Musings on My Journey

Quote Unquote, or Don't Forget I am NEVER Wrong!

2011-05-04T06:02:00.000-07:00

I will mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” -- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Unless you don’t do the whole Facebook thing, or you don’t watch the news, you’ve seen or heard about this quote. Lots of hullaballoo about it. Did MLK say it? Yes. No. On and on. A little research would solve this whole dilemma, but it seems no one knows how to do it.

But I did. Because I used it on a posting and someone jumped on it and told me it was mis-attributed. So I checked. Which I should have done in the first place. Silly me. Expecting the people who FB to be concerned about correct.

And I discovered that it all depends on where you put the quotation marks.

Seems the first sentence was written by a FBer (I can’t track down the true identity for certain and I don’t care enough at this point to pursue it any further) and the rest was, indeed by Dr. King. The passage comes from his 1963 book Strength to Love:

Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction. So when Jesus says "Love your enemies," he is setting forth a profound and ultimately inescapable admonition. ... The chain reaction of evil — hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars — must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.

So why am I coming out of my long silence to write about something trivial like this?

It’s not to preach the importance of proper punctuation, although that is important.

It’s not to preach the importance of checking something out before you say it, although that, too, is important.

It’s not even to comment on Dr. King’s quote, although it is a powerful and profound sentiment.

It’s to remind folks that I am NEVER wrong! After I posted the first quote and was questioned about it, I did my research and went back and explained where my mistake was. THEN this morning some little chit comes on and says I am still wrong and that there was a news story and everything saying the whole thing was made up.

Grrrrr

I wanted to go smack her for being stupid. Obviously she didn’t really listen to the whole story (I have no illusions that she READ it anywhere!). And if she read my initial response she would have seen the correction and source information. But noooo-ooooo. It’s much more fun to jump on the bandwagon and say what everyone else says, and then feel all superior and smart.

Dumb bimbo.

(Note to anyone who is reading this…..I am just having a little fun at some nameless gal’s expense. But remember, I am NEVER wrong! Even when I spend half of this blog talking about the initial mistake I made!)

Remembering Oklahoma City, April 19, 1995

2011-04-19T06:14:00.000-07:00

It's an iconic photo. Part of America's history. An image of a tragedy in my country. One lone portrayal capable of humanizing an epic slaughter in a city I know and love. Since that day in 1995 we have, unfortunately, faced even greater destruction of American lives in this country - Washington DC; Shanksville, PA; New York City.

As a historian I am accustomed to studying death and tragedy. Wars and rebellions. Massacres and individual murders. My hobby honors those who fought and died in the US Civil War. I have visited many of the monuments and cemeteries in this nation which honor and remember those who died: large national graveyards, small roadside memorials, memorials that strive to teach and remember and explain, and those which simply are. Each one is a poignant reminder of those whose lives were cut short by war, by murder, by nature.

I visit them and I try to maintain a professional cool. I take photos. I make notes of architectural styles, the poems and other written words and how they are used to direct our thoughts a certain way. I note whose names are missing (the hijackers of Flight 93 are not mentioned by name anywhere in the memorial, even the transcripts of the cockpit voice recorder simply list them as "male voice in Arabic" or "hijacker").

But the historian always loses out to the person. I become a mother who looks at row upon row of tombstones or tiny chairs or endless names and thinks of the devastation my only son's death would wreak on my life. I read the mementos, the letters, the testimonies, I see the little handmade items brimming with love and longing and my heart nearly breaks for the sorrow of the mourners.

George Santayana said that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. Albert Einstein is (improperly) credited with saying that the definition of doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. I cross this great nation of ours and see these memorials to insanity and forgetfulness (or read the paper or watch the news) and I despair. Are we doomed to forever be ruled by and ruined by a few petty individuals who have no regard for life and love and hope and humanity?

But I remember what Mahatma Gandhi said. "Remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible but in the end, they always fall -- think of it: always." And Robert F. Kennedy gives me hope with his reminder that "It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope."

So perhaps these photographs and monuments and memorials are here to remind of what we have lost, but also to remind up that in the end evil loses, and that in each tragedy or war or massacre there are also stories of heroism and bravery and goodness and love.

Today as I remember the horror and fear that was perpetrated on 168 people in Oklahoma City - and their families and friends, their city, their state, their nation - I will also remind myself that there were brave men and women who leaped to assist, who rendered aid, who comforted the terrified and grieving, and who immediately got to work to find and punish those responsible for this evil. And I will take comfort and hope.

History has demonstrated that the most notable winners usually encountered heartbreaking obstacles before they triumphed. They won because they refused to become discouraged by their defeats. - B.C. Forbes

Woke him up screaming two nights in a row

2011-03-28T08:44:00.000-07:00

Poor Scott, it was his Spring Break last week, and he wanted to stay up late and sleep in until noon, and two nights in a row my screaming woke him up out of a dead sleep.

Normally I am not a screamer. Not that kind, either. ;-) I am quiet and reserved just about all of the time. Even nightmares don't set me to hollering. I might be too scared to sleep without all of the lights on, but I rarely make any noise.

But last week.....well that was a different story.

The first night was totally Scott's fault. HE was having the vivid dream, in which he was arguing with his brother, John. To make a point about how serious he was, Scott pinched John's arm. Only it wasn't John's arm. It was me who got pinched. Imagine you are blamelessly sleeping away, not hogging the covers, not stealing pillows, not taking up more than your share of the bed, when you are wakened up by your beloved viciously pinching you. Yep, I woke up to the sound of my screaming (and a severe pain that ended up in a bruise). Poor Scott was scared out of his mind from HIS deep sleep. We laughed it off shakily and went back to sleep.

The next night I dreamed that I was in a bowling alley after hours (do not ask me why, I don't recall anymore, but as is always true in dreams, it made sense then). Scott and the bowling alley owner were out in the parking lot discussing who knows what. The bowling alley suddenly got dark as the security system kicked in. Afraid that I would set off sirens I tried to hold still. (see, quiet and unassuming) But I heard the ominous sound of claws tick, tick, ticking across the floor. I held my breath as they approached, and then I felt a large dog's breath on my face. (I forgot to mention that for whatever reason, I was sitting on the floor) I scrambled for my cell phone to turn on the flashlight, only to see a large Doberman Pinscher about to take a bite out of my face (he, too, was quiet and unassuming in his attempts to maul me!) I grabbed his snout with both hands to keep his mouth closed, but he easily flicked my hands off of him and lunged for my face. I tried to scream and nothing came out, so I inhaled deeply and let 'er rip.

Scared the holy bejezus out of Scott on that one. Scared me, too. He asked if I was okay, I apologized profusely, and we fell back to sleep. With no more dreams and no more screams. The next morning I explained my dream and we could not figure out what might have triggered such a dream. We make terrible dream analysts, I guess.

Luckily, the next couple nights were scream-free. Which is fortunate, since I think Scott would have suggested I sleep on the couch if I did THAT again!

Sweet dreams to you all!

Good job!

2011-03-05T07:00:00.000-08:00

(Note: The purpose of this blog is not to have my friends tell me how great I am, but to challenge all of us to look for the great people around us every day.)

My dad and mom always taught me to say "thank you" to people who provided me with assistance. By their examples, I learned to truly appreciate it when someone went the extra mile for me, or spent the time to provide excellent service, or went above and beyond to help me. My parents caused me to see and realize that while we all enjoy great customer service, we tolerate mediocre service, and when someone really truly provided service, they deserved to be noticed and appreciated.

My dad, in particular, taught me that if someone was particularly good at his or her job, it wasn't sufficient to simply tell them thank you. I recall several times when we had to wait for a frazzled manager to appear so that my dad could tell him or her that our waiter, or the clerk, or the front desk person gave excellent service and he wanted the manager to know that this employee was an ideal representative for that particular company.

In my job I help a lot of people. I like what I do, and I really appreciate it when a taxpayer tells me that I really helped them, or I made a difficult situation seem possible to resolve, or that I was very kind and helpful. I have to admit, it feels good to receive a compliment like those. My goal is to provide excellent customer service, to give the IRS a better reputation, and to make the taxpayer feel respected - not stupid for asking a question.

But yesterday I received a copy of an email that my boss sent to the director of our whole branch. Seems a taxpayer that I assisted called my manager and told her how much she appreciated my help. My manager passed that little tidbit along and I received a letter from our big boss thanking me for my work. I have to tell you, it felt pretty darned good!

