life, I'm learning about fallibility. Nothing is simple. Nothing is as it appears. My truth isn't even THE truth. It's just mine. No matter what's in the newspaper.
Either way, those people are lucky. Even when you know -- even trust -- the person writing about you, it's just not fun. Objectivity, fairness, all that stuff ... it only goes so far. There's no way a news story can capture a person's reality in 360 degrees. Usually, 180 or so is enough. Or so I tell myself.
My church is going to be torn down. It's an old church, built in 1916. It is, in the eyes of some, historic. It is also at risk of falling down. Not only from earthquakes (no one will insure it) but from generations of deferred maintenance. The roof. The foundation. The boilers. The crumbling wood that strains against the weight of the massive stained glass windows. You get the idea.
We figured that when people found out that the building might be torn down, they would freak out. And hopefully open wide their checkbooks, and help us save it. But when we held public meetings and congregational meetings last summer, the silence cracked like thunder. I told my friends at the local newspaper, where I used to work more than a year ago. But they didn't start covering the story until recently.
I wasn't too worried about media attention. I knew we'd covered our bases. But I didn't anticipate that they would do things like run a picture of our damaged dome with the damage somehow rendered invisible. The rest of the story was similarly fair and balanced (and I use the Fox phrase advisedly).
There will be another story tomorrow. I may not even look at it. Because ultimately, it doesn't matter to me. The reporter in me heard the quotable quotes, saw the tears, saw the telling details. And the person in me knew that there would be no way that the reporter (a good man, a smart man) would be able to tell my story. I've got that inside.
As with a lot of things in my life, I'm learning about fallibility. Nothing is simple. Nothing is as it appears. My truth isn't even THE truth. It's just mine. No matter what's in the newspaper.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
A complex dirty-house avoidance plan
You could say we had a full day today .... dropped off the lawnmower for a tuneup, mailed stuff, went swimming, went to the Home Show, went to the Supermall, made nachos, fought sleep.
But there's something conspicuously absent from that list: cleaned house. Yes, the house is a cluttery mess. And Cheryl's getting nervous because the boys have a birthday party in exactly two weeks. And I'm blogging instead of cleaning. It almost makes me nostalgic for my pre-antidepressant days when I would sometimes stay up until nearly dawn obsessively cleaning the house and fretting about God knows what. Now, I sleep more rationally. And the only downside to that is a messier house.
Eddie's in his room giving his Mommy a boxing lesson, as we say. She made the mistake of saying, at about 9:30, that we should watch "Crash" if the boys go to sleep soon. Well, Chas immediately started saying "I watch 'Crash'. What 'Crash'? I watch it." Despite this interest in Oscar-nominated cinema, he only fought for about a half an hour. I was out like a light after about five minutes, but Cheryl woke me up enough to put Chas down and escape the premises. Eddie, who is on Day 5 without a goo (pacifier) is a little more restless. Still working through that self-soothing thing.
Speaking of which, I'm going to go take a swig of Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper and commence to cleaning. Since I am awake, I should put that to good use.
But there's something conspicuously absent from that list: cleaned house. Yes, the house is a cluttery mess. And Cheryl's getting nervous because the boys have a birthday party in exactly two weeks. And I'm blogging instead of cleaning. It almost makes me nostalgic for my pre-antidepressant days when I would sometimes stay up until nearly dawn obsessively cleaning the house and fretting about God knows what. Now, I sleep more rationally. And the only downside to that is a messier house.
Eddie's in his room giving his Mommy a boxing lesson, as we say. She made the mistake of saying, at about 9:30, that we should watch "Crash" if the boys go to sleep soon. Well, Chas immediately started saying "I watch 'Crash'. What 'Crash'? I watch it." Despite this interest in Oscar-nominated cinema, he only fought for about a half an hour. I was out like a light after about five minutes, but Cheryl woke me up enough to put Chas down and escape the premises. Eddie, who is on Day 5 without a goo (pacifier) is a little more restless. Still working through that self-soothing thing.
Speaking of which, I'm going to go take a swig of Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper and commence to cleaning. Since I am awake, I should put that to good use.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Dilbertian achievement
You know you've crossed some kind of boundary when you feel like you had a good day because you wrote a useful memo and got four signatures on a form -- in addition to attending four meetings, three informal huddles and a couple of face-to-faces that required use of a conference room. I crossed that boundary yesterday.
