Posting was a little sporadic last week, as I was back in the Midwest for a family reunion (in the town where my mom and her 11 siblings grew up, where my grandparents still live, and where I—make a fool of myself—put on a show each Thanksgiving).
I love that town. Moreover, I love my grandparents’ house in that town. Whenever I’m in a situation where I’m taken through a guided visualization (and for some reason in my life, that’s been a lot of times, quite possibly more than the average person) and I reach the part after the deep, calming, relaxing breathing, the part where they say, “Now picture yourself in a place where you feel calm and relaxed,” I always, always, always end up in my grandparents’ house. Always. I’ve tried to end up on a tropical beach, or next to a peaceful mountain lake, but I can’t ever fool myself, and end up in Wisconsin, usually on the screened-in porch, casually lazing on the porch swing.
When I was a kid we’d pack up the car and trek across the middle of America to get to Grandma and Grandpa’s. We’d usually spend a couple weeks there, riding bikes, buying 10 cent candies at the stuck-in-time variety store uptown, squishing pennies on the railroad tracks, wading in the Mississippi river, catching lightning bugs, and just being carefree kids. And while the activities have changed, somewhat, whenever we pull up the road approaching the house everything melts away and I can just be carefree.
My senses are in a heightened state whenever I’m there. I particularly notice the sounds and smells. Like the smell of Grandma’s house (each room so distinct), the smell of the river just a block away (closer if it’s flooded), the smell just before a thunderstorm rolls in, the smell of the yard (combination of the trees, the garden, the grass, and the general “Midwest” smell in the air), and funny things like the smell of Bactine, cedar closets, or Folgers coffee brewing. I have all of those smells committed to memory and if one of them ever pops up elsewhere in my life, I’m immediately transported.
I was struggling to fall asleep last night in their house. The night was very still, but anything but quiet. I crept out to the kitchen to get a glass of water, hoping not to wake anyone and I was overcome with the sounds that are so signature of Grandma and Grandpa’s place: the creak in the kitchen floor; the symphonic rhythm of the crickets, the tree frogs, and bull frogs; the murmur of trucks on the county highway off in the distance. It was the perfect early summer night, not too hot or humid, so the windows were all open letting in the concert along with the fresh air. I found myself mesmerized standing in the sun porch off the kitchen soaking it all in.
That town and that house are definitely my happy place. And while I’m happy in my place, here I lie with the windows open and the sounds of sub-woofers in the trunks of a teenage neighbors’ cars rattling my room and the musty smells of an old house having been closed up for a few days, and all I can visualize is getting back.
6.15.2008
6.13.2008
You can exhale now
[FYI: This is a post in two parts. Part one I wrote on the plane the other night and part two is from 2 minutes ago, as I was waiting to get online in my Grandparents' house]
Part I
In the event you were holding your breath, you can let it out now. No word from the first grade teacher, and I'm guessing there won't be any.
Onward, ladies. Onward.
Part II
Note to self: Start beefing up your lung capacity, because maybe you need to learn to hold your breath just a little bit longer.
HOLY CRAPOLA! I'm sitting here at my grandparents' house in small town, Wisconsin, when what do I see on my phone? A text message from a somewhat familiar number. Yes, that somewhat familiar number. The text came in last night while I was hanging out with my mom, grandma, aunt and cousin. Here's what it says:
"Thanks for message yes I like the beer idea too next week maybe"
Now, let's analyze this shall we? Overall I'd say he's an efficient man, why use four words when three will do the trick, so long as you throw sentence structure out the window. And while we're at it, forget punctuation that just slows us down right doesnt it I mean who needs punctuation its honestly just a timesuckbutreallyweshouldgetridofspacestooeverythingjustflowsbetterwtihoutspacesandpunctuationdontyouthink
Okay, I'm not going to begrudge him is text messaging grammar. The fact is he responded and responded with a counter offer to meet up for a beer. At this point I still don't know if it was a fake number or if it was an honest mistake. I'm leaning toward fake number followed by an overwhelming sense of guilt (or maybe it's fear, fear of the notetaker) of what he did. Ooh, maybe he's Catholic too. I'm also leaning toward meeting up, one, to find out and two, because I like beer.
Part I
In the event you were holding your breath, you can let it out now. No word from the first grade teacher, and I'm guessing there won't be any.
Onward, ladies. Onward.
Part II
Note to self: Start beefing up your lung capacity, because maybe you need to learn to hold your breath just a little bit longer.
