This Feels ...

How to describe the feeling of blind rage mixed with hopelessness that covers me like a ton of bricks tonight.

I am so angry I could tear this house apart. 
For the first time in my life, I am unable to shake this feeling.  I can't get out of my head, I can't stop being mad. 
How do people adjust to disappointment, to loss and heartache?  True heartache, not the kind that comes with losing a high school boyfriend.  True biting heartache.  Where do people turn to recalibrate their minds and come to terms with a reality that doesn't come tied up with a pretty bow? 

The true heartache is not even mine, and I find myself unable to come to terms with it.   The blows that life throws at you can be too much.   How are we meant to cope when the unfair life takes aim at us?  How do we avoid becoming angry souls, or drowning ourselves in alcohol, or sinking into depression? 

Many will say religion.  But that feels wrong for me.  Like turning to a religion that I have pushed away my entire life would be a hypocrisy.  Like it would be the easy way to gloss over what may just be the way of this world.  To apply palatable answers to incomprehensible questions.  For some, for many, religion is the right answer.  For me, it feels like an answer I can't turn to.  So what is left?  A lifetime of waiting for the anger to turn to sadness and the sadness to dissipate into a dull ache that will last forever?  A lifetime resigned to wandering around believing in nothing and no one and waiting for the bottom to drop out of my life - unsure of how I will handle it and how I will stop myself from sinking into a pit of anger that can't be escaped?   A lifetime of focusing only on ensuring my own future survival, because I am so afraid of what will happen if any tiny thing goes wrong?

What kind of life is that?   At every turn, it seems I see a sign pointing me in the direction of a church that I have avoided for over 30 years.  I don't know if it's because something inside me is yearning for something more, or because I am desperate for some relief to the pain I am feeling and I believe that pouring myself into some sort of church will give me a false sense of security.   I want a third option - something that doesn't involve a church I don't believe in or a lifetime of rootless existence. 

I want a happy ending.  I want hope and a miracle and good news for the ones I love.   I want to believe in Heaven.  I want to believe that good things will happen to good people.

People We "Used" To Know?

So I'm listening to Gotye's Somebody That I Used to Know, which I love.  This song just speaks to me.  But there's a reason that it speaks to me, presumably because it's about some unhappy relationship that has ended abruptly.    All of us have had one of those, it's not like I'm special in that regard. 

But then I got to thinking about it, and I'm trying to decide if I consider the two serious boyfriends I've had in my life as merely people I used to know.  As many angry feelings I harbor towards them and myself following our relationships, I do firmly believe I wouldn't be the person I am today without them.  So how can they be reduced to people I just used to know?  But to give them any more significance feels a bit traiterous to my current happy self, who had to endure years and years of mind fucking torture just to come out on the other side half put together and in need of serious therapy.
As I write this, the song is playing in the background.  And perhaps what is truest about the song is that although the words go on and on about the exes basically cutting each other off and not needing each other anymore, the emotions behind the words tell a different story.  There is pain and regret and longing.  And I think those are the truer feelings, masked by apathy and anger. 

I don't think relationships like that can be downplayed as just acquaintenances.  There is too much history and emotion and time put into them.  Entire years of lives go into trying to make them work.  Friendships are lost, professions are put to the side, lifelong dreams are stalled ... all in favor of trying to make some relationship work.  But that person - there was a reason why you let that happen.  There was a reason you allowed yourself to neglect one person over another.  There was a reason you thought it was okay to put more time into another person than yourself.   You loved that person.  If love can be reduced to just something you once had with someone you used to know, we are all just sort of shells aren't we? 

I don't have any particular desire to see either of these two men again, or talk to them, or be friends with them on Facebook.  Neither of them were very nice to me in the end and my pride prohibits me from publicly admitting that even a tiny part of me still has any sort of positive feelings toward either of them.   But that also has a lot to do with the fact that I acknowledge just how important they were to me once.  I could never honestly tell my husband that one of them was just somebody I used to know.    So it isn't that I don't care because they're just random people to me, it's that I don't want to care.  Because what I have going on now is so way better than what I ever had going on with them, that it's not worth it to me to re-open that window. 

So even though I still love the song, I see it as a sort of admission that these sort of people could never be someone you just knew once.  This song is the story of a person, or two people perhaps, who are desperately trying to convince themselves that they can minimize their relationships to the point where they never really mattered in the first place.

What Life Makes You

Too often, I go through life believing that the personalities and idiosyncracies of the people I meet are simply the way those people are and always have been.   I forget that we change and evolve into an ultimate person who emerges at the end of our life = the culmination of all the experiences we have endured, suffered, and enjoyed over the years. But this, of course, is what happens.

Life can be a great big pile of steaming dog shit - just sayin' - and thus begins the unfair and repeated beatdown we are all destined to endure throughout our lives.   We start out happy and naive, looking forward to a fair and equitable distribution of happiness and fortune that will befall us throughout the expanse of our reasonably long lives.  We expect that good things will happen to us as long as we are good.  We treat others as we would like to be treated.  We love our family and are faithful to our partners.  In short, we expect that if we work hard and act nice we will be favored.  But who will favor us?   There is no one there to save us.  It is only the individual ... the individual who is in control of nothing... as it turns out.

And so our lives take twists and turns that are unexpected and unseemly.  Great big gaping holes in the road present themselves as obstacles that we can't imagine clearing.  Life throws fire bombs and poison arrows at us.  Life is out to get us. 

Surely this is how we must all feel at points.  But we must remember to perservere.  For every bullshit block in the road, there are two rest stops with your name on them serving free hugs and happiness.   I have never been a particularly faithful person.  But I believe in life.  I believe in waiting for the good parts, and there are always good parts.  Within the shadow of a horrific nightmare, there is a sparkle that shines for you - and that sparkle, as long as you wait for it, will grow into a firework - a splendid display of all the good in your life, of all the good you have been waiting for.  Things really do get better.   It WILL get better.  It MUST get better. 

Allow your life to take the path it will.  Find out what your life will make of you.  And remember that you can't make a cake without the right ingredients - all that life will make of you is composed of parts you already have.  You will be, you already are ...  Strong.  Resilient.  Worthy. 

A Club I Can't Join

In grade school, I joined the Girl Scouts and that is how I made friends and met people.
In middle school, I joined the swim team and made friends.
In high school, I did field hockey and cheerleading.  And parties.
In college, I joined a sorority.
After college, I got a job and joined committees.

My entire life, I have been joining groups of people to be a part of something bigger.  Where there is a group of people who share a common interest, I want to be in it.  I want to meet people and forge bonds based on common interests, and this is what I have been doing all my life.  And yet there is one club I cannot join. 

All around me I am surrounded by women having babies and creating little groups of their own based on all the babies they are having and all the shared experiences this affords them.  And 99% of the time I am unbothered by this.  Because while they have their Mommy Club, I have my I Can Go Out And Party Whenever I Want Club, and my Shop All Day Saturday and Never Once Have to Change a Poopy Diaper Club.  And so most of the time I am not put out by the fact that I am not part of the Mommy Club because most of the time I don't want to be part of the Mommy Club. 

But then I go home and sit down with my mom and grandmother and two sisters in law and they are, of course, all Mommies.  And so they talk about Mommy things.  And this, also, is okay with me.  Of course they should.  And some of it is interesting, like when they are talking about my niece or nephew or a cousin's child or something that is not inherently beyond my realm of understanding like diaper rash or something.  Of course some of it is not interesting, and you know - this is okay too.  I'm sure they don't find my incessant chatter about work interesting all the time either.  That's what families and friends do for each other. 

But then photos get taken and stories get told and re-told, and I wonder how many photos are out there being shared among the Mommies that I never even get to see because I am just not part of the club.  And this goes for all my Mommy Friends too.  And how many stories I don't here because I'm not a Mommy and so by default I don't have the weekly phone calls about morning sickness and doctors appointments and nursery colors.  What baby showers am I not even invited to because not only am I a hundred states away but I am also not a parent? 

Of course, it's just like a non-parent to get all selfish about this and take it personally and make it about herself.  I get that.  If I were capable of putting myself out of the equation to see what's really important about the wonders of procreation, I probably would have had a child by now.  That's probably what plenty of parents would think if they read this.    But I'm like a billion miles away and I see my niece like twice a year and I miss her.  And I miss my brothers and my sisters in law and my parents and I'm jealous - I really am - that my two sisters in law are at this very moment having pregnancy moments together all over the place and adding these adorable little munchkins to the family that my parents can swoon all over and  I'm just this selfish DINK in Texas who doesn't have anything to contribute to the conversation other than what I did this weekend and how work is going.      And I know they don't feel this way at all - of course they don't.  But I do.  And I don't want to have a baby really, or at least I don't think I do, but this family is growing away from me with every day that passes and I can't do anything about it.    Because there is no club that I can join here that will get me any closer to them.  Not even the Mommy Club.

Do You Know This Feeling

There is a branch of my family tree that has always entranced me, like they have some special secret or grip on a fascinating piece of history that no one else has.  But they do not.  I can't pinpoint what it is about this family, but they - to me - are like the Kennedys.  They are a mystical group of people who had, over the years, gained some sort of celebrity status in my mind.    

And yet, I ran into some of them this weekend and found, not surprisingly, that they are just like any of the rest of us. Their story is no more or less fascinating than any of ours.   They are happy and sad and joyful and hopeful and heartbroken, just as I am and just like you, reader, are. 
 