Am I high on dry erase fumes? Is this achievement?
I suppose it would be hipper to have "The Office"-ian achievement, but you saw the name of this blog .... I actually watch "The Office" more than I read Dilbert these days, but Dilbert remains imprinted on my mind as the dominant icon of a hell divided into cubicles.
Speaking of "The Office," my great fear is that I am a boss like that boss -- someone who thinks he's cool, connected and beloved when he's really just a pathetic buffoon that people are laughing at and not with. In my more confident moments, I think that I'm actually all right at helping people do their best work and feel good about it.
Am I high on dry erase fumes? Is this achievement?
I suppose it would be hipper to have "The Office"-ian achievement, but you saw the name of this blog .... I actually watch "The Office" more than I read Dilbert these days, but Dilbert remains imprinted on my mind as the dominant icon of a hell divided into cubicles.
Speaking of "The Office," my great fear is that I am a boss like that boss -- someone who thinks he's cool, connected and beloved when he's really just a pathetic buffoon that people are laughing at and not with. In my more confident moments, I think that I'm actually all right at helping people do their best work and feel good about it.
Eddie's addiction
Eddie's sleep has been restless at best these past few nights. Not because he likes to sneak drinks of my soda, but because he has been sleeping without his "goo." His goo is his pacifier. His goo is his pal. His goo is his addiction.
We're not pushing him to give it up. We figure that will happen naturally, like it did with his brother, who decided at 6 months that he didn't need a stinkin' goo. And they both gave up bottles on their own last year without any fuss. But the goo is different. They can fill up their stomachs and get cuddles without bottles in their lives. But without the goo, Ed needs to rewire his self-soothing mechanism.
You'd think that wouldn't be too hard for a kid who embraced the calming breath ("in through your nose, out through your mouth") months ago. But since I'm shitty at giving things up, I'm not in a position to judge.
We're not pushing him to give it up. We figure that will happen naturally, like it did with his brother, who decided at 6 months that he didn't need a stinkin' goo. And they both gave up bottles on their own last year without any fuss. But the goo is different. They can fill up their stomachs and get cuddles without bottles in their lives. But without the goo, Ed needs to rewire his self-soothing mechanism.
You'd think that wouldn't be too hard for a kid who embraced the calming breath ("in through your nose, out through your mouth") months ago. But since I'm shitty at giving things up, I'm not in a position to judge.
My blog is a pathetic sobbing Tamagotchi, wallowing in its own waste
... or at least that's how I feel. I just made my first entry in days and if I had to equate it to a food item, it would be a partially chewed piece of Altoids gum.
But as I was telling my pal Winda tonight, I'm not going to let my blog make me its bitch. I'm going to use it as a healthy, relaxing outlet. You know, as healthy and relaxing an outlet as it can be considering that I can't name names about the people at work who drive me fucking crazy. Or the people at church who cause me to have less-than-Christian impulses. Or any inner thoughts that I'd like to remain unexamined by the two or so people who read my blog. Some things I'll confess to publicly (caffeine addiction, a deep and profound interest in Angelina Jolie ... and her efforts on behalf of refugees of course, unconditional devotion to my Zen Micro). Others will remain part of my internal monologue.
I'm not afraid of embarrassing myself, of course. Which is why I'll admit that I'm using Cheryl's healthy fear of my eye-watering bean-and-ham induced flatulence as an excuse to be out here with the computer instead of in the boys' bedroom, where they are fighting sleep by any means necessary.
But as I was telling my pal Winda tonight, I'm not going to let my blog make me its bitch. I'm going to use it as a healthy, relaxing outlet. You know, as healthy and relaxing an outlet as it can be considering that I can't name names about the people at work who drive me fucking crazy. Or the people at church who cause me to have less-than-Christian impulses. Or any inner thoughts that I'd like to remain unexamined by the two or so people who read my blog. Some things I'll confess to publicly (caffeine addiction, a deep and profound interest in Angelina Jolie ... and her efforts on behalf of refugees of course, unconditional devotion to my Zen Micro). Others will remain part of my internal monologue.