And it made me realize that there are literally dozens of people with whom I come in contact every week who provide services to me. Most of them are so-so at best, but every once in a while someone really makes a difference. Sadly, I hadn't thought about thanking them and telling their bosses what a fantastic employee they have. So my challenge to myself - and you! - is to find one person this week who really shone when they did their job, and then let their boss know. Maybe it's the guy at Starbucks, the gal at the tire center, the driver of the bus, the clerk at the grocery store, the gas station attendant. And yes, I know, sometimes the manager isn't there, so that means we actually may have to take the time to get a phone number or address and then remember to call or write or email. But I have faith in us. We're grown ups.

Because, after all, if we want to continue to receive good service, no - if we want to continue to receive excellent service, then we have to let these good folks know that they are appreciated, and that the time and effort they put into their jobs is noticed and appreciated.

And to those of you who read every silly word I write, thank you for making me feel like I make sense!

Why 101 Things in 1001 Days?

2011-02-27T14:34:00.000-08:00

I have had several people ask me why I am bothering with my 101 goals in 1001 days. Folks at work see me with my binder, working on things, checking off items, doing research, and they ask. Family members have wondered out loud why I need something so formal as a list of goals with a specific due date for completing them. A few friends have suggested that I am only setting my self for failure and disappointment with such a long and varied list.

Usually I just laugh it off and say that it gives me something to do to keep out of trouble.

But I have a reason for each and every goal that I have listed. They are more than desires, they are more than dreams or wishes. These are things that I want for very real, very personal, very tangible reasons. These are things that, if I didn't do them, I would feel like I had let myself down, that I had settled for less than I could be or do or make out of my life.

And I don't know about you, but I rend to get overwhelmed by all the things that "need" to be done every day. I find myself faced with so many things calling for my time and attention that I don't accomplish anything by the end of the day.

But this list keeps me grounded. When I have a few hours of "free" time, I can turn to my list and work on the next item that strikes my fancy. Make a list of all of Katharine Hepburn's movies. Design the quilt for Scott. Window shop online for new dishes. Cut out the canvas for my floor.

By having this list, I am getting things finished that I know I would still simply be wanting to have done. My dad's scrapbook is completed. It took me almost 5 years to do it. Well, actually, it took me about 5 days, spread out over 5 years. And now I ma halfway to having the one for my mom's side of the family completed as well.

I have almost stopped dropping f-bombs. Checked the 7 day goal off the list, and I am now on day 16 of the 30 day goal. I think I am going to do it, and that makes me really happy.

Flowers, calling my mom weekly, writing to my family members, these are all little things that make me happy, that make me feel like I am in touch with the nice and good things in my world. So while you might not care about flowers at all, mine make me smile every time I see them. And there is no such thing as too much happiness in life.

There are a number of physical challenges on my list. Things I want to be able to say that I have done to prove to myself that I am capable and confident. But up until now they have been simply dreams. With my list, I am now moving forward in making these dreams a reality. I am finding out the amount of planning an preparation that is required for each one, and finding ways to work on each little step.

To those who think I have bitten off more than I can chew, I respectfully disagree. And I guess only time will tell. Yes, there are a lot of things still to be accomplished. And it is possible that I won't be able to say "DONE!" on the 1001st day. But I am not worrying about that right now. I believe that I can accomplish each and every one of those 101 items. On the cover of my 101 Things in 1001 Days binder I have the following quote:

Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live the world they've been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It's an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.

Remember, I have completed two marathons!

Looking forward to some dog days

2011-02-26T08:47:00.000-08:00

This is an Irish Wolfhound. Kinda big, huh? It's the kind of dog I would really really like to have, if I could have a dog. But the amount of space needed to keep it happy - and the amount of food! So I have had to adjust my sights to something a bit more realistic.

Years ago, when I was a junior in high school, I bought a cut little puppy at the pound. The man at the pound assured me that the puppy would not grow up to be very large - a requirement that Mom laid out. The cute little puppy, Frisky, turned out to be a German Shepherd, weighing in at 95 pounds. He was gorgeous, full of energy, huge, and a tad bit bonkers.

(This isn't Frisky, but it is a German Shepherd, so it will do)

Frisky loved people and when someone would come to the door Frisky didn't bark at them. Or bite them. Or jump up on them. No, Frisky would wag, wag, wag his tail and squirm closer and closer to the visitor, and then he got so excited he peed on their feet.

Frisky came to a sad end which I won't detail here, but I have always longed for a large dog since then.

My next dog was the polar opposite of my previous big dog. He was Kermit, a toy poodle. So much for my big dogs, right? He really was never my dog, though. Yes, I was the one who brought him home, but I was a college student, and couldn't take him with me back to the dorms, so my Mom agreed to keep Kermie for a while. She kept him for 12 years until his death.

(Again, not Kermit, but this guy could be his brother!)

My husband is allergic to dogs and cats, so we can't have an indoor dog. But some day, when we get a little land so that a dog could be outside with room to roam, we will get my German Shepherd. Once again, I will have a big dog to run with, play with, and rely on for some protection.

I just hope he doesn't pee on your feet.

Time to turn on your brain....me too!

2011-02-25T06:42:00.000-08:00

Not sure you can see this very well, but it is a little snowman I built on the hood of our truck yesterday morning. He lasted about a mile and then sailed off in a flurry of snow and wooden arms. The photo has nothing to do with this blog; I just thought he was cute and wanted to share him.

A few days ago a friend called me at my cell phone number from his cell phone. The reception was so poor I could barely hear him and he thought I didn't know him or was angry with him. I spend all day on the phone at work, and sometimes I can barely hear or understand callers who are using their cell phones.

It got me to thinking that we are pretty stupid people.

I am old enough to remember when the only phone anyone had was a land line. And you expected crystal clear connections every time you made or received a call. Static on the line was unacceptable. Voices fading in and out was unacceptable. And dropped calls? Not tolerated. Once you were connected you expected to stay connected unless a) one of you hung up, or b) a phone line went down. Otherwise, there was no acceptable excuse for being disconnected before you hung up.

I am also old enough to remember when there was this room in every house called a kitchen. It had appliances in it designed to store, prepare, and cook food that was later served in a meal at a table where all of the family members would gather, sit, eat, and enjoy the food and the company. Sure, there was a certain amount of work involved in the overall preparation and cleanup of the meals, and the quality and quantity of the food in the meals varied, there weren't always a lot of food choices within the meal, and sometimes you were served something that you would rather die than eat (liver and onions with a side of lima beans and mashed potatoes from a box immediately comes to mind). But overall, the meals I ate at home - whether cooked by Mom, a grandma, or myself - were good meals.

Here's the part about us being stupid....

We have let marketers sell us quite the bill of goods. We have decided to sacrifice quality for "convenience". I put convenience in quotation marks for a reason. As a HUGE fan of my smarter-than-me phone, I love being able to check my emails on breaks at work. I love being able to make phone calls from my car (hands-free of course, and always paying attention to the road). I love being able to take a picture and immediately send it to my friends and my "friends" world-wide. But I lived without all of these things just a few years ago. My life will not end if I don't check my emails until I get home at night. I do have the weekend for calling my family in far-off and exotic locations like Miami and Pittsburgh. And I am not convinced that the world is any better for seeing a photograph of my front yard with snow in it.

Sure, my phone is fun. Sure, there are times when it makes life easier. But is it any better when I have conversations that sound like this: "What?.....Wait, I didn't hear that last bit.....You're breaking up.......Crap, we're heading into a tunnel, so if I lose you I'll call you back on the other side." Really? That is considered convenience? And no, this is not because of my carrier. I have had two, and the problems are real, regardless of who provides your cell phone service. Admit it, your cell phone's reception is not as good as that of your land line. Or at least your pre-VOIP land-line.

And we have accepted the premise that the convenience of frozen food, boxed meals, deli food, fast-food and most restaurant food is the most important factor in choosing our meals. So what if the food isn't really made the way we like it? So what if it is five to twenty times more expensive than the cost of making the identical meal at home? So what if it isn't the healthiest choice available? We believe that we are busy busy people with too much to do and too little time to do it. Something has to give, and it sure isn't going to be our favorite TV shows, or our busy after school schedules, or our time on Facebook. And besides, we are tired, and we worked hard all day, so the last thing we want to do is cook when we get home. So is it Taco Bell or Applebee's or Papa Murphy's, or Stouffers tonight?