So, I'm not sure what intirgued me so about this particular family all those years ago.  They stood out like a blonde woman in a room full of brunettes.  Despite being maybe only 5 or 10 at any one time, it always seemed like there were hundreds of them.  They took over a room. Perhaps because they seemed to move so fluidly and consistently as one group, it was hard to separate them from their larger unit and, therefore, hard to see them as fallible creatures with weaknesses just like everyone else. 

Now I see in them the same sort of steadfast loyalty that my own family has for each other and I am grateful for it.  Grateful that they have it, because no matter how mysterious this family is to me - they are family and I want for them the best.  Grateful that I have it, that my parents and brothers and aunts and their families have it. 

Perhaps that is what makes any family seem larger than life - because in the end the one unit you create is actually larger than all the lives that make it.  And within that safe haven, you can truly be yourself and be accepted and safe and open.  And that is what makes family so very very special. 

Pop Pop

My grandfather's name was John but everyone called him Jack.  So much so that all these years later, I couldn't be sure whether his given name was John or Jack, and I sometimes would address one letter to John and then another later a few months later to Jack.  A granddaughter should know her Pop Pop's first name without question, but more importantly, a granddaughter should know her Pop Pop.  And even if I couldn't be sure of the name on his birth certificate, because he was so familiar to us that it never occurred to wonder, I could be sure of something else.  He was a good man.  A loving and kind man.  The funniest man I have ever known. 

Raised in a house where discipline and order were of the utmost importance, my grandfather harbored a work ethic that masked an intense love for art.  While he chose to join the Marine Corps and later become a brick layer to provide for his family, he never let go of his creativity and allowed it to flourish both in and outside his career.  His talent was so great that he could seamlessly weave it into any project he was working on - whether it was incorporating a cross and an ornate walkway in the house he built with his own two hands, or creating a mural of a firefighter holding a child out of bricks in a local fire station. 

Art was his passion, but his family was his life.   John and Alice Kyle were fiercely committed to one another through good times and bad.  They raised three beautiful daughters who would one day grow into loving and successful adults who cared so much for their parents that they would sacrifice so much just to ensure their comfort and dignity at the end of their lives. 

My grandfather was funny.  Ask anyone who knew him and the resounding memory of him would undoubtedly be that he was funny.   He would put on Flip Wilson records for us to listen and laugh at.  He would tell jokes and dance and wear goofy costumes.   No visitor at Jack's house could feel anything but jovial.     Until his last days, you couldn't visit him without being told some joke.  His wit was so quick that you could visit a hundred times and not hear the same wise cracks, because he could pull them out of the thin area right in front of him without even having to think.  He never relied on the easy jokes, or the tried and true jokes.  He could take any conversation and make it funny.  It was his gift - to make any person comfortable and happy without having to even leave his chair.   Despite being a notorious home-body, I have always envied him his ability to put those around him at ease and be the life of the party, no matter what.

Yes, the life of the party.  That was my grandfather, and my grandmother really.  They were the sort of couple that you just want to be around.  They had fun - an immense amount of fun.  Every occasion felt special, if just because it was always a good time around them.  Everything felt like a party. 

I remember chips and dip on the table, grapefruits for breakfast, candy canes hanging from every branch of the Christmas tree.  I remember Vermouth in glasses and a porch that seemed always to be full of people.  A closet full of Barbie dolls on one side of the house, and priceless antique china just steps away.  A cupboard of board games, and a drawer overflowing with playing cards.  I remember beds made of blankets on the floor for the kids, and playing bocce ball in the backyard.  A classic car in the garage, and a game of handball in the driveway.  A pool under the shade tree and trivia in the living room.  A foundtain in the backyard, in front of which I often dreamt of getting married.  A house so full of memories that it's hard to focus when you're there sometimes, for all the gazing around. 

Oh my dear Pop Pop and Grammy - you had three daughters and five grandchildren and six great grandchildren.  Your daughters love you with a fierce loyalty and your grandkids admire the honorable and spirited way you lived your lives.  You created a world that was safe and sturdy and just, and encircled your loved ones in the goodness of your spirit.  You will never be forgotten.  For every time we see each other, we will see the house that you built standing firm and strong - a family that has withstood loss and heartache with devotion and loyalty and most importantly, the legacy of your love.

Skeptical....

Alright so here goes.  This is not going to be a popular opinion and I am all for that.  But I am getting so fed up with everyone running about touting energy efficiency, like just because some overzealous builder claims that a certain amount of reduction has been achieved it means it really happened.  Where is the proof?    Many taxpayers pay an exorbitant amount of money that eventually goes toward constructing public buildings that are allegedly energy efficient.  I have earned the LEED AP in Building Design and Construction credential, therefore I know a little bit about the subject of energy efficiency, though it certainly doesn't make me an expert.  Not by a long shot.  But I learned some things.  The most important, so far, being that anyone can run around saying that energy reduction is going to be X percent.  Until you force them to prove it, how will you know if it ever really happened?  What abotu plug loads?  What about human behavior ?    Damn, now my backsapce key is brken again.  Dm Damn Damn.

Anyway, I"m just tired of seeing all these new, supplsedly energy efficient buildigns being built, while the old skeletons of their former selves sit abaondoned on overwgrown and dneglected lots.  Owners are not held accountalbe for what happens to their former homes and towns become overrun with empty boxes.  So you reduced energy use by maybe 20%$, if you're lucky, but now you have towns being taken over by cinder block gardens that will never be anyhthing but places for skaters to hang out.  It's sickening.  And we're all paying for it out the nose.    If we're going to foxcus so much on building new and gbetter prerforming buildings, we should make corporations and cities and states and everyone find a way to responsibily address their current land leases and owenerships and suhch before moving on.  I really can't setand to see all these vaacant building popping up everywhere, bparticularly in downtaown areas that could be so vibrant if giventh the chance. 

Sorry for all the typos.  Not only am I worked up but my backspace key is again askew. 

The Special Thing about Simple Things

For no particulatr reason today, after a dinner of cereal due to a lunch of french fries, Adam suggested that he would take me to get frozen yogurt if I wanted to go.
Which of course I did.  Only a fool would turn down a trip to get frozen yogurt on a random Wednesday night. 
I love my husband - only he has the ability to make going to get frozen yogurt - a really simple little routine thing - seem special and  romantic.
What I feel like is sometimes missing from this life is an appreciation for little tiny moments like that.  In a wordl where we have access to whatever we want pretty much whenever we want, going tog et frozen yogurt is really no big deal.  It's not like we couldn't have gone   six times today if we wanted to.  But the fact that my husband - a practical no-nonsense knda guy at heart - decided on his own that he wanted to talke me out for it, that's what was special. 
I guess the point of this story is that in our culture of selfishness and instant gratification, it's sometimes nice to get a little thrill about the simplie things.  It's what is special about someone handing you a hanful of daisies picked from the backyard, or a miniature chocolate bar from the office candy jar.  It's just the idea that someone besides yourself was thinking about you and what might make you happy.  NOw, what is even more imporotant is to remember to return the favor!

Side note: the reason that this post is littlered with typods is because my backspace key is broken and Im' being lazy     So now you all know that my exceptionally fast typing skills comes with some serious typo problems.  70% of thoes key sounds when I'm typicng are the backspace key!  :-)

Some Things are True... Others are Not

This is True:

No matter how many years pass and miles separate you, when your childhood best friend delivers her first-born child, your first instinct is to run to be at her side

This is Not True:

Canned green beans are just as good as the fresh kind

This is True:

No matter how certain you are that you know the correct date, it is impossible not to worry that you have missed your mother's birthday

This is Not True:

There is a good time on a Sunday to go grocery shopping.

There Was a Time When...

There was a time when...

I was terrified to disappoint my father
I thought I was as grown-up as my mother
I tried to be as rebellious as my brother

There was a time when..

I wanted to grow up to be like my Aunt Barbie
I wanted to smell like my neighbor Mrs. Smith's freshly laundered towels
I wanted to look like Ashley McCabe

There was a time when..

I looked out of place everywhere I went
I wore myself like I was just trying to be someone else
I looked like I hadn't slept in weeks and weeks - and it was rarely worth it

Now....

I realize I could never disappoint my father
I know I'll never be as grown up as my mother
I wish I had rebelled as much as my brother - it would have been such fun

Now...

I still want to be as cool as my Aunt Barbie
I still search for that laundry detergent
Who I look like is no longer relevant

Now...

I am out of place sometimes.  It's exciting.
I wear what I like and it feels like me.
I sometimes look like I haven't slept in weeks - and it's always worth it

Now...

I am me.

There will be a time when your self feels wrong, out of place, desperate to be ... other than.
That feeling will pass and, someday, will be replaced by ...  Happiness.  Acceptance.  Selfness.
Wait for it.

Friend (v.)

Well I just wrote this super-sappy blog about how grateful I am for all the people in my life and all that.  And then I deleted it because it sounded like a really really long greeting card.  And I'm not int he business of greeting cards.  Although perhaps lately I sort of have been - I do sort of feel like this blog has become my place to write about how thankful I am - like my own personal digital Thanksgiving all year long.  I could probably make a lot of money for Hallmark.