I'm not afraid of embarrassing myself, of course. Which is why I'll admit that I'm using Cheryl's healthy fear of my eye-watering bean-and-ham induced flatulence as an excuse to be out here with the computer instead of in the boys' bedroom, where they are fighting sleep by any means necessary.
Temptation, thy name is Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper
So, I'm off the Double Gulp wagon as of this morning. But it wasn't the demon Diet Coke that got me -- it was Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, known henceforth as DCV Dr.P. Mmmmmm.
I did, however, resist the urge to have a second Double Gulp today. That's moderation for ya.
I did, however, resist the urge to have a second Double Gulp today. That's moderation for ya.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Still no Double Gulps ...
but I did have a bit of Diet Coke. And by bit, I mean about 32 ounces worth.
I recognize that to some people 32 ounces is a lot. But I am a freak. I drink so much that people have asked me if I'm diabetic (I'm not -- I see an endocrinologist every six months, and diabetes remains a distant threat that will remain distant if I can keep my weight somewhat under control).
Oh, and for the record, when I say I drink a lot, I'm talking about diet sodas of all types, iced tea, water, etc. I don't drink alcohol very often. And that's not because I'm against the drinking of alcohol, though I don't understand why people do it so much. It's just because I don't particularly like the flavor, don't need the calories, and don't have much in the way of inhibitions anyway. So what's the point?
I recognize that to some people 32 ounces is a lot. But I am a freak. I drink so much that people have asked me if I'm diabetic (I'm not -- I see an endocrinologist every six months, and diabetes remains a distant threat that will remain distant if I can keep my weight somewhat under control).
Oh, and for the record, when I say I drink a lot, I'm talking about diet sodas of all types, iced tea, water, etc. I don't drink alcohol very often. And that's not because I'm against the drinking of alcohol, though I don't understand why people do it so much. It's just because I don't particularly like the flavor, don't need the calories, and don't have much in the way of inhibitions anyway. So what's the point?
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Friday, February 17, 2006
My dad doesn't like gays but he loves me (I think)
When I told my father I was gay, he told me that he would love me no matter what, even if I was a murderer. At the time, I viewed this in glass-half-full fashion: Awww, he loves me no matter what!
But tonight, after hearing for the umpteenth time about how insightful Michael (gays "should get AIDS and die") Savage and Michael ("it's cool to be conservative") Medved are, I just had to say something. Does he really not get that his heroes want me and my family to disappear? Does he really think that it's a bad idea to allow gays to have the legal right not to be fired, barred or otherwise mistreated just because of who they are? The more we talked, the more I realized that my father has somehow manage to compartmentalize me and minimize my gayness.
And I have managed to compartmentalize him and minimize his bigotry. Bigotry ... It's not easy for me to type the b-word in association with my Daddy. In fact, I erased it a couple of times. But I'm increasingly convinced it's accurate. Forget the gay thing: He'll also go off on immigrants and the diseases they're bringing into this country. Seriously.
I tried to reason with him. He said he was against hate crimes legislation, and I can understand that, as long as you're consistent enough to be against all hate crimes legislation. And I can understand being against civil rights laws, if you're against all civil rights laws. But he wouldn't want someone fired or otherwise ill-treated just for being Jewish. Or Indian. Or a woman. It's just OK, apparently, if it happens to gays. I told him how Cheryl and I had someone back out of a deal to sell us their house after they found out we were gay. (It ended for the best -- we got a much better house.) How does that not affect his position? How does that not even cause him some dissonance? How can he think of our sons as his grandchildren, yet not seem bothered that in most states, I'd not be allowed to adopt them? How can he not mind that Cheryl and I can legally be kept apart if one of us has an accident and ends up in the hospital?
I had been feeling guilty because I'd been somewhat out of touch with Dad of late because work has been insanely busy. The guilt has eased.
But tonight, after hearing for the umpteenth time about how insightful Michael (gays "should get AIDS and die") Savage and Michael ("it's cool to be conservative") Medved are, I just had to say something. Does he really not get that his heroes want me and my family to disappear? Does he really think that it's a bad idea to allow gays to have the legal right not to be fired, barred or otherwise mistreated just because of who they are? The more we talked, the more I realized that my father has somehow manage to compartmentalize me and minimize my gayness.