HOLY CRAPOLA! I'm sitting here at my grandparents' house in small town, Wisconsin, when what do I see on my phone? A text message from a somewhat familiar number. Yes, that somewhat familiar number. The text came in last night while I was hanging out with my mom, grandma, aunt and cousin. Here's what it says:
"Thanks for message yes I like the beer idea too next week maybe"
Now, let's analyze this shall we? Overall I'd say he's an efficient man, why use four words when three will do the trick, so long as you throw sentence structure out the window. And while we're at it, forget punctuation that just slows us down right doesnt it I mean who needs punctuation its honestly just a timesuckbutreallyweshouldgetridofspacestooeverythingjustflowsbetterwtihoutspacesandpunctuationdontyouthink
Okay, I'm not going to begrudge him is text messaging grammar. The fact is he responded and responded with a counter offer to meet up for a beer. At this point I still don't know if it was a fake number or if it was an honest mistake. I'm leaning toward fake number followed by an overwhelming sense of guilt (or maybe it's fear, fear of the notetaker) of what he did. Ooh, maybe he's Catholic too. I'm also leaning toward meeting up, one, to find out and two, because I like beer.
6.09.2008
Didn't I tell you, I never quit?
First, thank you, Internets. Everyone with their kind thoughts and words--heck even my mom threatening gather up my aunts and beat the guy up--really makes a girl feel loved.
After I finished my rant-filled post the other night, I went off and wrote the DJ for the radio station a little e-mail. That one is for my dad, who always asked me what I was going to do with an English degree; well, Dad, someday I will have a blog and I'll also send very eloquent flame mails. Thank you, private education.
It just so happens that DJ has a little schtick called "Injustice Man," and if ever an injustice occurs, Injustice Man is on the case to right the wrong. Could there be any greater injustice than that which was done unto me? I took the angle that I was shocked and dismayed that this had happened so blatantly and that he needed to be held accountable (or in the event that it was an honest mistake, have a shot at that missed opportunity).
The next morning, I flipped on that radio station and heard a few people calling in and talking about their experience, which got me thinking. Rather than vilify the guy through Injustice Man, maybe I could soften the blow by calling in directly and either, a.) getting the sympathy of the early morning Seattle listening public, or b.) give him the chance to call in and clear up the mistake that I'm so hoping this was. Never one to shy away from calling radio stations, I dialed the number.
One of the on-air personalities answered, off-air, and I began to tell him my plight. He had been at the event and was shocked about the situation too (I was starting to collect people in my corner). I told him what didn't add up for me was the fact that he gave me his number and then told me to call it, right there, with him standing in front of me. Why even do that if your doling out fake digits? He agreed and then asked me his name and what fake number he gave me. I was a little suspicious that he was going to do some crazy antic on the show, but instead he told me that the number he gave me was really close to his real number (you see, in order to go to this party, you had to provide the station with a lot of information--phone number included).
Then our conversation became very serious and very hushed. I'm not going to incriminate anyone, but let's just say, I hung up the phone with the guy's actual phone number.
Dah-dah-daaaaaaaaaaah.
And I sat on that puppy all weekend.
Note to self: It's not really psycho if you are just using the resources available to you, right?
I went back and forth on what I should do. Ultimately it came down to my intent--I needed closure on this. Just writing him off wouldn't satiate my need to know if he was rude to my face, or if it was an honest mistake and opportunity is just sitting right out there.
So I called tonight; it was definitely the right number. It went to voicemail--as I suspected it would. I think I left a cute, fun, unassuming message, but if he really did give me a fake number, there was probably nothing cute or fun about me randomly popping up in his voicemail. At any rate, I'm not worried what he thinks--either he's thankful I finally called and someday we'll laugh about how I went to such lengths to track him down, or he's sitting at home soiling himself because how the heck did I do that (hello? Once a Singing Detective, always a Singing Detective!).
I've thrown it out to the universe and we'll see what comes back. Either way, I'm going to bed tonight knowing that I've done all that I can, or ever need to. I'm still holding out hope that he's a good guy, but if he's not, now I'll know definitively.
Now I can completely channel my emotional energy into good things... or maybe just finishing my kitchen.
After I finished my rant-filled post the other night, I went off and wrote the DJ for the radio station a little e-mail. That one is for my dad, who always asked me what I was going to do with an English degree; well, Dad, someday I will have a blog and I'll also send very eloquent flame mails. Thank you, private education.
It just so happens that DJ has a little schtick called "Injustice Man," and if ever an injustice occurs, Injustice Man is on the case to right the wrong. Could there be any greater injustice than that which was done unto me? I took the angle that I was shocked and dismayed that this had happened so blatantly and that he needed to be held accountable (or in the event that it was an honest mistake, have a shot at that missed opportunity).