But after I deleted the post, I still felt like I wanted to make a point.  And so here it is.  The other day I had this revelation that the word friend should really be more of a verb than a noun.  Like, Facebook sort of has it right.  People really do friend people.    Especially the good people.   

Now, I am tempted to go on this very long dialogue about all the awesome people I know who have friended me and my husband over the past few years.  But I won't do that, because I have had two glasses of wine.    Just remember to friend your friends.   That's about it.

A Message to the Younger Generation

This is a message that I wish I could write now and send back to myself circa 2000 - a year that was both wonderful and horrible for me, a year about which I feel both regretful and reminiscient. 

Occasionally something happens that makes me close my eyes and sigh with the deep appreciation for my life as it is at this very moment in time.  Today I had one of those moments, which happen more and more often lately.  And today when it happened I realized that I feel remorseful about the way I treated myself in my early 20s and how unhappy I really was.   I blame myself.  And I don't necessarily think that hindsight would make a difference, because when you're 20 your decision-making abilities are severely compromised by all sorts of factors, not the least of which is probably the copious amount of alcohol you are most likely consuming.    But if I could send myself a letter (actually I would probably send a letter once a year until approximately 2007 - so, more to come...) - this is the first one I would send.

**

A few months ago my aunt contacted me to suggest she come visit and of course I said yes.  And then I mentioned it to my husband who actually was excited and is looking forward to it.  Which is no surprise to me, of course, since she's awesome.  This is simply a preface to a story in which I reflect on what complete douchebags I used to spend time with. 

This very same Aunt one time took me and several other family members out to dinner at a restaurant at which my boyfriend at the time waited tables.  She chose the restaurant on purpose and requested a table in his section on purpose.  I can't recall exactly but I imagine it was because I couldn't get him to come to any family related events so we figured we'd take the family to him.  And while we were at it we'd give him some business.  So anyway we went and had this elaborate dinner at his restaurant, and she paid the bill.   And I would never ever question her generosity when it came to the tip, not that I would ever have considered it my business or even thought about it.   Until, later that night when I got a phone call from what I can only define as my parody of a boyfriend basically yelling at me about how he had expected more of a tip based on our personal relationship. 

I really needn't go any further.  Any self-respecting girl would have hung up and went on about her life with complete certainty that she was better off without such a total jerk.  For reasons completely outside my realm of understanding, I continued to date this guy.  I was mad, dont' get me wrong.  I never apologized for the situation because I knew he was being a complete psycho.  And yet, even knowing that 100% complete truth, I continued to date him for quite some time afterwards.  And I paid for my stupidity 800 times over.  Obviously a guy with enough gall to punish his girlfriend for not getting a big enough tip from her family will cheat on her without giving it a second thought.  And then actually try to convince her after the fact that he wouldn't have done it if she wouldn't have graduated college a year before him and moved away.  And then suggest that the situation could ultimately bring them closer together.  Oh yeah. 

Oh and by the way, did I mention that in college I once helped write an entire paper for this lunatic, on a subject about which I had zero knowledge, and when he didn't get an A he was mad at me!  Yeah!  I dated this guy!  For a really long time!

So anyway, the moral of this story is that I made some seriously bad choices.  And I made myself miserable for many years, during a time of life that was supposed to be fun and free.  I suppose that my reward for all that sadness, anger, and frustration is that I was finally able to find clarity and focus, and then meet a nice guy with the true capacity to love and be loved.  And for his presence in my life, and for the life we have together, I am eternally grateful. 

A lot of people, when recalling their past decisions, say they wouldn't change a thing because their actions made them who they are today.  But I have a cousin who is right now in college, the same age I was when I was in the throes of this toxic relationship.  And if I were to tell her the details of my early 20s and she were to ask me what I would do if I could go back, I would tell her that I WOULD change some things.  I would focus more on my friends and my classes.   I would spend more time doing things I wanted to do for myself and less on trying to do things that I thought some guy wanted me to do.  I would party just as much, but not with a boyfriend in mind.   I would NOT have started smoking.   I would appreciate every second of how beautiful and young and carefree I was and stop worrying about whether or not I was going to make anyone jealous by being confident and happy.    I didn't enjoy my early 20s the way I should have, because I was too insecure and that stopped me from doing what I really wanted to do.  And, looking back - I had nothing to be insecure about! 

And that is my message to my dear cousin - not that she needs it, not that she asked for it -  and to the rest of the late teens and 20-something women out there, and to myself back then, and to my friends back then ...  YOU HAVE NOTHING TO BE INSECURE ABOUT.  And if anyone makes you feel like you do, get rid of them.  As the saying goes - "Be Yourself and Say What You Think, because the People who Mind Don't Matter and the People who Matter Won't Mind."    One day you will wake up, you will be 32 years old.  You will look a little older and a little softer than you did in your early 20s.   You may have a job or a child or a husband; you will definitely have responsibilities and a path that has taken on a life of its own.  Gone will be the days where backpacking across the world is a viable option; perhaps even the days where you feel comfortable wearing a bikini in public will be gone.  And you will wonder to yourself if you appreciated your early adulthood and all the sheer possibilities that came with it as much as possible; you will wonder if you treated your body and soul the way it deserved to be treated.  And I sincerely hope that your answer to yourself will be that YES, you did.

The Latest in a Long Line of People Being Assholes.

So I am at the end of my rope, and Adam is close.    Why can't people, normal people who have jobs and homes and raise families and do grocery shopping, just learn to live amongst OTHER PEOPLE WITHOUT BEING TOTAL EFFING ASSHOLES? 

Earlier this week a co-worker was verbally attacked at a meeting and almost no one even raised an eyebrow.  It was all I could do not to jump across the table, sliding vaseline across my lips and pulling my hair into a ponytail on the way there (a la Jess Savidge outside of The Rat one night in college).  (Not really!)
More shocking, to me, than the fact that said attacker couldn't just keep their big yapper shut and NOT insult someone was the fact that it appeared to be completely acceptable to the 15 other people in the room.  This is not to say that person didn't get a talking to later on, but I seriously doubt it.  This was followed by several bouts of "interrupt-itis" as I like to call it, where one person tries to get a point across and is quickly cut off and talked over by someone else in the room.  The original talker practically has to beg to be allowed to complete her sentence.  It happens all the time and, as I said at the beginning of this post, I am coming to the end of my rope.   MAYBE I work in the rudest workplace ever, but I don't think so.  I think this is just status quo, and that makes me sad.

So Adam and I manage to get through the week without having our spirits totally crushed; then we come home for the weekend and believe that we are safe in our haven of polite behavior and happiness.  Anyone who knows me and Adam knows we live a peaceful and quiet existence.  We get along with people.  We go out of our way to help our elderly neighbor.  Early today I chaesd down her nasty little dog who had gotten out of her yard, almost got bit like three times, and still managed to get that mutt back home in one piece without kicking it.  We are nice people.   We believe that being nice to other people will result in the sort of reciprocative behavior that we would like, in other words we expect that those around us will be nice to us as well. 

Earlier this year Adam and a few other guys in the neighborhood spent a solid 48 hours on a weekend replacing a water line in our neighborhood.  The line goes through our yard and crosses the street.  There are two valve boxes, one in the middle of our yard and one by the street.  The one in the middle of the yard goes to our house.  The one by the street goes to everyone else's house.  People drive dangerously close to that one.  We sent a letter explaining the problem.  That didn't help.   So for awhile we had a PVC pipe marking it.  "Someone" stole it.  So we put a paint bucket by it.  Today I was planting tomato plants (different story) and our neighbor drove up, stopped by the bucket, sat there a minute, then drove up and stopped by the drive way and got out of her car to approach me.  She demanded if we were going to move the valve.  I said I didn't know.  She said the "buckets and pipes" are a nuisance.  I sent her to Adam.  She proceeded to yell at Adam about where our property boundary ends.   She insisted the actual road goes through our yard.  Fine, he said.  Have the county come out and re-do the road.  She didn't like that option, almost certainly because it would require some sort of effort on her part, without any bit of instant gratification.  Anyway, the point of this post is that she came up in MY YARD and tried to bully us into God knows what - I'm not sure what she thought she was going to accomplish.   It's not like we were going to say okay, great, just drive through our yard wherever you believe the actual road is supposed to be.  Like any normal person, we're perfectly willing to have a conversation.  But this is the first time anyone has even approached us about how we have our yard laid out, yet apparently it was cause for combativeness.  I just don't understand it.   

I have to admit that I am so GOSH DARN tired of people thinking they can just come around and bitch and yell and just in general be jerks.  This is not normal behavior!  And it makes me mad because Adam tries so hard to be a nice guy.  Later today, I told him to move that damn bucket.  People can drive over the valve all day long and when the water line breaks no one else in the neighborhood will have water.  They were warned to drive carefully.  I know, because we sent a letter.  Well he couldn't do it.  Because he was worried about everyone not having water.  Because he is a NICE PERSON, not an ASSHOLE.  

When do nice people become crotchety old people?  At what age does the crushing reality of the world finally sink into the hearts of the good people and blacken their souls?   Each and every day I feel less like being a nice person and more like being a bitch.   With each trip to the grocery store, to Home Depot, to the mall - I feel a deeper urge to let a door close in another person's face or to bypass a tipped over potted plant without righting it.   I am about one person cutting me off on the highway away from never using my blinker ever again.

