Lady Steele, modern superhero

Dear readers, it's me, Stephanie

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 02:50:00 +0000

Hi there. I know you're wondering where I've been. I have missed our time together, to a degree, and I feel like I owe it to the four or five of you who keep showing up to at least say something about where I've been and what I've been up to.....

I trained again this year for the Susan G Komen 3-Day for the Cure. I walked two to four miles, nearly every day this summer, in temperatures pushing 86 degrees at 5:30 am each day. I put one foot in front of the other, again and again, for more than 600,000 steps on my pedometer.

I found, to my surprise, that the emotional and physical toll that I paid each day in perhaps the hottest summer Texas has logged in decades, has taken the edge off my need to write. In the past, I have used this little forum to air grievances, provide comfort, or numb the pain that comes with the day to day grind of being a grownup. The miles I logged this summer, however, have taken away my need to vent through writing. And for that, I'm sorry.

I have lots of things I'd like to say about my job and some of the people I work with. But since I like my job (even when I don't always like the people), I think it's best I keep my mouth shut. I have plenty to say about politics right now, but I also have a deep-seated need not to piss off those close to me, so keeping my mouth shut is probably the lesser of two evils. Things at home are good more often than not, so I don't have some huge compulsion to air the family dirty laundry online.

I still find things funny and totally share-able, but I'm doing all that sharing through twitter, 140 characters being not so much a challenge, and all... I still find my daughter to be the most amazing human being on the face of the earth. Part of me regrets that I'm not recording her history here, but part of me rejoices that the times she and I share together are ours alone, not meant to be chronicled for the unwashed masses.

Will I be back again, writing soon? It's hard to know. All is good within my soul right now, friends, and I feel like I need to honor that and spend some time away.

I hope you'll keep me on your RSS feeds or check back every now andthem.

My friend is leaving me

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 14:57:00 +0000

Today is a sad, sad day for me, as I'm bidding farewell to my very best BFF at work. She's not leaving mad, she's leaving to go home, near her mother and her college age daughter. She's found a great job with a great company, and I know that this will be a terrific move for her, both financially and mentally.

But that doesn't make it any easier for those of us she's leaving behind.

She's been my lunch buddy for years, and although we didn't start out as besties, we have formed a wonderful friendship. She has been to me like a beloved sister, a confidant and friend. I've been, depending on the circumstances, her harshest critic and her most staunch supporter, and she has done the same for me. She's beeen my sounding board, and I trust her judgement and her insight.

Life is going to bring exciting changes for her, and I am genuinely excited to see her off on her new adventure.

But I know my heart will tug when I pull into our parking garage on Monday and her parking space is empty. Her desk will sit empty, her parking space lonely and unfilled until it gets a new owner. Meetings won't be the same, nor will lunch time.

No more trips to Target, to Ulta, a quick run to pick up sandwiches at the place I always call Roly Poly, even though it has another name. Even now, I can't conjure it, but she'll know exactly what I'm talking about when she reads this.

My heart will be very empty and I know I will miss her immensely. I'm hoping that through the magic of Skype and email, we'll be able to stay in touch. She's a friend for life, and although we won't have our daily time together, I will always know she is there for me, no matter what. And I hope she knows the same about me,

I am surrounded by reminders of her, from birthday wishes, sticky notes, and the kind of artwork friends share amongst themselves. Happy memories of inside jokes and time spent together will always be with me, even after she's packed up her Acadia and headed west.

So it's with more than a tiny lump in my throat that I say farewell to my friend.

I love you, KVC, and I'll miss you more than words could ever express.

Hugs,
S

Yeah, I know a rocket scientist

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Tue, 03 May 2011 03:36:00 +0000

As most of you know, I lead a simple life. I'm a wife, mom, laundress, chauffeur, chef, nurse, head cook and bottle washer. And during my free time, I work 40 hours a week selling things for "the man."

I am plugged into social networking of all sorts. Well, except MySpace, but I think we can all agree that one doesn't really serve my demographic effectively. As a 43-year old female, white, heterosexual, college graduate, full time employee outside of the home, I do have a Facebook account, a LinkedIn account, and *two* Twitter accounts. I am often recommended by various of these social networking sites to connect with folks just like me.

I get lots of people I went to high school with, and lots of former and current co-workers. Most of them are reasonable suggestions, except for the one co-worker that I really can't stand who keeps showing up on everything. But until today, I had NEVER had a recommendation to connect with a real live rocket scientist.

Imagine my surprise when I popped open LinkedIn and found that *I* had been recommended to connect with the Lead Systems Engineer for Payload Integration on the International Space Station.

Huh?

Yeah. You read that right. Lead. Systems. Engineer. HAH! I fancy myself to be a smart one. But International Space Station smart? Not so much...

Turns out my rocket scientist turned out to be the brother of my college roommate, who already has an exponentially more interesting life than me. And, a rocket scientist brother to boot.

I've enjoyed some quick little email chats back and forth, and he recently sent this photo to me. It's taken from the international space station, looking down on the earth far below.

Kind of makes my life feel a lot more simple....