And I have managed to compartmentalize him and minimize his bigotry. Bigotry ... It's not easy for me to type the b-word in association with my Daddy. In fact, I erased it a couple of times. But I'm increasingly convinced it's accurate. Forget the gay thing: He'll also go off on immigrants and the diseases they're bringing into this country. Seriously.
I tried to reason with him. He said he was against hate crimes legislation, and I can understand that, as long as you're consistent enough to be against all hate crimes legislation. And I can understand being against civil rights laws, if you're against all civil rights laws. But he wouldn't want someone fired or otherwise ill-treated just for being Jewish. Or Indian. Or a woman. It's just OK, apparently, if it happens to gays. I told him how Cheryl and I had someone back out of a deal to sell us their house after they found out we were gay. (It ended for the best -- we got a much better house.) How does that not affect his position? How does that not even cause him some dissonance? How can he think of our sons as his grandchildren, yet not seem bothered that in most states, I'd not be allowed to adopt them? How can he not mind that Cheryl and I can legally be kept apart if one of us has an accident and ends up in the hospital?
I had been feeling guilty because I'd been somewhat out of touch with Dad of late because work has been insanely busy. The guilt has eased.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
It's been 48 hours since my last Double Gulp
I feel an odd mix of clear-headed and pained. Like my skull is pressing in on my brain, and my brain is no longer thick with Nutrasweet. (I have, however, had three 34-ounce mugs of tea.)
My treat with dinner will be some Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, a soda that's almost crushed under descriptives.
My treat with dinner will be some Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, a soda that's almost crushed under descriptives.
My name is Stephanie, and I am an addict ...
My eyes snapped open at about 7:30 a.m. (That's about a half-hour, 45 minutes earlier than usual in my Double Gulp era, though I had been getting up that early before then.) My head hurt in what, to my vague recollection, resembled the feeling of a hangover.
Am debating whether or not to have Pain Aids for breakfast. The headache is easing. Or maybe I'm just kidding myself. I'm amazed at how awake I feel. I've been increasingly exhausted, just crushingly tired of late. I thought it was all work-related (I won't bore you, but there's lots going on, and moving toward having one job not two is WAY tougher than I thought.)
Am debating whether or not to drink any more caffiene at all ever again. I'm sure I will. Probably today. Possibly within the hour. But it won't be Diet Coke. I recognize that I crossed a line. I recognize that I pretty quickly got to the point where I had to continue to drink massive quantities of Diet Coke just to feel not wrong. And I recognize that heroin addicts say the same thing (about heroin, not Diet Coke -- though I could be wrong ... apparently meth addicts loves them the Mountain Dew, so for all I know ...).
The funny thing is that I though Diet Coke was just OK. I much preferred iced tea. But a gear slipped, and in the course of a year, Diet Coke made me her bitch. But Diet Coke may have more of a bitch than she bargained for.
Am debating whether or not to have Pain Aids for breakfast. The headache is easing. Or maybe I'm just kidding myself. I'm amazed at how awake I feel. I've been increasingly exhausted, just crushingly tired of late. I thought it was all work-related (I won't bore you, but there's lots going on, and moving toward having one job not two is WAY tougher than I thought.)
Am debating whether or not to drink any more caffiene at all ever again. I'm sure I will. Probably today. Possibly within the hour. But it won't be Diet Coke. I recognize that I crossed a line. I recognize that I pretty quickly got to the point where I had to continue to drink massive quantities of Diet Coke just to feel not wrong. And I recognize that heroin addicts say the same thing (about heroin, not Diet Coke -- though I could be wrong ... apparently meth addicts loves them the Mountain Dew, so for all I know ...).
The funny thing is that I though Diet Coke was just OK. I much preferred iced tea. But a gear slipped, and in the course of a year, Diet Coke made me her bitch. But Diet Coke may have more of a bitch than she bargained for.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
My relationship with Diet Coke takes a turn ....
So, I did not start my day with a Double Gulp today. That's not to say that I skipped caffiene -- hell, I'm not crazy. I had a reasonable, 34-ounce mug of hot tea. It was a little on the tepid side, but quite satisfying.
It wasn't just that it was ice-scrapin' cold. I drink icy, gigantic Diet Cokes in the cold all the time. Or at least I have this winter. I just got sick of soda. Maybe it was the increasing number of days in which I drank the equivalent of three Double Gulps, which is the equivalent of three 2-liters, which is the equivalent of a pony keg of Out of My Fucking Mind.