The moral of this story: Almost everyone has a neighbor. If you are reading this, try to think of your neighbors as your partners in property ownership.   They can help you!  You just have to be a nice person!!

Buying America: Hair Fail

On Sunday I went to HEB and browsed through the hair product aisle and, without even thinking, picked up a hair curler and put it in my basket.  Then I went about the rest of my shopping being very diligent about choosing only American-made items.  I put nail polish back because it wasn't made in America (really, we can't make our own NAIL POLISH?).  I picked out the horrifically ugly air freshener instead of the pretty ones because the ugly one was the only one made in America... of course.
I chose American strawberries, and so on and so forth.  You all already know the deal with the food. 
It was not until I got home and unpacked that I realized I had bought a Chinese-made hair curler. 
Part of the problem was I was moving really slowly on Sunday because my friends made me go to this rock concert and do Irish Car Bombs on Saturday night, even though I really insisted on not being a part of their bad decision-making.
However, I suspect there is more to it.  You see, I have wanted to try that hair curler for quite some time.  It's the one that has three barrels and is supposed to wave your hair instead of curl it.  Probably I subconsciously chose to avoid checking to see if it was made in America, which any of us would have not even needed to do really.   Obviously anything with a cord is made in China.
The worst part is that it is a horrible instrument!  I tried it out (probably should have returned it?) - and I looked like a bad 80s movie!  It didn't curl my hair, it crimped it!  So that is what I get I guess. 

Also if anyone wants a Chinese-made hair-waver/crimper/torture instrument, I have one available for free.    If not, I plan to use it once a year on Halloween.

Philosophical Question - if I buy an Irish Car Bomb at a bar in America - does it count as buying American-made or not?

I'm Going Back To College and I'm Taking My Friends with Me

Yes folks, this Saturday I am going to be in college again.  I am going to put strangely colored streaks in my hair, wear inappropriately tight and short clothing, and drink my face off while listening to music too loud and dancing too late into the night. 
I might wear fishnet stockings and basement boots (those boots that you cared just little enough about that you didn't mind wearing them in 2 inches worth of spilled beer and grime). 
I'll probably scream in my friends' ears and sing off-key; I'll definitely eat unhealthy food and fall victim to a very *un*healthy dose of secondhand smoke.
With any luck, my husband and friends will be just as depraved as I plan on being.  I'm pretty sure they'll play along.
The best part is, come Sunday we won't need to do any homework because we are going to wake up adults, wash the fake dye out of our hair (hopefully), and drive home from Houston - probably hungover - after seeing Flogging Molly at the House of Blues Saturday night.  
I'm not sure I'll get anyone else to do the green streaks in the hair, seeing as they all have much more important and serious jobs than I do, but I'm pretty sure I won't be alone in the rest of it. 

Here is how I know I've grown up and passed the point of no return - I just spent a few hours searching the internet for two things:

1.) A restaurant to have dinner beforehand
2.) A museum we might want to visit while we are there because the King Tut exhibit is in town

The restaurant part isn't so bad - I mean we all need to eat and we want to find a good deal for pre-gaming.  This is no real departure from the good old days of slamming a bunch of beers at home before hitting the bar so that we could spend less on overpriced bartended booze. 
 The museum I'm not ashamed of - there's no harm in looking for some culture when you go to a big city like Houston.  It's just proof that the party isn't the sole purpose of the weekend anymore - and it's always a little alarming when you get slapped in the face with that realization out of nowhere, when you genuinely thought you were planning a weekend centered around nothing more than fitting in with a bunch of Irish punk rockers. 

Old Eggs

Yes, it is about what you think..

Speaking of inappropriate behavior at work -

The most inappropriate thing anyone has ever said to me at work has got to be this:

I was having a conversation with a colleague who regularly peppered me with questions about why I didn't pursue law school after majoring in English "because that's what English majors do".  And I regularly explained that I wasn't interested in law school and that there are lots of other things for English majors to do - like work.   Clearly I was able to wrangle myself a job, so it's not like law school is the only option.  And I actually got the impression he would have felt more comfortable with me if I was in school instead of in a career, perhaps because I am a woman but more likely because I have only an English degree and therefore must need more education. 

Surprisngly, that was just a lead-in and not the actual story.

What was inappopriate was when my colleague informed me that I was getting old and, therefore, so were my eggs and if I was planning on having kids I better do it soon.

I almost don't even need to say anything more, right?

Leggo My Ego

I've been lucky so far in life, in that I haven't had a whole lot of exposure to the sort of grimy and inapproriate sleazebags that are the bane of so many working women's existences.  (And men's too, perhaps.)
A conversation I had today reminded me of this and I got to thinking about what sort of inappropriate behavior I have endured, and just how bad it was compared to the sort of unbelievable scumbaggery that apparently actually happens out there.  To real people.
I haven't experienced anything in the way of sexual harrassment.  Nor have I been exposed to anger or hostility in the workplace, or a feeling of discomfort that I would feel strongly enough to report.  I guess I've been pretty lucky. 
What I have experienced is a general sort of inappropriateness that I am not even sure how to categorize.  For example, about a year ago, I announced that I was taking a new job within my organization and would be vacating my current position.  When asked, by a certain colleague, why I had made that choice, I explained that I wanted to do more for the organization and thought I would be better positioned to accomplish that via the new role.  The response I got?  "Wow, what an ego on you!"  I was sort of taken-aback.  The sort of taken-aback that is not sure how to respond and so, in the absence of the biting comeback you wish for, you stand mute trying to figure out what is the best way to handle the situation.  I think I stammered something about not having an ego and that wanting to do more for your organization doesn't count as having an oversized ego, but I'm sure it came out more like this:  "Um, well, uh, I don't really think... uh"  So it's kind of like I didn't say anything at all.

So here is the real issue.  Is it a bad thing to have a big ego?   If ego means the opinion you have of yourself and your self-importance, is it wrong to have a big one? 
The most assholey people I know are the ones who have low self-esteem, because they feel like they have to compensate for their shortcomings by being "toppers" and throwing everyone else under the bus all the time to make themselves look better.  The self-confident ones are the ones who don't mind giving other people the credit and pursuing the greater good rather than self-gain.  If that is the side effect of having a big ego - than I say serve me up another platter of self-importance.   What is so wrong with wanting to find a place for yourself where you feel like you're doing some good rather than just sitting around waiting for someone to give you work?  So I felt under utilized... I could have either sat around for the next 30 years being under utilized and taking full advantage of it, or I could admit that I can do more and actively seek out a place for myself where more would be asked of me.  In what fucked up universe is the former the preferable option just because having a "big ego" might get me a place at the unpopular table? 


 

Garbage Fairy? Nosy Neighbor? Good Samaritan???

Alright so today was garbage day.  Which means we take our great big green garbage thing (oh my god, am I going brain dead? -- it took me forever to think of the word "can"!) and roll it to the end of the driveway, and then when we get home in the afternoon it has been emptied and then left pretty much in the middle of the street.  This is just what happens.  Every single Wednesday. 
Now, for those of you who haven't been to my house - some background.

1.) When Jeff Foxworthy said "If when giving directions to your house, you have to say 'turn off the paved road', you might be a redneck" - he was talking about my house.   I live in a 'horseshoe' type neighborhood, on a semi-compacted gravel road with lots of potholes and no real set width.  It's no street.  More like a trail.

2.) My house is the first one on my road, which means my six or so neighbors who share that part of the road with us always have to drive by my house.   My neighbors across the street have planted great big wavy green plants that started out pretty and are now not much more than a nuisance because they're growing into the road and forcing most people to drive pretty much through our grass to get down the road.   I hate those plants.

3.) So... on trash day - the garbagemen just drop our trash can in the middle of the road and I love it.  It makes people slow down and drive around it and it inconveniences everyone, including myself, and I love it and hope they keep doing it.  This is because I'm a mean person but also because people tend to drive like 40 mph down this gravel road.  And little kids play on this road all the time, and my house is on a bend where, because of the obnoxious green road blockers (plants), you can't see what is coming at you.  Not even great big speeding white trucks.  And apparently, being the only person on the road that does not have kids qualifies me to also be the only person on the road who cares about their safety.   So on trash day I like to see all the drivers on my road have to slow down and purposefully drive around my annoying trash can.    I wish every day was garbage day.

So today, Adam and I come home and normally we would have to drive around the trash can and take a very sharp turn to then get into our driveway and have a nice laugh about how annoying we must be to all our neighbors.  Instead, we pulled up and our trashcan had been drug all the way down the driveway (no small feat considering it's tiny pebbles, not asphalt, and semi-long) and under the carport.  Which actually felt a little like an invasion of privacy, as hermit-like as that might seem.   This is mostly because the carport is underneath the house, so it feels like they were in my house.  Super weird, I know. 

So the burning question is - WHO MOVED MY TRASH CAN?

I wish this was some sort of philosophical question with a greater meaning, like Who Moved My Cheese.  I suppose I could try to make it one - where I equate my trash can to my retirement account; empty and in a place it doesn't belong. 

But really, I just wish I knew who moved my trash can.  Because I think it's weird and I do not believe it was simply a nice gesture because WHY?  Adam and I don't go around doing nice gestures.  If someone needed a wider berth for their gigantic white truck, why didn't they just move the can away from the road?   (sidenote: in case you haven't been to Texas, 90% of the vehicles on the road are huge white trucks.)
Ah, the trials and tribulations of my life.  What ever will happen next?  Perhaps some mailbox fraud or a smashed pumpkin in my driveway.    Aren't you glad you read this post?