The next morning, I flipped on that radio station and heard a few people calling in and talking about their experience, which got me thinking. Rather than vilify the guy through Injustice Man, maybe I could soften the blow by calling in directly and either, a.) getting the sympathy of the early morning Seattle listening public, or b.) give him the chance to call in and clear up the mistake that I'm so hoping this was. Never one to shy away from calling radio stations, I dialed the number.
One of the on-air personalities answered, off-air, and I began to tell him my plight. He had been at the event and was shocked about the situation too (I was starting to collect people in my corner). I told him what didn't add up for me was the fact that he gave me his number and then told me to call it, right there, with him standing in front of me. Why even do that if your doling out fake digits? He agreed and then asked me his name and what fake number he gave me. I was a little suspicious that he was going to do some crazy antic on the show, but instead he told me that the number he gave me was really close to his real number (you see, in order to go to this party, you had to provide the station with a lot of information--phone number included).
Then our conversation became very serious and very hushed. I'm not going to incriminate anyone, but let's just say, I hung up the phone with the guy's actual phone number.
Dah-dah-daaaaaaaaaaah.
And I sat on that puppy all weekend.
Note to self: It's not really psycho if you are just using the resources available to you, right?
I went back and forth on what I should do. Ultimately it came down to my intent--I needed closure on this. Just writing him off wouldn't satiate my need to know if he was rude to my face, or if it was an honest mistake and opportunity is just sitting right out there.
So I called tonight; it was definitely the right number. It went to voicemail--as I suspected it would. I think I left a cute, fun, unassuming message, but if he really did give me a fake number, there was probably nothing cute or fun about me randomly popping up in his voicemail. At any rate, I'm not worried what he thinks--either he's thankful I finally called and someday we'll laugh about how I went to such lengths to track him down, or he's sitting at home soiling himself because how the heck did I do that (hello? Once a Singing Detective, always a Singing Detective!).
I've thrown it out to the universe and we'll see what comes back. Either way, I'm going to bed tonight knowing that I've done all that I can, or ever need to. I'm still holding out hope that he's a good guy, but if he's not, now I'll know definitively.
Now I can completely channel my emotional energy into good things... or maybe just finishing my kitchen.
6.05.2008
I quit.
I do. I really do.
I am so flustered and perturbed right now. I am certainly in no state to be blogging, but I'm going to anyway.
Dating bites. And I quit.
A (married) friend of mine heard about a structured singles party being thrown by one of the local radio stations and I grabbed a few of my single girlfriends to check it out. Safety in numbers, right? We didn't go in with particularly high expectations, which was good, and admittedly I thought, well, I'm sure I'll come back with something to blog about. And boy, howdy did I.
I am really not going to bore you with the details of the majority of the event, suffice it to say that the people there were not really what we are looking for and the number of women there was exponentially higher than men.
So there we are, meeting other cool women when a guy in a blue shirt walks by. I barely catch sight of him, but I turned to a friend and said, whoever that blue shirt guy is, he's the only one I'd be interested in talking to here.
Well low and behold, 10 minutes later he is standing behind us and we are talking to him and the two women from work he came there with. After a short while, his friends leave and my friend and I are chatting him up. At this point, I don't really care which one of us leaves with his number, the goal is that one of us does because he is quite attractive, sincere--I mean he teaches first grade, swoon, right?--and probably the most eligible person there.
The time comes for us to leave. By now his friends have returned and one of them blurts out, "So which one of you is leaving with his number."
Awkward pause.
I break the silence by offering that we could give him our phone numbers and put the ball in his court, he could call or not call whomever he likes. He act like this is too much pressure and says, I'll just give you my number. So he gives it to me, has me program it in my phone, and then call it so it will be programmed in his phone. Some weirdness ensues when I call his number, but he assures me he has the number. So we leave.
In the car we get to talking about it, and my friend and I cordially exchange the" who wants to date him more" thoughts, when I look at my phone and realize he's already called. That's odd. My other friend joked that maybe he thought he didn't have my correct number and was calling to check. I decide to call him back and I get a voicemail. Of a woman. Talking about how she and her family can't answer the phone right now.
Oh no, he did not!
I hang up. That number immediately calls me back, which forces me to utter the following statements to the woman I heard on the recorded voicemailbox: "Oh, hi. Yes. Yeah, I did call you, because you see, I was at this bar, and this guy I met gave me this phone number saying it was his. Yeah, then he told me to call it right away so he'd have my number. Right. Right. It's not his number. Okay, sorry. Have a good night."
Oh yes he did.
I really truly want to believe that I programmed the number in wrong. Really I do. But there's just something weird about it all. That's just Pollyanna me, really hoping for the best in people.