It's not about the baby

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 16:35:00 +0000

It was eight years ago last week that MrG and I found out we were expecting. For more than two years, I had craved the soft warmth of a baby in my arms, the coos and kitten mews, the little smiles that just happen sometimes. I wanted more than anything else to bring a life into the world so I could have just that.

We tried and we tried, then the doctors got involved. Then came calendars on the fridge and medication. And finally, I felt a little different than I had ever felt before. The next morning, I found a faint line on the home pregnancy test. It was the first time I had ever seen that line, although I had hoped for it for many years. A blood test confirmed it later that day. We finally had our baby.

Nine months later, our sweet little baby joined us. Looking at her, I could see a reflection of my own face, and that of the man I love. She was soft and warm and cooed and mewed. Sometimes she just smiled. And she smelled SO good. She filled our lives with a joy we never thought we would know.

Eight years ago, it was all about "having a baby" for us. "I want a baby. Everyone else has babies. Why can't I have a baby?" It was gut-wrenching to wait and wait every month to see if we were going to get our "baby."

But that was eight years ago. Those baby days? So fleeting and fast. I look back now and hardly remember the midnight feedings, the little onesies and the tiny little socks. Diapers and bottles are just a distant memory.

Funny thing. Our little baby turned out to be so much more than just a baby.

She is now a beautiful, precocious almost 8-year old. She has a new best friend every day, plays Slugbug, and knows all the lyrics to all the songs. She has spelling tests at school. Good gosh she's got the Beiber Fever, and she's infected me with it! We talk about bullies and college and boys, because talking about things now will make talking about things later so much easier.

In there somewhere is a glimmer of that tiny baby we brought home, but I only catch it when she is very very tired or not feeling well.

My mom reminded me yesterday of just how far we've come from those early baby days when she asked about Mr. Duck, the security animal LittleG counted on as a toddler. She rarely asks for him anymore, but when she was very very tired and not feeling well last week, it was Mr. Duck who helped calm her and get her to sleep.

It makes my breath catch in a way when I realize now that it wasn't about having a baby. We did that, finally, and she was a perfect little baby. Seven and a half years later, she is a perfect little 7-year old, even if she's the tallest in her class and wearing a size six ladies shoe.

I wish that I had known then what I know now. It's not about the Baby. It's about the Life you create...a tiny little child who grows into a petulant toddler, then into a precocious first grader.

I cannot predict for her what the future holds for us beyond this time and place, but I finally understand after all this time why my own mother has seemed so amazed by my own seemingly normal progression into adulthood, marriage, and eventually parenthood.

For you new moms out there cradling your soft, warm little bundles of joy, breathe in deeply the powdery clean scent of a new life, and open your minds to the Life that is to come. It's going to happen. And you're going to love it.

A Quiet Winters Eve at Casa Garcia

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Sat, 19 Mar 2011 02:57:00 +0000

As winter comes to a gentle end (or more accurately, a screaming stop), MrG begins his springtime preparation routine....put away the fire pit, bring out the patio furniture, fluff up the patio umbrella.

On this fine Friday night, we had some wood left to burn before he could feel good about turning winter into spring, so he lit a fire for the three of us. "Me Man. Me Make Fire. Ug!"

So, we sat on our patio, roasting our marshmallows and making smores. The birdies were singing, and the crickets were chirping.

Oh yeah, and the air conditioner units were humming all around us. Because today, the last Friday of winter? It was 85 steamy degrees in Irving, Texas.

So we sat around our fire, enjoying each others company and the last smores of the season. Then we went inside to freaking cool off.

Makes me wonder what July is going to hold.....

Some times copying others' work is fun

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 14:41:00 +0000

Yeah, I can't write my own work, but I can dang sure point you (ha!) to someone else's post...enjoy!

Click here: Suri eats a penis.

Funniest Craig's List ad EVER

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 19:30:00 +0000

I didn't write this, or even find it on my own, but it is really, really funny:

Originally Posted: Tue, 19 Aug 21:03 EDT

Live in Nanny Needed for 4 kids (Pls don't call them "Precious Ones")

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Date: 2008-08-19, 9:03PM EDT

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My kids are a pain in the ass. Just in the past hour, i have had to tell each one to do something more than once. oldest: can i have soda? it's just a sprite? please? can i? no, no and no.

the next one...don't even get me started. seriously.

the twin six year olds: one wanted dessert before her dinner was over, one kept wanting to know why I wouldn't let nine year olds swing her around by her limbs. (the fear of a dislocated shoulder did nothing.)

Please help me.

I can be a tad difficult to work for. I'm loud, pushy and while I used to think we paid well, i am no longer sure. i work from home, so you get the pleasure of being hounded by me all day long. and, you get to pretend to like me, because i am deeply sensative. (but well dressed and a know it all, a winning combination I assure you.)

If you cannot multi task, or communicate without being passive aggressive, don't even bother replying.

If you are the type who doesn't notice crumbs on the table, skip to the next post, because crumbs are a deal breaker. they put me over the edge.

i have all sorts of theories on how to stack my dishwasher, and if you are judgemental about ritalin for adhd, or think such things are caused by too much sugar, again, deal break city.