Yes - Nigeria!

Hello and thank you to my one Nigerian reader!  I am excited!   

Or - at least I presume that is what it means when I click on Audience and I see a bunch of "United States" and one Nigeria.  

Buying America: Grocery Day Part 2

If nothing else - if buying American does nothing for our country and doesn't make an impact on the global economy at all - trying to buy only products made only in the U.S.A really stops you from buying whatever you want whenever you want and therefore is perhaps contributing to my vacation fund.  Actually scratch that and replace with "bill paying fund". 

For example, I'm scared to go shopping for clothes, so I'm just not doing it.  Instead of actively going out and looking for American-made clothing, I'm just not buying any - which is really beside the point.  But I've spent a decent amount of time on the internet searching for American-made clothing and I'm having a difficult time.  Lucky Brand Jeans MIGHT be assembled in America.  I'm not totally sure.  It's hard to tell - this really is a difficult task and I have to admit I'm experiencing a fair amount of frustration at how little is actually made in America.  And Lucky Brand is expensive, much more expensive than Target-brand cheapies that I normally shop for.   And because of how arduous this is, I made executive decisions on two occasions yesterday at the grocery store.   Here is the story of my epic failure at my self-imposed challenge:

1.) Adam wants a shrimp peeler thing-a-ma-jig that you can stick in your shrimp and remove all the poopy veins.  UH.... YES PLEASE!  He doesn't need to convince me any on that purchase.  But there are none made in America apparently.  Even though it's literally just a curved piece of plastic.  The one at HEB was made in China (ouch) but cost only $2.  I told him just to get it.    FAIL.

2.) Adam wants a little brush and dustpan for the garage.  There were four, count them FOUR, options at HEB - none of which were made in America.  I approved his purchase of the one made in Mexico (slightly less ouch).  I mean, if you're going to give me four options, none of which are made in America, what am I supposed to do?  Probably I could have held out and looked harder, and in this aspect I am totally in the wrong.  I feel guilty and like a failure and just generally depressed about my goal.

Small consolations:

1.) Used the Purex for the first time yesterday and my clothes are still intact.  Glad to see this means I can continue to use Purex.

2.) Bought some candles which are handmade in America.

3.) The rest of the food items we bought at the store were made in America.

4.)  Had to buy a new bottom rack for dishwasher - was excited to see it was made in America.

5.) Went to Home Depot to purchase a bunch of electrical items for some new project Adam is doing in the garage.  Of the ten items we got, seven were made in America and three were made in China.  The problem was he couldn't do his project without those three so I had to approve them.  Again I feel the crushing weight of failure bearing down upon me and there's nothing I can do about it.  The only consolation is that we bought more that was made in America than wasn't, and we actively made choices in those aspects to purchase the American-made version over the non-American-made version.   There's some stuff you just can't get. 

AMERICA - MANUFACTURE MORE STUFF!!!

The Power of Community

It amazes me every time I encounted the amazing willingness of my small town to come together and support a cause for one of its own. 
Last year, my 19-year-old neighbor, Hayle Shay Brown, was critically injured after an accident during a motocross race.  She has endured numerous surgeries and continues to suffer from heart problems, as well as being paralyzed from the waist down.    Despite her injuries, she maintains a positive attitude and has the adopted the motto "hope does not give up".  In addition, she is joining the board of a local organization that supports causes like her own, so that she can spread her message and share her attitude with people who truly know and feel her pain.
On Thursday, her family and friends put on a benefit in Hayle's honor, in order to raise money for her mounting medical bills.   The event was held in the Assembly Hall at the local expo center - a very large room with a stage and tons of cafeteria style tables, and the place was packed by the end of the night.  Adam and I were touched to see how many of the neighbors came out, as well as donated items for the silent and live auctions.  Ms Hayle and her parents made speeches about how tough their journey has been and, despite that, how much they refuse to give up hope that she will one day walk again and they will be able to return their lives to a sense of normalcy.   Most heart-warming of all was finding out, during the event, who had actually done the work to make it happen and spread the word.  A local real estate agency - competitors of the real estate agency Hayle's father owns - ran the event and made sure it went off without a hitch.    When I heard this, I got very choked up as I was reminded of the goodness not only in people, but also in local businesses. 
Other local businesses, such as a prominent HVAC repair firm, donated services that went for thousands of dollars, far above their actual value. 
Adam and I were struck by how willingly the entire community came out to support this brave young woman and show her that her plight will not be forgotten or ignored, and that her family will not be left to bear the burden alone.     I pray that for Hayle, hope really doesn't ever give up.   

Rockin' Ricks Bar - A View Through Beer Colored Glasses

Alright, I've lived here for almost five years and for every bit of that five years, Adam and I have been searching for our down-home watering hole.  Given the stories you hear about Texas, one woudl be inclined to believe that their is a beer joint on every corner but it's not really the case.  As with most places, we're pretty full up with chain restaurants that get super crowded on the weekends and don't have that special sort of brotherly feel that you want with your binge drinking. 

And then, as if a light shone down on it from the Heavens, Adam and I stumbled upon Rockin Ricks Sports Bar as we drove our two friends home from dinner the other night.  The first oddity about it is that essentially it's in a neighborhood.  Which is sort of weird.  Just kind of tucked away in the neighborhood in a little strip mall that also houses a defunct Mexican restaurant and maybe an insurance agency? 

Well, we pulled in because it was only 8:30 at night and we figured if it was awful there was no wasted time, since we were driving past it and had already had our fill of beer and chicken wings.  Ah, but many of you know there is not really such a thing as a "fill" of beer.  In fact, quite opposite - when you have actually had what should definitely be your fill, that is the exact moment when the devil on your shoulder starts whispering in your ear that you need more.  And so, more we had.  And more.  And more.

Rockin Ricks was filled with 20-somethings and cougars and of course "Rockin Rick" - who ran the music and pretended to sing and do guitar while actually air guitaring and singing lightly into a microphone while the real music played much more loudly over the speakers.  Rockin Rick also liked encouraging the ladies to come up and request songs, and then pretend that he couldn't hear them so that they had to move in real close and he could put his arm around them.  We watched this unfold about 15 times in a row.  It was quite hilarious.  Despite the cigarette smoke, the place is a total gem.  There are tons of tables - so hardly anyone was left with standing room only.  There's a fancy lounge-like area in the back, and very clean bathrooms. 

Adam didn't really like the music  -  there was a little bit too much country for him.  But other than that, there was plenty of fake karaoke and normal music for the rest of us.  We had to sort of force him to admit "this is our new watering hole" but he finally did.  Of course, my coat smelled like smoke for about a week, but it was worth it.

**Disclaimer - always drink responsibly and remember to have a designated driver no matter how close you are to home.  We always do.**

Vive Les Arts: The Color Purple

So, on Friday my friend invited me to go see The Color Purple at the local community theatre and of course I accepted because who wouldn't?  
Where I grew up, the community theatre was pretty... erm... downtrodden?  I don't know the right word but it definitely wasn't a big fancy building on a prime piece of real estate with professional lighting and an orchestra pit.  I'm pretty sure the kids in the audience had to sit on the floor actually.  And the name had the word "Possum" in it.  Who wants to go there?  (Actually, I did.  I played a hag in the showing of The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe.  I was totally awesome.)  But I digress... that was Delaware so...
Quite on the other end of the spectrum lies Vive Les Arts - a community theatre that feels anything but.  They served complimentary wine before the show, first of all.  So, you know I'm hooked already. 
The Color Purple was a musical and I was a little skeptical, I have to admit.  I mean you just don't have all that many great singers running around these days, or at least it doesn't seem like it judging from American Idol auditions and such.
But I was 100%, completely WOWED.  First of all you should know that this was the first community theatre in the United States to be granted rights to produce The Color Purple.  So every few minutes you just remember that you are actually part of history right now.  Which is pretty neat.  And then the singing.  People, the singing!  The kid who played Harpo was amazing - I mean I couldn't take my eyes off him when he was on stage; he had that much star power.    Shug Avery and Celie were equally captivating, both in acting and singing.  The church ladies were hilarious and probably my favorite part of the whole production.   The music was fantastic - I didn't know until after the show had ended that it was a live orchestra and not a recording.   I haven't been to a whole lot of plays, I admit.  But the ones I have been to have generally left me feeling lukewarm at the end - a nice way to kill a couple of hours but not a crowning point in my life.  It wasn't like this with The Color Purple.  I left there feeling invigorated and proud to be a part of a community where so much hidden talent sizzles just beneath the surface.  Where are these people Monday through Friday, and why aren't they famous?!?   
Bravo Vive Les Arts!