My sickness eased somewhat by tonight. I had two cans of Diet Coke with Lime to accompany my dinner. It's amazing to me that some people would think two cans is not a small amount of pop. It's also amazing to me how much I miss just the process of drinking a Double Gulp.
It wasn't just that it was ice-scrapin' cold. I drink icy, gigantic Diet Cokes in the cold all the time. Or at least I have this winter. I just got sick of soda. Maybe it was the increasing number of days in which I drank the equivalent of three Double Gulps, which is the equivalent of three 2-liters, which is the equivalent of a pony keg of Out of My Fucking Mind.
My sickness eased somewhat by tonight. I had two cans of Diet Coke with Lime to accompany my dinner. It's amazing to me that some people would think two cans is not a small amount of pop. It's also amazing to me how much I miss just the process of drinking a Double Gulp.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Monday, February 13, 2006
Sometimes it just feels like there isn't enough caffiene in the world
This weekend started with a challenge: Help transport and assemble a "spring floor" of the type typically used by gymnasts and cheerleaders from one gym to another. Why? Because it was a good thing for my niece. That's all I know. Except that I am not as strong as I might like to think I am. What a spring floor is, is frickin' HEAVY. It's 60 four-foot by eight-foot pieces of plywood, each with 32 large springs attached to one side. Simple, but effective. And sliver-inducing. And shoulder-twinging and knee-tweaking. Not only am I not as strong as I might like to thing, I'm not as young as I like to think. Though I would still like to kid myself into believing I wasn't completely useless in a work party of mostly 20- and early 30-something guys. Loaded the floor into a U-Haul, then unloaded it. There was no talk of a return trip, and I did not volunteer.
Got to bed late Friday, late enough for it to be early Saturday. All I managed on that day was swimming with the boys. And going to a park. And sleeping. Went into the bedroom to "rest my eyes" and woke up a couple of hours later.
More sleeping Sunday, but also some yard work. Much remains to be done: Mowing and moss removal especially. But what does it say about the way my job is going that I found myself looking forward to doing things like laundry, cleaning water (full of dead worms) out of the boys' sandbox and vacuuming?
Wow, this is the most exciting blog post ever. I'll stop before the adrenaline rush becomes too much to bear.
Got to bed late Friday, late enough for it to be early Saturday. All I managed on that day was swimming with the boys. And going to a park. And sleeping. Went into the bedroom to "rest my eyes" and woke up a couple of hours later.
More sleeping Sunday, but also some yard work. Much remains to be done: Mowing and moss removal especially. But what does it say about the way my job is going that I found myself looking forward to doing things like laundry, cleaning water (full of dead worms) out of the boys' sandbox and vacuuming?
Wow, this is the most exciting blog post ever. I'll stop before the adrenaline rush becomes too much to bear.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The good news is, "The Wedding Singer" musical doesn't suck ...
the bad news is, it's an enjoyable but ultimately disposable trifle, melding the movie roots of "Hairspray" with the "love me, love me, love me" energy of "Mamma Mia." As Cheryl says, it substitutes cleverness for wit.
That's not necessarily a bad thing. But it made me want to see some more Sondheim.
That's not necessarily a bad thing. But it made me want to see some more Sondheim.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Dr. Piss Me Off
One thing that's not better later is a doctor. Don't get me wrong: I understand that karma has me on the hook for some waiting.
And I didn't start to get grumpy with my boy Chas' allergy doc until an HOUR after the appointment time. The guy has never been on time, and I'm not about to judge too harshly. Again, that karma thing. Today, however, I got pushed into Harshville. At the one-hour mark, I was told it would be five minutes. It was closer to 20.
And even THAT would be somewhat bearable if the doctor seemed to be fully engaged in Chas as a patient. Every time he sees him, it's like he's seeing a boy he's pretending to remember. We may switch to a doc in Seattle, which had seemed a lot less convenient than Federal Way (only 10 minutes from our house) until we realized that 45 minutes of waiting would be the best we could hope for from our current doc.
The upside is that I got to spend that time reading to and playing with my boy. And he's awesome. And a lot more talkative when his bossy boiler of a twin brother isn't around.