I don't consider myself a Luddite. I like my technology just fine. I don't understand it. I still have to call my son for "tech support" But I am not advocating throwing out our cell phones and other technology.

And I am not saying that we should stay home and be housewives or househusbands simply to provide cooked meals for our families.

But I am saying that we have bought the marketing hook line, and sinker.

We don't even think about what we do anymore. We have become brainwashed into thinking that "convenience" is about being available to anyone and everyone, and having anyone and everything at our fingertips, 24/7. We believe that we are too busy to be bothered with cooking and that processed and pre-packaged foods taste good enough. (I will always contend that Mom's spaghetti sauce beats the pants off of Olive Garden any day, and anyone's grilled burgers taste better than Burger King's flame broiled and microwaved burgers)

No, I am not arguing for getting rid of all of this, or even any of it. I am simply asking us all to think about what we are doing. To consider our choices. And then to really make a choice and not allow some really clever marketer to lead us around by our ears, our bellies, and our egos.

Assuming

2011-02-23T06:37:00.000-08:00

You've heard the jokes about don't assume because it makes an ass out of you and me. (I first heard that while watching The Bad News Bears....how's that for old?!) But let's face it. We all make assumptions all the time. You have to. Can you imagine checking and double checking everything all day? You assume that your car is where you left it. You don't go out and check every once in a while to verify that it is still there. We assume that our key still works in the front door of our house. We don't check it before we leave to make certain that we can get back in the house at the end of the day. I wake up assuming that the laws of gravity still operate. I don't throw a pillow on the floor just to make sure that it falls rather than floats.

We assume, and we really do have to.

But sometimes our assumptions can cause unintentional problems. Thus all the "ass-u-me" jokes.

In my job we emphasize communication. It's very important to communicate well, considering the kinds of questions we are required to answer. And one of the things they teach us is to state all of our assumptions. So if you called to ask me a tax question and didn't specifically say that you were talking about your 2010 taxes, I would have to tell you that I am making that assumption. And that I assume you are talking about your personal, rather than your business, tax return. Seems silly, right? But laws change, and the rules for personal and business returns are different. So those assumptions can be a big deal.

Yesterday I spoke to a young lady with a question. I stated my assumptions and it startled her to hear such, to her, obvious statements being made. And she asked me why I was doing what I was doing. Once I explained she said, "Oh, what a great idea! Wouldn't it be wonderful if everyone had to do that?"

I don't know if she was simply referring to customer service-type situations, or about people in general, but I have to agree that it would be wonderful if we all stated our assumptions up front. When I tell you my assumptions about your taxes you can either agree with me, and we move on, or you correct me, and I adjust my way of thinking, and we move on.

Imagine if that is how all of our conversations proceeded. No more false assumptions based on clothes, hair styles, method of transportation, the people we associate with, our jobs, our houses, our cars, our mothers, out housekeeping, our diets, and on and on. If we had the courage to state our assumptions, no, if we knew that, like my job, it was a requirement to state all assumptions, we would be more cautious about the assumptions we make. Imagine not assuming that woman on the bus with twenty eleven packages and four layers of outdoor clothing on is a homeless person (maybe she has no other way to travel but by bus, and can only make one trip to the store a month and it is February after all). Or not assuming that the man with slurred speech is drunk (did you know that a number of medications can cause slurred speech, and stroke victims may also find that their speech is no longer clear?) If we didn't assume all "fringe" people were radicals, or that our way of living is the only acceptable way to live, or that there is only one right way to hold a pencil.....

I could go on and on.

But I would challenge you today to examine your assumptions. Think about what you are assuming as you come across various people, even your family. Ask yourself if those assumptions are valid. Maybe even state an assumption or two and prepare to be amazed.

I assume you can do it.

And I assume that you will!

And in case you like the tshirt.....To Save Time Lets Just Assume I'm Never Wrong Women's Tee Shirt Medium-Light Blue Babydoll (petite fit); Let's Assume I'm Never Wrong Magentic Mini Tin

DANGER: Poking into the past can be interesting AND troubling

2011-02-22T06:38:00.000-08:00

Last night I completed another item on my 101 things to accomplish in 1001 days. I finished my Dad's side of the family's scrapbook. Initially it was just to be about my Dad, but it morphed into the entire James family, from the late 1600s to my Dad's death in 2006.

I have already shared with you the story of my Civil War relative with PTSD who left his wife. But he is not the most interesting person in my family tree. There was a woman in the early 1800s who gave birth out of wedlock to a son. Scandalous enough for the time, but the father of the baby was a Native American. Family legend has the father being a famous chief. Pretty cool, huh? However, I am a historian and wanted to know the facts, so I roped my son in to assist me and we determined that more than likely we are NOT descended from this chief. If I could locate any of my Uncle Bill's sons and get one of them to submit to DNA testing we could determine the truth for certain (apparently the testing has to be done on a son of a son.....so those three are the only ones who qualify out of all 34 of my cousins).

Then there was another lady who was really cranky. At least I assume so, based on her will. She tells her three daughters they get nothing since she already took care of their weddings. One son gets $5, the other gets all of her land - over 100 acres, with the house, barn, various out buildings, all the livestock, and farm implements. But only on the condition that he provide her a place to live, takes care of her through her final days, and provides a proper funeral and burial. If he fails, everything goes to the $5 brother. Needless to say, the son did his duty and got his big fat inheritance. I am sure the family did NOT get together for Christmas after that will!

More recently, my father's grandfather is supposed to have committed suicide. I have several newspaper clippings regarding his death and the police investigation. Seems his beloved first wife died and he remarried. But his second wife was a bit of a disappointment. They did not get along well. But he didn't seem to be depressed or distraught about it. So everyone was surprised when wife #2 came screaming out the front door that John (my family is big on naming everyone either William or John.....they litter the records and only middle initials make it at all possible to keep track of who you are talking about) had killed himself.

The police investigated and sure enough, there lay John on the bathroom floor, blood everywhere, his throat slit, an apparent suicide.

But the family didn't buy it. All of John's children were grown and gone so no one was home but John and wife #2, so there are no other accounts to belie her story. The police ruled it a suicide in spite of the other questionable evidence, which would have made for a great CSI episode. This was the late 20s or early 30s, so no forensic units, no blood spatter patterns, no rigorous questioning of the witness. John's now widow was covered in blood, but that could be explained by here bursting into the bathroom and cradling her dead husband. But there were one or two little bitty items that no one bothered to ask about. Maybe it was easier to label him a suicide and move on. Maybe the police chief was inept. Maybe he didn't like Great-Grandpa John. Who knows?

But the questions that my grandpa always asked started with: Where was the weapon? Wouldn't a suicide still be holding the straight razor, or at least wouldn't it be on the floor near his body? You'd think so, but it wasn't. Turns out my great-grandfather slit his throat (if you believe his widow's story and the evidence of the facts) and then threw the straight razor into the toilet (the razor was indeed found in the plumbing leading from the toilet), then flushed the toilet (the old fashioned kind with a chain from the overhead tank) and then died. Pretty amazing feat, huh?

Wife #2/widow provided what my Grandpa James always considered to be further evidence of her guilt. A few years after the death of her husband (also her second) she was admitted into the state mental hospital where she remained for the rest of her life. I don't know if she was sent there by her children, if she admitted herself, or if the police had something to do with it. My Grandpa James always insisted that her final years in the mental hospital prove that she was crazy and that she was capable of, and indeed did, murder her own husband.

I'm just glad that she isn't related to me except through marriage!

Now that I have my Dad's side of the family's scrapbook complete, I want to start working on my Mom's side of the family. There won't be as much drama, mental illness, and kooky behavior (my Dad's family is Welsh and Irish, Mom's is German and English, so they are much more respectable) but there are some war heroes and one murder victim where I am 100% certain that the men they hanged for that crime were innocent and were simply victims of local bigotry and prejudice.

But I'll save that story for another day.

New Funky Barely-There Running Shoes

2011-02-19T14:32:00.000-08:00

Here are my new running shoes: Vibram KSOs. Initially I wanted Bikilas, but they fit too snugly across the top of my foot and a larger size didn't help. So I switched to the KSOs and they fit like a glove. Literally. Slip one on your foot, wrangle the pinkie toe into its place, and then the rest follow relatively obediently.