But come on. You are in your 30s. You may teach first graders, but that doesn't give you the freedom to be one. If you're not that into me, just say it. That is so much easier to take than calling some woman at home and humiliating myself. Or if you're not even a little brave, just take the out I give you, take my number and don't call. Sure it's chicken, but it's so much better than making me look like a fool and seriously, seriously consider giving up dating for good. I don't have the time for this.
There's a little more to the story, but I'm too tired for that now. Plus there may be updates to come on this. Don't worry, nothing bad. Let's just say I value accountability and think punishments should fit the crimes. Let's also remember, that this event was sponsored by a well-listened to local radio station...
Note to all the men out there that think they can casually jerk women around: Think twice before messing with Little Ms. Notetaker.
I am so flustered and perturbed right now. I am certainly in no state to be blogging, but I'm going to anyway.
Dating bites. And I quit.
A (married) friend of mine heard about a structured singles party being thrown by one of the local radio stations and I grabbed a few of my single girlfriends to check it out. Safety in numbers, right? We didn't go in with particularly high expectations, which was good, and admittedly I thought, well, I'm sure I'll come back with something to blog about. And boy, howdy did I.
I am really not going to bore you with the details of the majority of the event, suffice it to say that the people there were not really what we are looking for and the number of women there was exponentially higher than men.
So there we are, meeting other cool women when a guy in a blue shirt walks by. I barely catch sight of him, but I turned to a friend and said, whoever that blue shirt guy is, he's the only one I'd be interested in talking to here.
Well low and behold, 10 minutes later he is standing behind us and we are talking to him and the two women from work he came there with. After a short while, his friends leave and my friend and I are chatting him up. At this point, I don't really care which one of us leaves with his number, the goal is that one of us does because he is quite attractive, sincere--I mean he teaches first grade, swoon, right?--and probably the most eligible person there.
The time comes for us to leave. By now his friends have returned and one of them blurts out, "So which one of you is leaving with his number."
Awkward pause.
I break the silence by offering that we could give him our phone numbers and put the ball in his court, he could call or not call whomever he likes. He act like this is too much pressure and says, I'll just give you my number. So he gives it to me, has me program it in my phone, and then call it so it will be programmed in his phone. Some weirdness ensues when I call his number, but he assures me he has the number. So we leave.
In the car we get to talking about it, and my friend and I cordially exchange the" who wants to date him more" thoughts, when I look at my phone and realize he's already called. That's odd. My other friend joked that maybe he thought he didn't have my correct number and was calling to check. I decide to call him back and I get a voicemail. Of a woman. Talking about how she and her family can't answer the phone right now.
Oh no, he did not!
I hang up. That number immediately calls me back, which forces me to utter the following statements to the woman I heard on the recorded voicemailbox: "Oh, hi. Yes. Yeah, I did call you, because you see, I was at this bar, and this guy I met gave me this phone number saying it was his. Yeah, then he told me to call it right away so he'd have my number. Right. Right. It's not his number. Okay, sorry. Have a good night."
Oh yes he did.
I really truly want to believe that I programmed the number in wrong. Really I do. But there's just something weird about it all. That's just Pollyanna me, really hoping for the best in people.
But come on. You are in your 30s. You may teach first graders, but that doesn't give you the freedom to be one. If you're not that into me, just say it. That is so much easier to take than calling some woman at home and humiliating myself. Or if you're not even a little brave, just take the out I give you, take my number and don't call. Sure it's chicken, but it's so much better than making me look like a fool and seriously, seriously consider giving up dating for good. I don't have the time for this.
There's a little more to the story, but I'm too tired for that now. Plus there may be updates to come on this. Don't worry, nothing bad. Let's just say I value accountability and think punishments should fit the crimes. Let's also remember, that this event was sponsored by a well-listened to local radio station...
Note to all the men out there that think they can casually jerk women around: Think twice before messing with Little Ms. Notetaker.
6.04.2008
Brid Flu, here!
Okay so not the bird flu, literally, but here, literally.
A sign outside of my building at work today read, “National Pandemic Planning This Way.” I found this fascinatingly funny. And I know there isn’t anything funny about pandemics, but upon first glance, I only saw, “National Pandemic... This Way.” And I couldn’t help but think: Note to self: Don’t go that way!
A sign outside of my building at work today read, “National Pandemic Planning This Way.” I found this fascinatingly funny. And I know there isn’t anything funny about pandemics, but upon first glance, I only saw, “National Pandemic... This Way.” And I couldn’t help but think: Note to self: Don’t go that way!
6.03.2008
All hail the mighty Cheeto
Oh, Cheeto, how I love thee? Let me count the ways,
You are orange and keep the scurvy at bay?