And I didn't start to get grumpy with my boy Chas' allergy doc until an HOUR after the appointment time. The guy has never been on time, and I'm not about to judge too harshly. Again, that karma thing. Today, however, I got pushed into Harshville. At the one-hour mark, I was told it would be five minutes. It was closer to 20.
And even THAT would be somewhat bearable if the doctor seemed to be fully engaged in Chas as a patient. Every time he sees him, it's like he's seeing a boy he's pretending to remember. We may switch to a doc in Seattle, which had seemed a lot less convenient than Federal Way (only 10 minutes from our house) until we realized that 45 minutes of waiting would be the best we could hope for from our current doc.
The upside is that I got to spend that time reading to and playing with my boy. And he's awesome. And a lot more talkative when his bossy boiler of a twin brother isn't around.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Church and football, part 2
It's a dark picture (below) but I think you can still see that it's me. With a Seahawks shirt. And that light behind me is a large stained glass window at church. So, not only did I mix church and football (never wore a team shirt, or team anything, to church before) -- I took a picture of myself during the service. I'm lucky God didn't hit me with a penalty flag.
But at least I wasn't the one who yelled "Go Hawks!" after the closing song. :)
But at least I wasn't the one who yelled "Go Hawks!" after the closing song. :)
Saturday, February 04, 2006
A very special ER
Am writing this while watching last Thursday's "er," finally. It's good, but difficult to watch. It's one of those star turns with James Woods as an academic who goes from the verge of a Nobel to near death. And his life may have just been extended for nothing. We'll see.
It's difficult for me to watch "er" sometimes. It reminds me of the time when I spent hours and hours and hours in hospitals and doctors' offices. That was when Mom was winding her way through the system, sometimes seeming better, sometimes feeling worse.
This episode is hard, with its caregiver-dying person dynamic. Though I never lived with Mom at the end. Or at all, after college. I gave her a lot, but in retrospect, I realize I was a chicken. I ran away. I ran back a lot. Sometimes a couple of times a week. But I ran away.
And then she was gone. She was only 55. And I was off to a new job after leaving the only job I ever really had -- the job where I learned my trade, met my husband and, most importantly, met my wife. I was fairly new in my house, and fairly new in living with Cheryl, though we'd been together for a while.
My brother and my father and I were then left with a family dynamic that was missing its major catalyzer and connection, for better or worse. We didn't have the thing that drove us together and apart and damn near crazy. And now, we don't see as much of each other as I would like.
I didn't call them today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Or the day before that.
Today would have been my mother's 62nd birthday.
It's difficult for me to watch "er" sometimes. It reminds me of the time when I spent hours and hours and hours in hospitals and doctors' offices. That was when Mom was winding her way through the system, sometimes seeming better, sometimes feeling worse.
This episode is hard, with its caregiver-dying person dynamic. Though I never lived with Mom at the end. Or at all, after college. I gave her a lot, but in retrospect, I realize I was a chicken. I ran away. I ran back a lot. Sometimes a couple of times a week. But I ran away.
And then she was gone. She was only 55. And I was off to a new job after leaving the only job I ever really had -- the job where I learned my trade, met my husband and, most importantly, met my wife. I was fairly new in my house, and fairly new in living with Cheryl, though we'd been together for a while.
My brother and my father and I were then left with a family dynamic that was missing its major catalyzer and connection, for better or worse. We didn't have the thing that drove us together and apart and damn near crazy. And now, we don't see as much of each other as I would like.
I didn't call them today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Or the day before that.
Today would have been my mother's 62nd birthday.
"I'm a brayf liddle boy!"
Had a fun day with the boys today (swimming, playing, a nap, a trip to the library). Which is good, since I'll have to work tomorrow. The Super Bowl. All that crap. I mean, Go Seahawks! Actually, I am very excited about the team and the game. But I'd like to watch it with a boy on my lap, not at work, freaking out about how we're going to get 26 pages sent in a minute and a half.
We started our day with Clifford the Big Red Dog at our favorite local educational toy and book store. And Thomas the Tank Engine counts as educational, apparently, so the boys spent much of their time at a train table. There are, for those who don't know, a zillion different kinds of trains, from recycling to gold mining to museum cars and engines aplenty. And I saw something I'd never seen before: Eddie said he didn't want one of the Thomas trains -- specifically, the dragon car. It's a Chinese parade float. And Eddie is afraid of it.