I'm not a fan of pink, but I liked these better than the all black ones, so I'm going to wear pink shoes this year.

Walking in them is supposed to get your feet accustomed to the different way of walking, but, to be honest, I am such a bare footed gal anyway, that I don't think wearing them for two weeks will do diddly squat. This morning I decided to take them out for a spin.

Jackie has me scheduled for a 5 miler today, but I knew that wouldn't happen in these. (sorry Jackie - off plan already!) It was a bright, sunny, cold morning when I hit the trail. There wasn't enough wind to make me want a coat, but there was enough sun to make me thankful for my sunglasses. Long sleeves, gloves, and I was ready to try out my new running shoes.

Folks will tell you that running barefooted or in minimalist shoes works different muscles. I have no idea what they are talking about. Everything was the same, my foot strike, the muscles that are used, the way it feels running in Vibrams.

Okay, I lie. It was a TOTALLY different feeling. Sure, you could choose to run in the now-normal heel-striking method that we have all grown accustomed to using with our heavily padded shoes. But to do so would create havoc on your heels in short order. Those of us with plantar fasciitis and/or heel spurs would be in agony after five minutes of slamming our poor heels into the pavement with nothing but a thin layer of rubber merely designed to protect your skin from rocks, gravel, glass (and dog poop!) I thought it might feel awkward or unnatural to run with the ball or forefoot of my feet striking the ground first, and was sort of afraid I would look like some sort of goofball prancing along, but I quickly and comfortably settled into a rhythm and method that worked well for me, didn't feel unnatural, and didn't make me look too odd (I mean we are talking about a nearly 48 year old, overweight woman in spandex - who is going to notice how I run!?!)

I promised myself (and all of my running friends, both real and virtual) that I would only run a mile today. But as I started getting into the groove I wondered how far I could go. I felt good. I wasn't laboring. My breathing didn't sound like I was about to keel over and die. I didn't feel that I was struggling to maintain my pace (although it was still my normal "slow" speed). And, glory be!, my weren't making snotty, rude, or obscene comments as they slammed into the pavement. How 'bout the balls of my feet? Were they in throes of agony instead? Nope, they were fine. No complaints from them.

A little over 3/4 of a mile into my run I discovered that yes indeed ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, running in bare, or nearly bare, feet is substantially different than running in modern running shoes. You use different muscles. My calves, never fans of my running on a good day, were beginning to make noises. My hamstrings were waking up and not liking the fact that they were being used to propel me forward. The arches of my feet were mildly protesting the excess stretching that was required of them. And my ankle muscles (I assume you have muscles in your ankles) - they were whining and complaining about the demands that my new style of running was making on their little pampered selves.

I finished the mile and then did a tiny bit more just to prove that I could, cooled down and stretched. Drove home and passed my next test - I was able to get out of the car without limping or hobbling, something that I often do after a particularly difficult run coupled with insufficient stretching. Since then I have spent over an hour sitting still while I ate lunch and read, and once again, was able to stand and walk without the usual need to "warm up" to get things moving in the proper direction and coherently. It's now 5 hours since my run and I just got up and began walking to prove that I can do it without the ordinary post-run aches and stiffness.

Yes, yes, I only ran a mile. And tomorrow will tell how I really feel post-run. But I think I may have hit upon the proper shoe for me. Less, not more, is what I needed. As a child I spent most of the spring, all of the summer, and as many fall days as I could get away with it, in my bare feet. I climbed trees, waded in creeks, ran across gravel, played soccer in the street, all without the benefit of shoes. We get too much cold rainy weather and I am required to wear shoes at work, so I don't think running barefooted is going to ever be a practical option for me. But these, my minimalist Vibrams, may very well provide the happy medium I need to become a successful runner. Could I run a marathon in these shoes? I don't know. Those of us who have run the marathons know that one mile is nothing compared to the following 25.2.

I am sure that I will have more to say about these shoes as I strengthen my muscles and build up the mileage. Stay tuned!

Vibram Fivefingers Womens KSO Grey/Fuschia/Grey 41

These boots were made for walking

2011-02-13T07:18:00.000-08:00

I did not grow up on a ranch or farm. Didn't spend a lot of time around cowboys. Didn't ever have a horse (although there was that memorable year my sister and I were allowed to ride a horse that belonged to another family in order to get him ready for sale). Currently live in Suburbia, where there is nothing even close to a cowboy.

Yet I long for a pair of cowboy boots. I used to own a pair. Tan suede. Nothing fancy. Yet when I worse them I felt like a different person. Confident. Capable. And, yes, sexy. I wore them with jeans and skirts and just about everything I owned. I did not wear them with shorts. (Sorry, that seems like a silly fashion statement to me. What is it saying: "I forgot to shave but I want to wear shorts"?)

Sadly, the soles wore out. I considered getting re-soled and that's when I really looked at them. The years of living in Portland and wearing them in the rain had taken their toll. They really didn't look all that great any longer. Pretty ratty, actually. Not only were the soles in need of replacing - the toes and back of the heels had been scuffed so much they were no longer suede, but shiny leather. And they were dirty. So I threw them away, figuring I could always buy another pair.

Now here we are, more than 10 years later, and still no boots in my closet. About a million pair of sensible flat black shoes. But nothing that makes me feel different.

Thus item #59 on my list of 101 things to do in 1001 days: Own a pair of kick-ass cowboy boots.

I spent several hours looking online at various boots. Went to the local feed store where they sell boots and Wranglers and dinner-plate sized belt buckles. (who knew there was a market for these things in Gresham, OR?!)

And I have finally found them - the boots that I want. Fancier than the ones I used to own. But not Texas State Fair Rodeo Queen fancy. I like that the toes and instep look like normal, brown cowboy boots and it's not until you see the shaft that you know there is anything unique or fancy about them. So in jeans, they will look like plain old boots. (I like to think that they are a sort of reflection of me...to look at me you would think that I am a normal middle-aged wife and mother. But there is more to me than meets the eye.)

But I'll know.

My blood type

2011-02-12T07:43:00.000-08:00

I was born and raised in Steeler Country. I am a member of the Steeler Nation, and I bleed black and gold. I remember the Immaculate Reception. I remember the Steel Curtain. Mean Joe Greene. Jack Lambert. Ham. Bradshaw. Franco Harris. Lynn Swann. Chuck Noll. Myron Cope - yoi!

I made a celebratory cake designed to look like the Terrible Towel after we won our fourth Super Bowl.

I adore the Rooneys and trust them to make the right choices for the team. They have proven themselves right time and time again, both in choosing the right players to become Steelers, in letting the wrong players go, and in standing behind Big Ben. The choice of Mike Tomlin surprised us all - and we are delighted with the foresight and wisdom behind our amazing new young coach.

The Rooneys and the Steeler Nation think of themselves as all part of the same Steeler Family. And the Steelers were some of the glue that held my father and I together when I was a teen and parents were the worst invention ever. (I am still jealous that my sister, Barb, got to run a race with my dad and a group of the Steelers back in the day - what a treat!) My son was taught from birth to be a Steeler, and to hate the Cowboys, the Raiders, the Brownies, and now the Ravens. Just as a common love of the Steelers bridged the inevitable gap between my dad and I, it did the same thing for my son and I years later. And that common love for the Steelers has given my 10-year-old nephew and I something to talk and text about although separated by over 3000 miles.

So, as you can imagine, I was thrilled when the Steelers made it to the Super Bowl. With six Super Bowl rings firmly on our hands, we were dreaming of number seven. My husband, a native Oregonian, and my father-in-law, also a PNW-er, were amazed that the score at the end of the first quarter didn't cause me any great grief. Ditto for the score at halftime. I explained to them that I had confidence in my team, and that as long as we were within a touchdown with the ball in hand and two minutes on the clock, the Steelers have shown that a victory is still firmly within their grasp.

Sadly, this was not the year for us to gain that seventh ring. People who know that I am a Steeler fan asked if I was upset by the final score. Of course I was sad. But not angry. It was a good game, no bad calls, no really dirty play. There were mistakes that shouldn't have been made. But all-in-all, it was the Super Bowl that we all hoped for, only with the wrong final score.