Buying America: Fail #1

Turns out I bought foreign-made makeup yesterday on accident.  I thought the packaging said California, so I bought it.  But my hangover-induced fog kept me from seeing the huge lettering on the side that said Made In Italy.  So I will remember for next time that Physicians Formula is made in Italy.
A friend suggested to me today that loosening the grip on this challenge might make things easier and still meet the intent.  For example, Canada and Mexico might be okay.  It's a nice thought but I don't want to make this easy, because it's not easy to be out of work and struggling to pay the bills.  It's not easy to interview for job after job, with no luck, and keep a smile on your face for your children and family.   And whether something is made in Canada or Russia -- it's still not made here.  And isn't that the whole point? 
My buying power will never be enough to make any sort of splash in a corporate structure.  Executives at General Electric will never care that the Alexander family in some podunk town in central Texas isn't going to buy their products anymore.    But maybe our experience will help pave the way for our friends and family to try the same thing, and their friends and their family to try it, and to feel a sense of pride about the choices they make regarding where they send their money.  And that, my friends, is the point.

Buying America - Grocery Day

Well today was the first true test of Adam's and my new goal to buy only products made or grown in the United States.  We started out this morning rather uneducated but what our day taught us is that we have a lot to learn and much research to do before we can truly say we've done this.

Some things we faced this morning:

1.) Normally grocery shopping is a super easy and enjoyable part of our week.  We do it on Sunday mornings while the rest of Texas is at church, thereby avoiding the crowds.  Usually we go out for breakfast first and then go to the store, where we buy pretty much the exact same products from week to week.  We're not adventurous eaters, most of you know. Such a routine is easily accomplished in pretty much any state of mind.  But we're not doing routine anymore.  Our lives have changed now, and even though I want to say it's for the better - things aren't as simple.  This morning we did the shopping a little hungover and later in the day because we got a late start (on account of the fact that we went out with our friends who drank us under the table until about 1 a.m.).   We were in a bit of a fog and moving slowly, and probably being the exact people that we hate at the store.  Of course, in the name of our goal - I didn't particularly care what other people thought, but I was surprised at how noticeable the change in our mindset was.  How easily we don't realize where our food comes from.  How hard it is to find certain things...

2.) What we wouldn't compromise on:  It was particularly difficult to find laundry detergent.  Our normal brand is Gain.  That seems to be imported from Canada.  So is everything from Proctor and Gamble, from the wording on their packaging.  Tide pissed me off because the bottle was basically a great big American flag.  Also imported from Canada.  We ended up with a choice between FAB and Purex.  We chose Purex, with fingers crossed.  Because the thing is if we mess up our clothes, I'm not sure how we'll buy new ones.   More on that later...

3.)  What we weren't sure about:  Most products say things like Distributed for (INSERT NAME HERE), Cincinnati, OH (or other American city).  What does this mean??    We spent rather an inordinate amount of time trying to decipher some of the verbage, including looking it up on the internet via smart phone and using an APP where you can scan the bar code and learn more.   A couple times, like with our Taco Bell hard and soft shell taco dinner kit, we had to sort of shrug our shoulders and say "we think so".  This isn't exactly in line with our goal, but it definitely taught us we have lots to learn and some product research to do.  So it was okay.   Brilliant Idea Here:  Someone needs to make an App where you can scan the bar code and it just says "Made in America" or "Not".  

4.)  What we cheated on: Yeah, we cheated.  I bought three green bell peppers which were clearly marked "Mexico".  There were none, and I mean zilch, from the U.S.A.  In fact, there was hardly any produce from the U.S.A.  It took several minutes of digging and searching to find U.S.A tomatoes.  I couldn't buy raspberries or strawberries or blueberries or bananas.  So I caved and bought bell peppers because I need them and because I promised myself that when the farmer's market in town opens again this spring, that I will go there and buy my produce.  What is both ironic and highly annoying about this is that we were in HEB, which means nothing to anyone who isn't from Texas, but HEB is BIG on Texas and America and all that jazz, and all their commercials are highly patriotic in terms of "all our stuff comes from America".  In fact, they have these really sweet commercials where some farmer is standing in the middle of his crop fields proudly proclaiming "this is the produce department at HEB".  Well guess what - it's not.  Unless that farmer is the only American in all of Guatemala.  Because it seems that most everything in that department is from Guatemala.  Disappointing to say the least, particularly because I love those commercials and I love HEB produce even more. 

5.) What we just plain didn't buy:  We did not buy a digital meat thermometer, which I desperately need because I keep accidentally washing mine and I've gone through like 3 in the past year.    I have one of the kind that is not digital and I don't trust it so whenever I use it I end up spending the entire meal worrying about whether or not I am ingesting E Coli.  But there were three different kinds in HEB and all were "Fabrique en China".  Great.

6.) What we totally nailed:    the laundry detergent, eggs, meat, and oranges were all definitely made in U.S.A. 

All in all, it was a little frustrating because I suspect that some items are highly misleading on purpose in terms of where they are made.  There are probably no real laws about full disclosure regarding product origin or manufacturing when it comes to things like spaghetti sauce or chips or detergent.   So when you slap a huge American flag on the front of your packaging, you're telling your consumers that your product is American, and it's pretty sleazy that, in fact, it's not.   Regardless, I think overall we were pretty successful for our first shopping experience, with a couple missteps here and there. 

Next time we'll probably try to do the shopping on a hangover-free day and see what happens. 
Note: The place where said hangover was acquired is a locally owned dive bar where we drank Coors Light all night long.  So it's like we were just working on our new goal; so actually we should have been congratulating ourselves this morning on helping to send that guy's kids to college. 

Buying America - Methodology

Having not actually purchased anything yet - it's difficult to say how I feel about this challenge so far. 
However, I know we will run into some challenges and so here are a few ground rules and disclosures:

1.) We have lots of foreign made items in our house/life already.  Two of our cars are foreign - and I am not allowed to drive the other one.  Because Adam thinks I don't know how to drive stick shift.  Even though I had a stick shift car long before I met him.  And he's reading over my shoulder at this very moment.   Also, our electronics are foreign.  We're not getting rid of any of it.  Just to be clear.

2.) Gas - we are not even sure how to go about knowing whether our fuel comes from America.  Exempt.  Just sayin.

3.) Some product packaging just says "Packaged for (COMPANY NAME HERE) in Cincinnati" or whatever.  I don't know how to find out more.  I guess look it up on the Internet.  For certain products, like toilet paper or essentials, this is just going to have to be good enough until we figure out how to be smarter at this whole thing.

4.) Not sure whether or not we should stop buying products manufactured by companies whose Headquarters are located in foreign countries.  I'm leaning towards Yes.  Still figuring it out, though, so for now we're going to pretend this is not a question and just get used to our new way of thinking on a smaller scale at first.   

5.) Clothes are going to be impossible.  I honestly believed the "Faded Glory" brand from WalMart was made in America.  I am not sure why - I think the commercials are misleading.  Anyway, it is not.  

6.) Even though wine and beer will be easy - I am sad because the only wine I can get at the gas station right up the road is Australian.  So now I can no longer tell Adam to stop at the gas station for "chips" and then run in to get wine.  Now I actually have to ask him to take me to the liquor store.  Minor annoyance. 

That's all I can think of at the moment.  I think it's enough of a start.  We have to go grocery shopping this weekend and need an awful lot of stuff (like laundry detergent, our favorite brand of which I just noticed is not made in America), so the first true indicator of what this is going to be like will happen in the next couple of days.  More to follow!

Buying America - The Reason

Not that there should be an particular reason why Adam and I want to buy products manufactured and grown in America, but I have one.
If I was a better patriot and ambassador of my country, the reason would simply be that I support my fellow citizens and, while the global economy is important, I believe in the products my countrymen can create and want to further our local economy.  But I've spent the last 32 years buying whatever I want whenever I want, without much thought towards where any of it was made and that's a hard habit to break (actually, it's a hard habit to recognize) until something you see makes you cringe and wakes you up to the harsh reality of what is happening around us.  And by that, I mean unemployment and poverty and families struggling to feed themselves because they can't find work, even low-paying work.
And this all shone under a glaring light for me on Tuesday, as my husband, our friends, and I drove from Taos Ski Valley, NM back to our home here in Texas.  I found clarity of vision on the mountain roads of northern New Mexico.  The gift shop in Taos Ski Valley was filled with merchandise for tourists to stock up on and bring home for family and friends.  Coasters, shot glasses, shirts, and picture frames were of course abundant.  I bought a couple shirts without thinking twice.  Always a sucker for a souvenir tshit, I am.  And I almost bought the picture frame with TAOS laser-cut into the reclaimed spruce.  But when I looked at the back it said "Made in Canada" and was $20.  What first stopped me from buying it was the fact that I'm certain there are identical picture frames being sold in Aspen, Vail, and Crested Butte - all made in Canada.  Some factory in Canada is getting lots of work to churn out identical souvenir items for hungry travelers in rich tourist towns.  So, pretty much only because I don't want some mass-produced picture frame to display my memories, because I would prefer something original, I put the frame back and did not buy it.
And then we began the 12-hour drive back home and the reality of the situation hit a little closer to home.  Because not 30 minutes down the mountain is a town called Arroyo Seco which looks as if the recession arrived there and took up permanent residence about 20 years ago.   Even the elementary school has seen way, way better days.  It takes a good 5 hours to get out of New Mexico from Taos (by way of Texas), and it never reallhy gets any better.  Every 20 miles or so you come across another broken down town.  This could be a result of many things - the remote area, farming/agriculture communities dependent primarily on sustaining themselves, a focus on seasonal tourism.  Regardless, I found it disturbing to think that these people might actually be in need of steady work and that the very souvenir items that are keeping the local shops alive aren't even made locally.  All those people sitting around, hoping for a break - and we're farming out our livelihood to a foreign country to save a few bucks. 
Despite the possibility that much of my sentiment is naive, it weighed heavily on my heart throughout much of the drive home.
 