Maybe not so much, but I do love me some Cheetos. I indulged my inner-child at lunch today (don't worry, I also had an orange, too).
Winter has returned to Seattle, well at least non-summer weather has become an unwelcome visitor and it invited rain along with it. Dreary, rainy, and cold. Yuck. One plus about that weather is that it makes me yearn for comfort food--like soup. Today was the perfect soup day, and the soup du jour was split pea with ham. Split pea soup is one of my favorites and reminds me of being a kid, only we had Campbell's version, the kind that plops out of the can as a mushy form in the same shape of the can. The cafeteria serves Au Bon Pain soup, so I imagine it doesn't come out of a can with ridges molded into it.
At some point as a young kid, my mom made my brother and I split pea soup for lunch and somehow the Cheetos we had along with it that day ended up in the soup. Whether by accident or intent, Cheetos in split pea soup is fantastically yummy. And ever since that day, we'd always put Cheetos in the soup.
I was delightedly giddy with my cup of soup today as I headed back to the office, keeping my fingers crossed that the vending machine had crunchy, cheesy goodness. And it did! Au Bon Pain split pea and ham soup, classy. Me dumping Cheetos into my fancy soup, not-so-classy, but oh-so-wonderful.
Note to self: Simple indulgences can make the rainiest days sunshiney.
And no, Cheetos have no vitamin C in them, but they do have eight percent of your daily recommended intake of riboflavin! Riboflavin, people. Cheetos--putting the "flav" in riboflavin.
Thank you, Cheeto.
6.02.2008
Swedish Fish are not a good source of Vitamin C
A trip down to IKEA this weekend elicited my Pavlovian response. You see, a trip to IKEA always ends with two bags of Swedish Fish. One for me at home, and one for me in the car ride home.
This past weekend's trip had me even more excited for the treats than ever. Ever since I became kitchenless a month ago, I may be a little bit on the malnourished side. I'm trying to eat well, heck, I'm just trying to eat, but it's really hard. I've been eating out a lot--and a few friends have taken pity on me and are forcing me to eat items other than cereal, toast, hummus and chips. Let me tell you right now, carrots are pretty freaking exotic additions to the diet. So the thought of fruit flavored candy made me feel like I was doing something good.
I was joking with friends that I may end up with scurvy--I mean seriously, do people still get that. But then I actually got nervous that I may. Yes, tell me more about these things you people call "oranges"...
At any rate, I looked up the symptoms of scurvy and I'm pretty sure I'm going to live. Although, I did have some massive nosebleeds when I was back in Colorado, but I blame that on the altitude; and my gums have been a little puffy lately, but I blame that on my laziness in not flossing. And now that I think about it, I have been bruising all over the place, but I blame that on my clumsiness and having cabinets, appliances, and power tools strewn about my whole world.
Note to self: Floss and take your vitamins daily.
Have no fear, I'll ward off the scurvy starting tomorrow. But if you do happen to notice me bleeding into my muscles or if I start to complain about having loose teeth, just shower me in OJ. And after that, let's sit around and laugh about the time I almost died from a pirate's disease. But if I do die, bury me in this shirt. That would be funny and not at all inappropriate.
This past weekend's trip had me even more excited for the treats than ever. Ever since I became kitchenless a month ago, I may be a little bit on the malnourished side. I'm trying to eat well, heck, I'm just trying to eat, but it's really hard. I've been eating out a lot--and a few friends have taken pity on me and are forcing me to eat items other than cereal, toast, hummus and chips. Let me tell you right now, carrots are pretty freaking exotic additions to the diet. So the thought of fruit flavored candy made me feel like I was doing something good.
I was joking with friends that I may end up with scurvy--I mean seriously, do people still get that. But then I actually got nervous that I may. Yes, tell me more about these things you people call "oranges"...
At any rate, I looked up the symptoms of scurvy and I'm pretty sure I'm going to live. Although, I did have some massive nosebleeds when I was back in Colorado, but I blame that on the altitude; and my gums have been a little puffy lately, but I blame that on my laziness in not flossing. And now that I think about it, I have been bruising all over the place, but I blame that on my clumsiness and having cabinets, appliances, and power tools strewn about my whole world.
Note to self: Floss and take your vitamins daily.
Have no fear, I'll ward off the scurvy starting tomorrow. But if you do happen to notice me bleeding into my muscles or if I start to complain about having loose teeth, just shower me in OJ. And after that, let's sit around and laugh about the time I almost died from a pirate's disease. But if I do die, bury me in this shirt. That would be funny and not at all inappropriate.
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