So what is the purpose of this blog? None, really, I guess. I just wanted to talk about my Steelers one last time this season. With a lockout looming on April 1 I wonder if there will be a draft. Will there be preseason practices for my sister and her son to attend? Will February of 2012 bring us another Super Bowl, or were those predictions of Armageddon in 2012 accurate, and next winter will bring no football.

I am a member of the Steeler Nation, and I bleed black and gold.

You're not getting older, you're getting....

2011-02-11T06:05:00.000-08:00

I'm going grey.

Actually, this is not a news flash. My first five grey hairs came in overnight about 20 years ago when I was working as a men's dorm supervisor. An angry student swung at me and the dean chose not to expel him. But I did get a restraining order which made it almost impossible for the guy to live in the dorm. (and once again, I have gone off topic before I even finish the first paragraph.)

No, I've been going grey for 20 years now. But I've been coloring my hair for about, oh, 18 years. Sometimes I am light brown. Sometimes I am dark brown. Reddish. Auburn. Caramel. Mocha. A touch of burgundy. And one memorable experiment gone badly awry when it became sort of orange-y. If I had to tell you my actual hair color, which I do for ID purposes, I say "brown" but I could not pick out the right color to save my life.

But life has been so busy that I haven't been able to find time to re-color it. And so I have about two inches of grey growing in. Sadly, it isn't 100% grey, it's about one third grey and the rest is brown. Enough grey to notice it, but not enough to look cool.

With no time to fix it, I have reverted to my childhood hairstyle: Pull back the front into two barrettes and call it good.

So my aging hair has caused me to wear it like a child.

I don't mind this hairstyle. It's easy. The headset at work doesn't mess it up. No expensive "product" involved. And drying and styling time is minimal.

I wonder if this means I have given up, or have come to terms.

By not staying up until oh-dark-thirty in the morning to get it colored, have I made the decision that I don't care how I look, since I am old? Have I lost interest in the fight against aging? Against becoming my mother? Against looking my age? (how un-American!)

Or have I come to terms with the fact that, although my father blessed me with his genetic makeup which makes me look a good 5 to 8 years younger than I am, I am, indeed, closer to 50 than to 40? Heck, closer to 50 than to 45! Am I finally able to embrace the fact that I am not a child, not a teen, not a young woman, but a middle-aged woman? I have a child who is closer to 30 than to 20 and my mother is in her early 70s.

Is this a sort of mid-life....not "crisis", but perhaps mid-life peace?

It's nice to think that maybe, after warring with myself for my entire life, I am finally accepting who I am. I'd like to think that this is the answer to why my grey hair is out there for everyone to see.

But I suspect that the real answer is that I am just too busy, and some weekend when we have nothing going on, you'll find me in the bathroom experimenting with the latest color. Maybe strip it and see how I look with totally white hair.......

I suck at my job

2011-01-28T05:59:00.000-08:00

I really do.

My job is to take calls from tax payers who have questions about the tax law. You have a question, maybe "can I claim my granddaughter as a dependent?" and call to find out. I am supposed to ask you some specific questions, discover you if you meet the criteria to claim the girl, and then tell you "yes" or "no" and why. Give you the information, educate you as to why, and move on to the next caller.

Problem is, I can't do it.

In the process of taking your call I find out that you are a single person, low income, you sound scared (who isn't, calling the IRS?!), you don't really seem to know a lot about the tax law, and I suspect that you qualify for the Earned Income Credit and the Making Work Pay Credit, both refundable credits that would put some money in your pocket. But I am not supposed to offer this info. I AM NOT YOUR TAX ADVISOR! I am here to answer your question, the end.

It's killing me, not to help these people. So I find creative ways to phrase my questions so that I can tell you about the credits without just telling you. In the course of asking the required questions I phrase them in such a way that you ask what it is, so I can tell you a bit about the credit, and then (if we're lucky) you ask if you can get that, too. When it all works according to plan, I am such a happy camper. But I have a feeling I am going to get busted for it someday.

Then there was the combat-wounded veteran I talked to. He called because money that was to be non-taxable was listed as taxable. Come to discover, this is something that the courts ordered corrected TWENTY YEARS AGO and the computer programs still haven't been corrected. I could tell him how to "fix" part of it on his tax return, but the rest - well, finally I had to suggest he call him congressman and senator to get it corrected. The telephone number I had for him to call to get the other corrections taken care of was one that he already had called. And their response was basically "sucks to be you."

This was three days ago and I am still steamed about it.

Every day there are people I talk to who simply need some guidance. They need an advocate. They need a person who will point them in the right direction. They aren't looking for someone to do it for them. They aren't looking for a free ride (although I get plenty of them, too). They are just simply ignorant of the law, ignorant of their rights, ignorant of how to work through the system. They want to do things properly, and they sure don't want to arouse the wrath of the IRS. But they just don't know.

And I want to help them. But it's not my job. For every person I spend extra time sneakily finding ways to tell them things they don't know, I am making two others wait on the phone longer than they should have to wait. It's a catch-22. Either I help everyone a little bit but not enough, or I help a few people fully and make the others do without.

I'm not complaining about my job, or what I am supposed to do. I completely understand that I was NOT hired by the US government to be a tax advisor to these folks. But my instinct is to help; to offer them the full benefit of my knowledge and the tax code. But that isn't what you all are paying me for.

Anyone want to pay me to be a tax advisor to the good citizens of this country who want to do it right but don't have a clue?

Serenity and Elvis and Making Peace with Your Life

2011-01-21T06:14:00.000-08:00

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

I grew up with this prayer and I have to admit I hated it. It seemed so weak and wimpy. Maybe because it was one of those responsive readings, and hearing a hundred or more people muttering it on a Sunday morning made the prayer seem embarrassing or silly.

As an adult I ran into it again in various 12-step programs. Again, it was muttered by the attendees, but since it's Portland, the "God" part was taken out, so we could be addressing whatever divinity or life force or universe we preferred. (This is the city that houses the Church of Elvis, after all!)

But just a few years ago I ran across another bunch of 12-steppers who did not hurriedly mumble their supplication, reading if from a card or paper. Instead, they had it memorized and, with heads up, loudly made their demands.

These men and women required serenity. There were things in their lives beyond their control and they needed serenity to accept that fact.

They wanted courage. Some things are within our control and must be addressed and changed, no matter how difficult, and so they wanted the courage to set to those difficult tasks.

And the demanded wisdom. No sense in courageously attacking things beyond our control, now is there?

I loved these people for their faith and dependence and wisdom. They knew what they wanted and they were not afraid to ask for it.

I thought of the prayer and that little band of stalwarts this morning when I finally decided, at 430, to go ahead and get out of bed. My yesterday went from bad to worse (no, not MIL issues) and by 930 last night just about everything that could have gone wrong, had. I won't bore you with details, but suffice it to say my doctor's visit wasn't a 100% happy one, I ended up being 2 hours late to work because of it (thank goodness for sick time to cover that), as the day ended I was handed info on 2 calls that I made that I will be reviewed on today and they were bad calls. I have been tossing and turning and worrying and fretting all day and all through the night. (Okay, not tossing and turning at work, but you get my meaning)

But about an hour ago I realized that what is done is done and it can't be undone. No sense in fretting over it. Learn from my mistakes and move on. No, the review will not be pleasant. And yes, my conviction that my manager doesn't like me will only be solidified by this process, so I will have to work on not taking anything personally, but professionally. And no, the doctor's visit wasn't quite as positive as I would have liked, but he didn't shake his head and somberly pronounce me dead, so there's that to consider! (I did have to laugh at my doc, because I think he might be 25 years old. Or going on 25. And he was acting all wise and grandfatherly with me as if he was the kindly family GP from a Norman Rockwell painting. Not condescending or anything, just acting and speaking about 40 years older than he appears to be,)

Today, as I face the music at work and in other areas of my world, I will have to keep this in the forefront of my mind:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

And maybe I'll stop at church on the way in to work!

Am I smarter than......

2011-01-20T06:07:00.000-08:00

Why is #7 on my list "Become a member of MENSA"? It's really a vanity thing for me. And maybe a bit of wishful, or wistful, thinking.

I have mentioned before that growing up with three younger sisters meant that we were labeled. For the convenience of others who couldn't seem to keep us straight. There was the pretty one, the athletic one, the funny one, and then I was the smart one. Back then I believed it. I was the smart one. Not funny, pretty, or athletic. But smart.