So, right, wrong, or indifferent - this is how the idea came to be. 

Buying America - Day One

Today marks Day #1 of what is sure to be a most challenging year for me and Adam.  That is because we have decided, starting today, to buy only products grown or made in America for one full year.   Of course there are some questions about how we're going to accomplish this, and what exactly this means. 
For example, we need a "bye" on fuel, because I'm not sure how we would do it.
And we need to figure out how to know where some products are made, because the packaging says things like "packaged in Texas" - which does not tell the whole story. 
I plan to write about our experiences - what things we just couldn't get, what was hard to find, what cost more, what cost less.  It's probably going to be difficult but I think it will be eye-opening.

So, wish us luck and I will keep you posted.

Macaroni and Cheese

I hate (and I mean HATE) the nasty velveeta macaroni and cheese stuff you can buy from the store.  I hate the shells and cheese, I hate the Easy Mac, I hate it all.  Adam, on the other hand, loves it.

So last week I made real macaroni and cheese, made with elbow macaronis, two kinds of cheese, milk, butter, flour, and diced onions.  It was damn delicious and I ate like 4 servings of it.  Adam moved his around on the plate looking for the neon yellow cheese he is so very fond of.    And complaining that it didn't have enough cheese.

In a bold attempt at compromise, today I made the Kraft "Homestyle" Macaroni and Cheese, which still includes the neon cheese substance as an ingredient, but also calls for butter and milk.  As mac and cheese goes, it wasn't bad.  It's not my Mom-Mom's mac and cheese (which I inexplicably do not have the recipe for) but it was way way better than the other stuff and, although I hate to admit it, marginally better than my homemade attempt.

So if you're not a Neon Goop Mac and Cheese kinda gal, the Homestyle Mac will do for a quick fix.  But I'm not giving up on the real thing.  I think I just needed to use different cheese and more of them.

Parents

So, my mother is a kind and wonderful woman who worries a lot, which is where I got it from.  The worrying, not the kind and wonderful.  Only because I don't particularly consider myself kind or wonderful.. not that I think I am but believe it came from somewhere else as if I self-manifested it because I'm that awesome.  No, I think she just passed on the worrying.  And the flat chest. 
Anyways, hereditary worrying is okay by me.  I like being a worry wart.   If you don't embrace it, you'll just hate yourself and everyone will wonder why you're always trying so hard to act cool.  Few things are worse than someone trying too hard to act cool.  Just come out of the closet with your worriness and people will accept you for it.... and probably make fun of you a little too.  But in a loving way, not a mean way.
All that said, my mom's a worry wart and she worries about all sorts of stuff she shouldn't even have to think about.  And if I was a good daughter I wouldn't add to her troubles but I'm not, so I post all sorts of random stories about what a lush I am and how bad I am at cooking and yardwork, thus increasing her worry-ometer and pushing her, probably, to the brink of mental collapse.
So tonight I was on the phone with her and she said "Well, I wasn't going to get in the middle of it, but I think I will - " and I have to admit I held my breath, trying to think of which blog post she was going to zero in on this time.  Would it be my bad texting habits?  My tendency to tell people I'm away from my home over Facebook?   My coat doesn't look 'wintery' enough?   It could be any number of things.

It wasn't anything, just a random story really that was no big deal.  But the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I realized that my mother and I are slipping into this crazed rabbit hole, where I worry about what she is worrying about, and she worries about what I worry about her worrying about and so on and so forth - until one day we're just going to have to both go on Vicodin or something to make it all stop.

And so continues the saga of life after becoming your mother in adulthood.

How I Narrowly Avoided a Text-astrophe

So occassionally I drink a little too much and send out lots of embarrassing and overly affectionate text messages to random people, mostly those who are recent recipients of other text messages.  This is because it's easy to just go in my recent text messages and start replying to recent texts with things like "Luv ya!" and all sorts of other things that don't make sense or are relatively inappropriate.  Luckily for me, normally these people are actually with me, more than likely in the same room, and usually sending similar text messages to the same group of people.   We are, of course, the utmost in humor and quick wit.

Just such an evening passed recently, except we were experimenting with "group text" (this sounds dirty but it's not... we were trying to figure out why some of our phones 'reply all' to group text messages automatically and some of them do not).  This resulted in all sorts of ridiculous messages that would make absolutely no sense if read out of context by an outsider. 

During this enthusiastic episode of text messaging, I drank around four margaritas and a glass or bottle of wine, and was sending all sorts of messages to people on my "recently texted" list of people.  And I wasn't paying much attention.  And this happens all the time and then the next day I look at my sent messages and hang my head in shame, glad that my friends know and accept me for the overly sentimental drunkard that I can be. 

And it was on a morning just like this when I saw a number I didn't recognize in my recently sent text list.  Far too close to the list of messages that I had sent the night before in my tipsy state.  Close enough that it could have been a victim of my group texting.    Anonymous enough that I knew it wasn't someone who knows that when I drink, even just a glass, everyone is suddenly my best friend and no topic of conversation is off limits.  Even the really weird and offensive topics of conversation, like why someone would choose such to grow and maintain such an ugly beard.   Which, yes, I have actually started that conversation and it did not go as smoothly as I thought it would.

Holding my breath, I opened the message log.  And sucked in a very long and very deep breath of fear.  Because the number was my boss's boss's boss.  The string of messages began innocently enough; it was an exchange between my husband and the Boss about work.  I scrolled down.  Some questions about a building that had come up earlier in the day.  An answer from my husband.  A thank you from the boss.  And that's where it ended.  Thank God.  But it was pure luck that I didn't click on that number and send some random text thinking it was someone else.

The lesson I took from this was to never let my husband use my phone ever again.  The modified lesson I took was to make sure I delete any unknown numbers from my phone immediately so that I don't end up sending them overzealous texts in the middle of the night, under the misguided belief that everyone is as happy to have me as an acquaintance as I am to have them.  And also that they want to know it as much as I want to tell them about it.    At midnight.  Spelled wrong.  With exclamation points.

New Jeans

I'm sort of embarrassed to admit it, but I think the Lauren Conrad brand demin from Kohls is currently the best affordable jean out there.    I normally try to steer clear of the celebrity-"designed" (and I use the term design loosely here) brands because I suspect they are really designed by some extremely underpaid groupie who is just trying to get in good with pseudo-celebrities.  Also I think that singers and actors should stick to their craft and stop trying to corner every market out there in their ever-increasing quest to take over even more of the world's share of wealth and leave some of it to the rest of us.  Just because they are famous doesn't mean they know jack about regular-people fashion - just look at Helena Bonham Carter.  And I mean that nicely because I LOVE Helena Bonham Carter - I think she has more STYLE than anyone in Hollywood, I think she just gets confused when she opens her closet.

All that said, I now have three pairs of Lauren Conrad jeans and I feel only marginally guilty about it since it's not like she's a real actress or anything.    Also I do have a sneaking suspicion that she might actually play a part in her brand because she does seem to care about fashion designing and all that, judging from her stint on The Hills, which I watched religiously - also embarrassed.  Anyway, about the jean.  Something about the material - it's soft without feeling flimsy of cheap, and the styles are fitted right for real live girls instead of paper dolls and 10 year olds.    Levis jeans can be scratchy; however, they never seem to degrade in quality and they fit nicely, but they are very unforgiving when it comes to periodic, um, expansion.  Old Navy jeans are ok but don't fit quite right, especially after a couple of washes.  Gap Jeans are probably my second favorite -  I still have a pair from my freshman year in college and wear them often (which probably means they should be my number one).  I stopped buying Express Jeans when they forgot they were selling to the middle class and jacked their prices up.  So it comes down to being all about fit, feel, and frugality and, in my opinion, the LC brand hits the target on all three points.

Extra bonus - the pair I bought yesterday was $60 but were on sale for $30 and I didn't find that out until I went to pay for them; thank you Lauren Conrad and Kohl's for appealing to my cheapie side.   For these reasons, Kohl's will always be my very favorite store. 

And no, unfortunately, I am not getting kickbacks from Kohls for this and any future glowing Kohls posts.   But I wouldn't say no if they were offered.....

It's Just My Allergies

Hopefully the supressed animal spirit inside of me is attempting to pack on winter weight because I literally cannot stop eating.  I scarf down an english muffin at 7:30 and by 8:00 I'm eating an orange.  The hours until lunch seem to go on forever and I cant' stop thinking about the rest of the english muffins tucked away in their drawer.  If I manage to make it to lunch, I hoover down some soup and chips and then spend the rest of the afternoon hunting for random pieces of chocolate and candy to fill the void until dinner.  Inevitably dinner is not satisfying because I am cooking it, so then I spend the rest of the evening trying to talk myself out of going back to the kitchen for snacks. 

God this is awful. 

Anyway, I just wanted to vent because I'm excusing it as normal but really I think maybe it's a tapeworm or baby.    I don't really think it's a baby.    Or a tapeworm.  I think it's something worse.  It's lack of willpower.  But instead I will blame it on allergies, because this time of year in Texas you can blame literally anything on allergies and someone will nod in agreement and pity you. 

Do these allergies make me look fat?