So, tonight, Cheryl got Eddie to watch "Thomas, Percy and the Dragon," which had him, previously, running from the room. Hence, the comment, "I'm a brayf liddle boy." He repeated it many times, and also told us that Chas is brave. Chas was, of course, not in the room while this video played. Chas feels the same about the dragon video as he does about most Thomas videos -- "I run away! I run away! Let's watch Kipper." Kipper is a kindly British dog. Very relaxing compared to the horrors of Thomas.
We started our day with Clifford the Big Red Dog at our favorite local educational toy and book store. And Thomas the Tank Engine counts as educational, apparently, so the boys spent much of their time at a train table. There are, for those who don't know, a zillion different kinds of trains, from recycling to gold mining to museum cars and engines aplenty. And I saw something I'd never seen before: Eddie said he didn't want one of the Thomas trains -- specifically, the dragon car. It's a Chinese parade float. And Eddie is afraid of it.
So, tonight, Cheryl got Eddie to watch "Thomas, Percy and the Dragon," which had him, previously, running from the room. Hence, the comment, "I'm a brayf liddle boy." He repeated it many times, and also told us that Chas is brave. Chas was, of course, not in the room while this video played. Chas feels the same about the dragon video as he does about most Thomas videos -- "I run away! I run away! Let's watch Kipper." Kipper is a kindly British dog. Very relaxing compared to the horrors of Thomas.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Seeing stars ...
What does it say about me that I was more excited to meet former Gov. Mike Lowry (see picture below) than any of the stars at the P-I Sports Star of the Year banquet? That's partly because the real stars of the banquet (Seahawks running back Shaun Alexander, Sonics super shooter Ray Allen) didn't show. Shaun had a good excuse (that Super Bowl thing). Ray, not so much.
It's your typical banquet kind of thing: A ton of tables in a big room. I had Mike Lowry on one side of me, and Cathy Soriano (the granddaughter of legendary sports writer Royal Brougham) on the other. Good times. I got to hear how Royal suffered a heart attack while covering a Seahawks game in 1984. I had heard that legend, but not the accompanying coda: While being taken out of the Kingdome, he used his waning life force to tug at an usher who was assisting him and ask, "What's the score?" Nice.
Another reason I was more excited to meet Lowry than the superjocks was because I'm increasingly careful about getting too caught up in fandom for people who are rooting against my team (aka anti-gay). And the conservative sports world is rife with those folks. And I hate to say it, but I tend to assume the worst about people who are the quickest to thank God for their success. How sad is that? I'm a regular churchgoer, but I'm scared off by most people who like to publicly declare themselves Christians. Heck, not even all Methodists want me and my family going to their church.
But when someone pleasantly surprises me, I am a fan for life. Like Kanye West, who is taking on the hip-hop world's homophobia. Not a lot of examples in sport, but I can tell you that I was reduced to a babbling tower of fandom when I met former major leaguer Billy Beane at Whistler.
It's your typical banquet kind of thing: A ton of tables in a big room. I had Mike Lowry on one side of me, and Cathy Soriano (the granddaughter of legendary sports writer Royal Brougham) on the other. Good times. I got to hear how Royal suffered a heart attack while covering a Seahawks game in 1984. I had heard that legend, but not the accompanying coda: While being taken out of the Kingdome, he used his waning life force to tug at an usher who was assisting him and ask, "What's the score?" Nice.
Another reason I was more excited to meet Lowry than the superjocks was because I'm increasingly careful about getting too caught up in fandom for people who are rooting against my team (aka anti-gay). And the conservative sports world is rife with those folks. And I hate to say it, but I tend to assume the worst about people who are the quickest to thank God for their success. How sad is that? I'm a regular churchgoer, but I'm scared off by most people who like to publicly declare themselves Christians. Heck, not even all Methodists want me and my family going to their church.
But when someone pleasantly surprises me, I am a fan for life. Like Kanye West, who is taking on the hip-hop world's homophobia. Not a lot of examples in sport, but I can tell you that I was reduced to a babbling tower of fandom when I met former major leaguer Billy Beane at Whistler.
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