However, you wouldn't have guessed it based on my behaviors. I dated the wrong guys, I didn't bother trying in school (although I did take all the AP classes that were out there), I went to an easy-to-get-into college, I married the wrong guy (note to all you single gals out there - if, as you are standing there at your wedding, you find yourself thinking "I can say 'no'. Sure it will cause an uproar, but Mom and Dad will take care of returning gifts, making apologies, and shielding me. I really should say 'no'." then SAY 'NO' YOU SILLY GIRL!! (sorry, had to get that out of my system)

Anyway. My life has been one stupid mistake after another. Things that I knew better and did them any way, or didn't, as the case may be. Getting a degree in Medieval History. NOT getting a PhD while I could. Running injured. Staying in jobs that were literally killing me. Ignoring good advice. And on and on.

These days I am feeling pretty dumb. I look over my thesis and I can barely believe that person who wrote it is me - I swear I don't even know what all the words mean! I have a Master's degree and have taught at colleges and universities but I work in a call center.

I find myself doing stupid things or foolish things or silly things and I say to myself "If you're the smart one, how the heck do your sisters even survive?" I am only half joking when I say it.

I know that there was never a "smart one" or an "athletic one" or any other "one". We were all each of those girls, just in varying degrees at that moment in time. And there was no stasis - our smartness or prettiness or funniness levels waxed and waned. Even today you can't label us that way. We still are all four works in progress.

But I need something to validate that smart girl part of me. So MENSA is my choice. I know, there are all sorts of smarts out there, and successfully meeting the requirements of membership no more "proves" me smart than failure to do so "proves" me dumb. But is has always been one of those "wouldn't it be cool if..." things, so I am going to try it.

I have sent in for, and received, the practice test. Now I need to find 30 minutes of quiet to take the test, then mail it in and see what the preliminary analysis is. If it looks good, I will schedule an appointment to take the real test, with a live proctor, later this spring.

As long as they don't do background checks, looking for "100 foolish things you've done in the past that exclude you from MENSA" I should be okay!

Looking to test your wits? Try Match Wits With Mensa: The Complete Quiz Book (Mensa Genius Quiz) or The Mensa Genius Quiz-a-day Book

What's in a name?

2011-01-19T06:24:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0SSeACInqw

To start, go ahead and click on the link. That will give you a soundtrack for this blog. It's been going through my head all morning, so you might as well share the love!

I've been thinking about names a lot recently. My mother-in-law is "Libby" - always has been. But her legal name is "Elizabeth". DO NOT CALL HER ELIZABETH! She never liked the name, never answered to it. She is Libby. If you looked at all of her official documents - driver license, bank records, old W-2s, you would swear her name is Libby. Poor old unloved Elizabeth. Nowhere to be found.

My mom is Betty. Also not an Elizabeth. But she never was. Her given name is "Betty". And if you offered to make her an Elizabeth, she would smack you. She doesn't like the name. At least not for her. She likes QUEEN Elizabeth just fine, can't imagine her being "Queen Betty", but don't call Mom "Elizabeth."

My name isn't really "Kate". I don't care for my first name, so over 20 years ago I just decided to go by Kate. Someday I will have to go make it legal and official. I've only ever been Kate to Scott and my Oregon family. Heck, my son has heard me go by Kate for almost his entire life. If you asked him what my full name is, I bet he would start with "Kate".

It seems name things are mostly a female issue. Is it Barb or Barbie or Barbara? Jean or Jeanie? Melissa or Missy? Maureen or Mo? Caroline or Carol? We care about what we are called. Men usually don't mind. (Although I do have an Uncle Earl who has been "Uncle Bud" always and forever. His son is a junior, and so goes by "Little Bud".)

At work I have been collecting unique and unusual first names. When folks are calling to verify their ability to claim a child as a dependent I will ask for the child's first name, so that I can call him or her by name, rather than just "your kid". So far I have run across a girl named London. Her brother is Polo. Her OTHER brother is Tatiano. (Note the "o" on the end - that makes is masculine and so is fine for a boy's name - that's what mom told me) There is a young lady named Integra. Another named Miracle. And one named J. Just the letter. There was one interesting boy's name. It seems the parent/s were torn between something ethnic and something very Roman Empirish when they chose the name Keyontavius for their son. What in the world is the name HIS friends call him??

Shakespeare said "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" and yet Juliet plaintively requested that Romeo "Deny thy father and refuse thy name" so it sounds like even The Bard was conflicted about names. But my Dad never was. Although his name is not the sort to cause any confusion (it was "John" after all!) folks still managed to mess it up, mostly because he had a "first name" for a last name, too. Bu Dad didn't care. He always said "Call me anything you want. Just don't call me late for dinner."

If that little taste of Southern Fried Rock made you hungry for more....Lynyrd Skynyrd - All Time Greatest Hits

Nearing the end

2011-01-15T06:55:00.000-08:00

This photo was taken in May or June of 2010. Just 6 months ago. We (Scott, Jeremy, and Jenn and I) had gone to visit Libby who was recuperating from her broken hip in a nearby nursing home. Libby wasn't in any pain, and was able to talk and laugh with us while we visited. I like this photo because it is one of the last ones that show Libby really "with" us.

I wrote a big old blog and then deleted it, because nothing is coming out right. The short version (if I can keep this one short) is that it is a matter of hours now. I'm heading off to sit with her (is that a woman thing? an East Coast thing? all I know is that Scott and Marv see no reason for me to do it, and I can't imagine NOT doing it) in a few hours, and will stay until the end or they send me home. I'm guessing I am over my cold enough for it not to be a problem for anyone else in the house, and I don't think it's going to matter to Libby's health, one way or the other.

Reflections on eating a banana

2011-01-14T06:25:00.000-08:00

In my efforts to become more mindful - well, who am I kidding, there's no "more" to it, how about simply:

In my efforts to start becoming mindful...

Okay. In my efforts to start becoming mindful I tried to pay attention to eating my banana yesterday. Really think about how it felt and tasted in my mouth. Where my tongue tasted the banana. How the banana looked as I peeled it. How it smelled. I was really trying to pay attention to what I was doing, and to focus on the task at hand, without letting my mind wander.

After all, how long does it take to eat a banana? I mean it's not a long and involved process. People practice mindfulness all day long, focusing on the task at hand, relishing it, savoring it, putting all of their psychic energy into what they are doing at the moment. Surely I could do that for the length of time it takes to eat a banana.

Nope. Not a chance. I made it maybe one minute and then realized that something had caught my attention and there I was, mindlessly munching away, thinking about something else.

Ahem! Back to the banana, please!

It took several attempts at refocusing, but I did manage to finish my banana, thinking more about what I was doing than I have in a very long time.

This is the book that I am currently reading. It is a slender little book. Simple. It requires no great effort to read. It is easy to understand.

And I have had to force myself to read and re-read the first three chapters over and over.

Because in my haste to learn this thing they call mindfulness, I realized that I keep speed-reading through the book, trying to finish it rather than trying to read it.

That has been a revelation to me.

My focus in life is more about finishing the task than doing it. And not simply onerous chores, where I could perhaps be excused for my desire to just get it over with so that I can move on. No, I realized that, like with the banana episode yesterday, I so want to accomplish everything that I think I need to complete in a day, that I never slow down to relish or savor anything that I am in the process of doing.

I read during meals, meaning my mind is divided between my food and my book or magazine, so neither gets the attention it deserves. I iron and watch TV. While I put away Christmas things (a weeks-long process at our house - the goal is to have it all down and away by Valentine's Day!) I don't reflect on the items, their sentiment or sentimental value; nor do I wonder why we always put that thing in that place. I simply put things away, all the while scanning the room for the next object, my mind already leaping ahead to the next task, calculating the absolute minimum amount of time I have to spend putting away Christmas things so that I can safely say I worked on the task.

My life is being lived in anticipation of the future, which sounds great, but what it really means is that I am throwing away the present at the same time. Perhaps that explains, at least in part, why my memory is so faulty these days. I am not paying attention to my own life, and so have very little recollection of what happened to it.

So while the whole eating-a-banana-mindfully experiment was not tremendously successful, it demonstrated that I can live mindfully, but I really have to work at it. And it also caused me to realize that I am throwing away my life, in a sense, by spending all of my time anticipating and planning for the future, which I never fully experience since I am busy planning for the next future.

Today I will choose some other small and simple task to practice mindfulness. It's time I paid attention to my life.