Self: Meet Diva Self

So, as any of you know, I am pretty much the farthest thing from high maintenance, mostly because I am cheap and lazy.  And cheap and lazy equals haircuts at Great Clips and junky purses from the 90s.    And wrinkled sweaters. 

But even so, there are plenty of medium maintenance people out there who live their perfectly normal and perfectly okay lives with a medium amount of diva.  And by that I mean the regular highlights (which I fall victim to occasionally), and the 40 pairs of shoes and so on.  I consider this a medium and acceptable amount of diva because from time to time I venture into that territory, but then spend weeks with buyer's remorse feeling guilty about my ever-shrinking bank account.

So now that you understand my slightly twisted and nonsensical philosophy on diva-ism, perhaps you will understand the undeniable urge to - just every once in awhile - go off the deep end and act like a celebrity.  Just for, like, 30 minutes.  I had my first brush (and by first, I mean one that is not triggered by abandonment issues following a nasty breakup) with this sort of behavior on Saturday.  Adam and I stopped by the Sunglass Hut for a pair of Oakley sunglasses he wants.  I am not allowed to buy sunglasses more expensive than $10 since mine always end up at the bottom of the lake because I have one reckless bone in my body and it comes alive on water skis.  So I wasn't really even looking in the store - actually I was trying on all the ridiculous throwback 80s styles and marveling at how horrible I looked.  Until.  Oh, my friends... Until.  The red military-inspired Versaces.  *Sigh* The ones I breezed past when we entered the store... their clever placement and glittering details caught my eye.  On a lark I tried them on and, as is common when you try something on for laughs (like my wedding dress, actually), the effect was breathtaking.  Suddenly I'm Charlize Theron on Rodeo Drive and I MUST have these sunglasses which cost over $200. 

After tearing, and I do mean literally tearing, myself away from the store empty handed, we stopped into Macys and then Walgreen's, where I bought an $8 can of almonds to assuage my inner-celebrity who was screaming at me to SPEND SPEND SPEND!

But readers, those sunglasses are still calling to me from their careful perch atop the tallest pedestal in the Sunglass Hut.   My Diva Self will not be silenced by almonds.

Yeah... I was...

As we were painting the other day, Janis Joplin came on the radio and I was singing my heart out, becuase honestly what self-respecting mid-30-year old doesn't know the words to "Me and Bobby McGee"? 
And then Adam said "who sings this?  is this Janis Joplin?"   And I had to choke back my disdain. 
And then I said "yes" and he was all "hmm I never got into Janis Joplin" and I felt bad for him. 

So I said that I did, and then I blamed it on my being a giant poser in high school, which i probably was if I even really know what a poser was at that time.  Which now I no longer know what a poser was at that time but I probably was it.   And he said he couldn't imagine me being a poser.  Because he knows I'm totally preppy and can't imagine me being 'alternative'.  Because I wasn't.  But I tried.

I did drink and smoke but not because I was tortured but becuase I wanted everyone to think I was tortured.  I wore huge baggy clothes, not because I was attempting to conceal my skin and bones frame but because I was attempting to accentuate it with great big baggy clothes.  I also went to some bazaar in town and bought old school plaid bell bottoms which I'm certain I looked ridiculous in.   I skipped school, but worried about getting caught and told my parents about it ahead of time to get their approval.  I had parties at my house, but made sure everything was cleaned up before anyone came home.  I ignored boys, not because I was too cool for them but because I feared they were too cool for me.  I did do some stuff I'm not proud of, but nothing worthy of the sort of 'cool' that I tried to portray by nonchalantly bragging about what a Janis Joplin fan I was when everyone else my age was listening to Nirvana. 

Which is ironic because there are probably high school kids, this very instant, listening to Nirvana thinking they are retro.  Because I am old.

This Did Not Happen

I received a big box today from my in-laws - late Christmas presents which was a total treat.   I love late Christmas.

Inside the box, there were several neatly wrapped boxes and one unwrapped item.  A bag of Herr's Salt N Vinegar Potato Chips.  I can't stop laughing. 

In completely unrelated news - I may have gained about 15 pounds since Thanksgiving. 

I'm Not Exactly Rachel Ray People

Last night Adam and I had some friends over for dinner and I made BBQ beef sandwiches which I have never made before.  I did them in the crockpot, meticulously following a recipe I found in a book given to me by my dear friend Michelle. 
The recipe was super easy and I was pretty proud of myself and how yummy the house smelled all day long.   I even cut up onions and pickles as a topper instead of coleslaw because even though I prefer coleslaw I think that is an East Coast thing.  Yeah, like kidney beans.
When our friends came over, I shredded the beef (which made me feel very grown up and wise about cooking, in the manner of Martha Stewart), poured some of the juice from the crockpot over it, mixed it all together and shoveled it out onto sandwich buns.
Our friends gathered their plates and sat at the table as I arranged my own and tidied up quickly in the kitchen, before noticing everyone seemed to be waiting for me.   So I hurried to the table with my plate, encouraging everyone to try the food and letting them know it was the first time I'd ever cooked a huge chunk of beef in my crockpot.  I could see everyone sort of inch away from their plates ever so slightly, so I dug in to prove that I felt confident about it, even though I didn't.   It was pretty good, but not super flavorful.  Even so, I still thought it was a bit better than "edible" which was the rave review I actually recieved. 
Oh well.  I'll file that recipe away under "don't do this one again".   At least they were honest.     :-)

Apparently I missed class that day...

It seems that everyone in the universe knows that a much more common way to hang a hammock is to tie some rope or something around a tree and hang it.  I say this because more people than I would like to admit have responded to my story about the hammock, baffled, wondering why I didn't just tie it to the tree.  To which I say - the directions said drill a hole! 

Also I have been reminded of the hammock hanger invention.  Yes, thank you, I actually did know about those but I'm cheap and it's much more cost-effective to go about destroying Mother Nature.   Actually the real reason is that I don't want one of those because we get 80 mph winds here and I was hoping to have something that I would not have to worry about catching a gust of wind and crashing through my neighbors windows in the middle of the night. 

Strangely, my husband is less concerned with the hole in the tree and more amazed that I found the drill and knew how to operate it.  Come on people.  He must be amazed that I managed to survive 27 years without him around to teach me how to turn on the lights. 

Well there's good news and there's bad news.

The good news is that the glass people brought the newly cut shower glass today and IT FITS!  As of right now, I can take a shower in my new bathroom and it seems that it is complete, although I'll leave the final decision to Adam when he gets home from work.  Undoubtedly he will see something that I did not.

Now the bad news.  After the Re-Bath people left, I was super hopped up on happiness because the glass fit and the workers were out of here in a half an hour, and it was only 3 pm and 70 degrees and sunny.  So I changed into outside clothes and went out and worked in the yard, soaking up that sunshine and melting away my depression. I pulled all the weeds and scrub out of my flower beds and played with my dog.   It was lovely.  Then I got a brilliant idea.  I have had this hammock in the shed for almost 2 years (!) and so I drug it out and decided where I want to put it in the yard.  I got the tape measure and measured the distance between the two trees and saw that I could put it there.  I was super excited and thinking I can have this hammock hung up in time for Adam to get home from work - he'll be so proud of me!  Keep in mind I'm like completely doped up on sunshine.  Can anyone guess what ridiculously stupid thing I did then?

Piece of Evidence Number 8,794,394 that I am not from Texas, nor did I belong in the Environmental Protection field ---> I followed the (probably written by a Northerner) instructions and pulled out a drill and drilled a hole in the tree.  Then I stepped back, looked at it, watched an ant crawl in it, and thought:  WHAT AN IDIOT!?!?!?!? 

WTF was I thinking?  As soon as I did it, I realized what I had done to my pretty little live oak and all the surrounding pretty little live oaks, so I ran and got the can of tree paint and totally slimed the entire tree.  I hope I got it in time.  If my entire yard dies of oak wilt I am going to be so so so pissed at myself. 

Adam wasn't exactly happy either.  So, yeah.  I don't have a hammock and my husband is not proud of me.  But I can take a shower.  It's a game of win and lose my friends. 

2012 Reasons to Be Happy

HA - just kidding.  You probably just clicked on this to see if I am actually insane enough to try to come up with 2012 reasons to be happy.  Which I am not.

But I do have reasons to be happy - we all do.  This weekend I told Adam I was grumpy - which I was - and he got upset and asked me what do I have to be grumpy about.  And he was right.  What complaints can I possibly have, compared to what some are going through? 

One of the reasons I really really love my job is because I feel like I actually get to help Soldiers.  I don't do anything honorable.  I'm not a nurse or a medic or a therapist.  What I do is try, however I can, to help make the places Soldiers live and work nice and comfortable.  And it might not sound like much but I try to make a difference and I try, through my work, to show my appreciation for their service.  Occasionally I get to develop a tentative relationship with one of the folks I work with regularly, and I get to know them a little.  Only a little, but still.  I get to hear about their holidays and their backgrounds and learn that they got to go home for Christmas for the first time in years.  Not because they had chosen not to these past years, but because they were physically unable to because they were deployed to a war zone.  And it brings tears to my eyes to think that this weekend I was feeling grumpy because my husband and I were having a hard time selecting a closet system for our tiny closet. 

Just who do I think I am?  I should be counting my blessings that I even get to choose! 

Okay so this wasn't exactly peppy.  I'll try again tomorrow maybe.