Interested in other books about mindfulness? Try these: The Mindfulness Solution: Everyday Practices for Everyday Problems, Mindfulness in Plain English: Revised and Expanded Edition, A Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction Workbook, and also by Thich Nhat Hanh Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life.

Sick Days

2011-01-13T10:33:00.000-08:00

The luxury of a day off. Why is it that we have to be sick, I mean really, really sick, before we give ourselves a day off of work and chores and responsibilities? As the man once said, which one of us, on our death bed, will say "I should have gone to work more?"

Now don't get me wrong, I am all in favor of people having a job. Work is good for us. It gives us a purpose. It breaks up the days. It means you get taxed so I have a job! But why is it that we live to work?

I have been fighting a cold all week. It started last Saturday and here it is, Thursday, and it's still hanging on. It has me so drained that yesterday at work I literally put my head down on my desk to nap between calls. I was coughing and sneezing so frequently that I became an instant black-belt practitioner of the use of the "mute" button while talking to the tax payers. Last night I was so tired when I got home that I fell asleep within minutes of sitting down and still slept all night. Today I have taken a nap already and it's only 10:19!

Finally common sense asserted itself. I am sick. I have sick time accumulated already. Sick time is to use when you are sick, the idea being you can stay home and get well AND get paid for it. Pretty nifty idea, huh? My boss doesn't mind if I take a sick day. Probably is glad I did, since she doesn't have to listen to me sniffle and snort today. The government gave me those sick days to use in just such a situation.

So why is it that I felt like a slacker when I called in?

Why do we feel guilty for admitting that we are sick and need a day to recover?

Why do we think that our company will fall apart if we are absent for a mere 8 hours?

Why do we drive ourselves like slaves when we don't need to do it?

Yes, I know that there are folks out there who don't get sick time. You don't work, you don't get paid. But most of us do have that available to us and rarely, if ever, use it. We think we have to be near death to call in sick.

And when I talk about calling in sick Scott always makes me feel like a total slacker. Don't get me wrong, he NEVER says not to do it. He encourages me to take the time if I feel like crud. But somewhere in there he will mention oh-so-casually, that he hasn't missed a day of teaching since 1999. Oh, except for the one day he took off to go to my dad's funeral. So that doesn't count, 'cause it was for me, not for him.

Well today I called in sick. Took my nap. Sat around and stared out the window at nothing. Tried to read and couldn't concentrate. Ditto for playing solitaire. I did try to get in to see my acupuncturist. But she's not in on Thursdays. Drat. But my massage therapist is, and so I will go see her later this afternoon. Until then, I'll just sit here and recuperate. Let my batteries recharge. Let my body heal itself.

And maybe some day this spring I will take a sick day before I get sick, just to do nothing and enjoy every minute of it.

The Sick Day Handbook: Strategies And Techniques for Faking It; Ferris Bueller's Day Off Bueller...Bueller... Edition (Special Collector's Edition); Probably The Best Music For Relaxation and Meditation

What a night!

2011-01-12T07:04:00.000-08:00

I literally crawled home last night.

After a night on the town with Robin, my running buddy, it was the only way I could get to my house. My car is parked two streets from our house, facing the wrong way, but against the curb - sorta. But there was no way I was going to walk to my house. I stood there, wobbling, took a tentative step and fell. I tried to stand and couldn't even manage it. I seriously considered the possibility of taking off my shoes to see if I had better luck in my bare feet. No really, I did. Eventually I hit upon the idea of crawling. If you had driven up our street last night you would have been treated to the sight of me crawling on hands and knees along the driveway. Not pretty, but it worked! I was able to haul myself to an upright position at the front porch, and use the banister to steady myself as I laboriously climbed the seven steps to my front door.

I could blame Robin, but she really isn't responsible. So I blame running.

Last night Robin and I went to the premiere of the Hood to Coast documentary. (which was awesome, by the way) Afterward we went our separate ways via public transportation. My train, of course, showed up at the stop 26 minutes after hers left it! Some folks are born lucky.

By the time I got to where my car was parked, the lot was deserted. I mean not a car in the place, and it normally holds hundreds of cars. The late hour was part of it, no doubt. But 10:15 pm doesn't explain why there was no traffic on the streets, and almost none on the nearby highway.

When I stepped out of the train, the reason for the ghost-town parking lot was manifested. There was a sheet of ice covering everything. Nice, glossy, ice. Shiny. Pretty. Slippery. Deadly. I started hyperventilating.

The car was parked about 35 yards from the train. It took me 10 minutes to get to it. I turned on the engine (and my already belabored heart skipped a beat as the little-engine-that-could refused the first attempt), plugged in my phone to recharge it (just in case), called Scott to get a weather report (it's maybe a little slippery, but fine), and sat to wait for the car to get warm and my nerves to calm down so that I could scrape the windows.

Ten minutes after that, with the car warm on the inside, and the windshield ice-free, I gathered up my courage and put it in "drive".

We all know that it is a good idea to test the road conditions when it is safe to do so, so creeping along at maybe 10 mph I hit the brakes and skidded a la Tokyo Drift. Okay. In slow mo. But you get the picture.

Now terrified beyond words (for those of you who don't know, black ice in Wyoming caused an accident of epic proportions, flipping our pickup and tossing Scott out from under the canopy - I no longer "do" ice) I faced a steep hill with a sharp curve just to get out of the driveway of the train station. With a lot of praying, a lot of self control to keep my foot off of the brake, and just enough pressure on the accelerator, I fish-tailed up the hill and managed to stop before I skidding into the street.

Made it.

Only 6.5 miles to go.

I won't detail the nightmare of driving on ice-covered streets. Of chugging along at 15 mph. Of realizing with horror that because I couldn't get the ice off the rear window, and had neglected to scrape the side mirrors, I could not see to change lanes. And as I was in the left lane and would need to make a right turn, that was a problem. (in case you are interested, I did it!) There were city buses and cars and trucks pulled over and piled up left and right. Idiots who drove 40. Folks who thought MORE pressure on the brakes was needed due to the ice.

If you've never been to our house, the last mile is the worst. Picture a half-mile long, very steep inclined bridge. Then you get a reprieve of a quarter mile of gentle uphill. One more steep uphill section where you also make a sharp left turn across traffic followed immediately by a right turn, only now you are heading down hill. Then just a bit more gradual downhill to our street which, again, begins with a steep uphill.

I made it, white-knuckled with terror, to our street, turned, gently hit the accelerator, and prayed. My little Suzuki Swift pulled a mere 20 feet up the hill then went from forward motion to treadmill (running in place that is) to gently sliding down the hill. Backwards. Oh, and sideways. I got the car to stop. And then tried again. Exact same results.

Exhausted, both physically and mentally, I said "screw it!" and managed to get back onto the other street where I parked on the wrong side of the road, but in a legal parking section, gathered my things, and headed for home on foot.

All went well until I hit the hill, and then I could get no traction. If there was something I could hold onto, like the rock wall of the corner house, I was fine. But the open tundra of the driveway defeated me. And so I crawled. A mere tenth of a mile, but ice melts and I soon had soaked jeans and soaked gloves. Ahhh, the misery!

Warm and dry and the arms of someone I love never felt better.

Hood to Coast, the Movie

2011-01-11T06:35:00.000-08:00

It's almost time. Tonight is the world premiere of the Hood to Coast movie. Wanna see the trailer? Go to: www.hoodtocoastmovie.com This is what I did last summer. And what I am going to do this summer. With 11 other crazy people and 2 nutso drivers. And 12,000 of our closest friends and competitors.

It was a blast.

Hood to Coast proclaims itself epic, and has done so long before everyone and everything is epic.

It deserves the name. Imagine running 6 miles. Now do it again. And one more time. All in 24 hours. You'll run at least one leg of your three in the dark. And I guarantee at least one leg is uphill.

Sometimes there are so many other runners with you that you feel claustrophobic. At other times you would swear that you are the only runner on the course.

The course starts at Mt. Hood, at Timberline Lodge, and leg one drops what seems like 6000 feet in 6 miles. I love leg one! It ends at Seaside, OR, where the entire team joins the final runner to cross the finish line in the sand. And in between are 197 miles of pain and bliss, fun and fear, cramped conditions, portapotties, frantic efforts to get to the next exchange, and eating out of a cooler. There are serious injuries. Digestional upsets. Frayed nerves. And valiant runners.

You cram 6 runners into one van and party all the way to the coast, blister, sunburn, shinsplints, and all.

I love it.

So tonight I relive the agony and the ecstasy, the pain and the glory.

And I bet I run tomorrow morning, even if Portland is calling for sleet tonight!

Hood To Coast for the soundtrack to the movie

Weather

2011-01-09T07:10:00.000-08:00

A friend recently wrote to me and commented on a pattern she has seen in my life: she postulated the theory that winters are harder on me than she had realized and I tend to withdraw almost to hermitdom in my efforts to retreat from the dreary world around me. Perspicacious woman that she is, she is correct.

Winters in the Willamette Valley are sheer torture to me. According to the Western Regional Climate Center, we get 296.6 cloudy and partly cloudy days a year. And only 68.4 "clear" days (0/10 to 3/10 average sky cover) per year. So yes, this part of the world is hard on me.

(I should move in with my sister in Arizona, where they get 222 clear days per year. This is the sister who sent me a message earlier this week which read "Your weather sucks. Yuck." And she is right. It does.)

Anyway, I am not a mushroom, and I need sunlight. That is why my cubicle with a window is so precious to me. The view ain't much, but it's a window to the outside, and when there is any sunlight, I can enjoy it.

Strange as it may sound, cloudy weather on the coast doesn't bother me quite so much. Maybe it's the constant movement of the water. Maybe it's the wind. Maybe I just like the coast. But I do know that I can go to the coast for a weekend and get rained on and love every minute of it and return to Portland feeling refreshed as if I had spent the same amount of time in Eastern Oregon where it would have been sunny and cold.

But back to my oh-so-wise friend and her observation. I think she is right. I didn't used to do the hermit thing every winter, not even the first winters I lived out here. So maybe it's a combination of the weather and peri-menopause. Or maybe it's the weight of successive winter dreariness. Or maybe it's some other yet-to-be-discovered factor.

But I do know that my impending visit to the doc will help. As will my lovely window view. And my efforts to get outside more on sunny days.

But I am still going to try to get Scott to move to the desert.

La Crosse Technology WS-7014CH-IT Wireless Weather Station ; Oregon Scientific BAR388HGA Wireless Weather Station with Atomic Clock, Black

Drama Gate and the Prodigal Dad

2011-01-08T12:03:00.000-08:00

When I am at work people call me and tell me the most amazing things about themselves, their lives, their attitudes, their history, their futures. Often times I suspect that they don't realize just how much they are revealing. In their minds they are simply stating a few facts, answering a few of my questions, and receiving the answers they need.

My training is to answer questions about taxability, deductions and credits, and exemptions. We call it the "Drama Gate". The reason is obvious. Folks tend to get worked up when they discover that they have to claim all of their bingo winnings. Or that they can't deduct the cost of paying for their daughter's lavish wedding. Or that even though he has faithfully paid every penny of child support, and works two jobs to do so, dad can't deduct the kids on his taxes because they spend more than half the year living at mom's house.

Most of my callers are people who are feuding with their babymamas and babydaddies about who gets to claim the kids' deductions. All that these folks seem to care about is how much money their kids can bring in, and/or how to make a preemptive strike to prevent the other parent from claiming the child.

I know, I haven't lived in their shoes. I shouldn't judge. And maybe the callers are light years beyond where they "ought" to be, given their own background and surroundings, but it's difficult not to compare the tears of the one father who mourned the loss of his daughter for nearly half of his life, and the parents who seem to be interested only in one-upping the other parent in the race to get more. Or prevent the other parent from getting more than they do.

If I was cynical I would point to these people and say "We are a greedy, vindictive and stupid nation". Given my job and the folks I talk to, you can hardly blame me if I said that.

But I realize that I get to talk to more of the folks who are struggling than those who have it all together. By its very nature, my job will exclude those who can keep their lives in order. Let's be honest, you don't call the IRS unless things are a mess.

And if I forget that, all I need to do is remember the man I refer to as the Prodigal Dad. He is also "The Man I Made Cry". And then swear. Almost in the same sentence.
He was calling to see if there was any possible credit for which he was eligible. Because he is on disability he has no tax liability, and since there are only a limited number of refundable credits, there wasn't much to offer him. I told him of the one for which I knew he qualified, and then jokingly asked "There's the adoption credit - did you adopt a child in 2010?"

Imagine my surprise when he started to sob and said "No, but I was adopted. My daughter, who I gave up for adoption 28 years ago, came looking for me." No doubt embarrassed about his emotional response he muttered my bugaboo of an obscenity. Then he really was embarrassed and fell all over himself apologizing.

We concluded the conversation soon after that but since then I have thought of him often. Especially when I get another parent whose children are giant walking dollar signs and apparently nothing more.

The Prodigal Dad. A newly-made first-time father who is still overcome by his second chance.

May we all get that second chance.

Tax 2010/2011 for Dummies; J.K. Lasser's Your Income Tax 2011: For Preparing Your 2010 Tax Return; and for the truly dedicated or masochistic: U.S. Master Tax Guide, Hardbound Edition (2011)

Harder than I thought it was going to be

2011-01-01T08:24:00.000-08:00

This "no saying the F-word" thing is turning out to be much harder than I ever suspected it would be! So far I have made it into day #4 before I blew it. Some days I start over more than a half a dozen times. I am currently on day #2. Again. It's looking like getting that "No saying the F-word for 7 days" off my list is NOT going to be the easy one!

So why is this so difficult for me? I was certainly taught better than this. Saying "Gosh" or "Gee" would have gotten me a scolding growing up, and if I had ever let loose with an f-bomb in my Dad's hearing, I might not have survived it!

And even after my Dad metamorphosized into Mr. Live-and-let-live, he still frowned on vulgarity and coarseness.

Profanity was NOT something I grew up doing.

In my early 20s I was reading a lot of Stephen King books, and good old Steve liberally salts his books with the F-word. And I found myself thinking it a lot. The cure was simple: stop reading Stephen King.

Of course it was my 9-1-1 days that really got me going. You hear a lot of "F#@%" when taking calls from panicked and angry folks. And my co-workers weren't much better. Gradually I picked it up. There were two memorable moments of my use of that word while at work. Once was during a call. I don't remember what the call was about, but the guy was literally using the F-word every other word or more. It got so bad that I couldn't understand him and I needed to do so. Finally I said "Sir, if you don't stop saying "f#@%" I won't be able to help you since I can't understand a word you are saying." Silence on the other end, and then he calmly proceeded to answer my questions with no more profanity.

Lucky for me he took it well. Profanity is expressly NOT allowed, and every word we said was recorded, so if he had complained to my supervisor, I would have been toast.

The second time was even more spectacular. I was dispatching on one of the police nets and we had a little flurry of cop #1 decides to go to cop #2's call, while cop #1 goes off the call, meanwhile cop #3 calls in a traffic stop with a license plate and then cop #1 decides to go help out #3. This makes for a lot of typing really fast, with mostly numbers, so that we have a record of who is going where and when they decided to go another place. I was frantically typing things in and realized that I messed up one location. Frustrated, I muttered "f@$&" under my breath. Seconds later a message flashed across my screen from the sgt - "I heard that" I nearly died! My foot was still on the send pedal when I spoke, so every cop in Gresham hear me, as well as anyone with a police scanner tuned to that frequency. Several other cops sent joshing messages, but I waited in fear for the sgt's call to my supervisor. If he had complained, I was toast. Lucky for me, he was forgiving. But that scared me straight for a long time.

These days I find that I can censor my mouth around family and friends. It is when I am stressed and/or frustrated that I slip up. But not stressed over big things. Silly little things will bring out the F in me. Yesterday morning as I was driving to meet a friend my ear muffs rolled off the seat and onto the floor. No biggie. But I realized that I had just said "f$@#!" And my response to the realization that I had just blown four days?? You guessed it - I said "F@%#" again.

sigh

You might ask why this is such a big deal to me. You hear it all the time from all sorts of people these days. But it still strikes me as coarse and unladylike. I know. A silly sounding reason. But it's the reason that I want to knock it off. I don't want to sound like someone making an appearance on Cops. I don't want to sound white-trashy and common. I want to sound like a mature, grown-up woman with control over her mouth.

So I am back to finishing up day one and getting started on day two. Just six more days to go....