You do get a separate entrance excellent studio on the ues. you do get air conditioner and internet connection and cable. even hbo. and showtime. you can bring your spouse, roommate or partner, but sorry no kids. If you ask, can i bring my kid, the answer will be...anyone? anyone? No.

If you can cook, all the better. otherwise, i'll teach you all sorts of things about pasta. (Here's a freebie, butter and parmesean, mmmmmm)

If you know anything about chess and violin i will be impressed.

We are not snobs, which is good. but then again, my kid sometimes swears to make a point. (We're working on it, but halfheartedly, because, well the apple doesn't fall far from the fucking tree.)Although I am told they are all very bright, they have not mastered the use of the oh so complicated napkin. This is a napkin Junior, say it after me...Nap Kin. Good boy.

i am not looking for Super nanny, or anyone who wants this job because they will love my kids as if they are their own. you won't. really. they are infinitely lovable, but trust me, they're mine and you will move on when your journey with us is over, and save for some funny stories and a delightful email every now and again, you won't grieve. Nor will we. (okay, we did all grieve a few of our past sitters, oddly they were all named Sarah or Kate, or Nikki. And Leah. Leah was delightful, even if she did drop my twin babies off our couch during a family gathering. Good times.

I don't want someone who has a lot of theories on the right way to raise kids, because in the end, I'm just a woman doing my best. I'm willing to learn from you, or anyone, but not so much about how i should parent my spawn. teach me to knit. introduce me to yoga, the white stripes, russian literature or the best place to get a burger in the village at 2Am, but do not tell me to put star stickers on a good boy chart. stickers irritate me.

If you are fundamentally unhappy with your life, you will be more unhappy if you take this job, so do us all a favor and get some treatment or move to the Rockies, but do not apply for employment with us. Also, if you suspect all wealthy women are frivilous, we are not for you. I do not want to hide my occasional bergdorf shopping bag.

If you smoke, please quit. don't apply either, but please quit. i have known too many people diagnosed with cancer this year. Even if you are a judgemental nanny 911 wannabe, no one should have to endure some of the things I have wittnessed.

You gotta be able to drive with a valid license, but if you've ever hit a human,move to the next post. You won't have to drive in the city, but if we go to our weekend place together, or if you make it to the summer and still work for us, we need you to run into town to get some pink milk, so be able to drive a mini van.

Can you swim? Swimming is good.

If you do drugs or drink enough so that you are grumpy in the morning and grumpier at night prior to that next cocktail, call AA, and peruse craigslist childcare positions when you have a year sober. I'll probably be looking again, and now is the time for you to focus on yourself anyway.

I need a team player. I need someone to back me up when it comes to remembering when the library books are due, and whether i have rsvped to that birthday party yet.

Help me dear G-d keep track of our skim milk supply and also, also, also, what should I make for dinner tomorrow night?

the hours are 7 in the morning to 8:30 in the morning. We'd be in it together, getting the kids out with clean faces, brushed teeth and some food in their bellies. Doesn't that sound easy? Doesn't that sound doable?

Then come on back for a fun filled afternoon 2:15-8:15 of activities and playdates and snacks and dinners and homework and riveting conversations about global warming, hannah montana and guitar hero.

When you do get to go home (to that swanky studio and possibly a significant other or buddy) your time off will be respected. If I would like you to give extra hours, i'll ask. if you say yes, you get paid 15/ hour. if you say no, I will not fire you or hate you. Except if it is a school holiday or if i have a sick kid, then i might ask, and unless you have a final exam worth 2/3 of your grade or tix The Lion King, you may need to help out.

Okay, if you're still reading this ad, it means:

a) i am a halfway decent writer and maybe i really will get that book deal i'm yearning for

b) you need a job desparately

c) you think this just might be destiny, and that you could be one of the few, the proud, the potential babysitter of our dreams.

D) you want all the information about job requirements, so that you can write me emails about how I should stay home with my kids otherwise they are going to grow up to be sociopaths. (If my pen pal is out there, wassup? Found love yet? No? How 'bout that.)

best of luck to all of you in your search for a job. Seriously. Job searching sucks. No two ways about it.

RLS

•it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 804253499

Snowmaggedon 2011

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 12:09:00 +0000

LittleG likes to type on the computer. Yesterday, this is what I found:

"I had the best time ever. I got hit in the face by my dad. It froze my face. I hit my mom and dad. It was funny. We hit the window and each other to."

I'm pretty sure she was talking about playing in the snow on Friday. Just in case, let's all try to keep CPS away from our house for awhile....

New Year Wish

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 15:20:00 +0000

I wish I could take credit for this, but it came from my dear friend, MK....

Dear God,
All I ask for in 2011 is a big, fat bank account and a slim body…
Please don’t mix these up like you did last year.
Amen.

You know you've been married for nearly twelve years when.....

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 22:21:00 +0000

It's cold and snowy here today, so I treated myself to a lazy afternoon nap. When I got up, it was cold in the house, so I bundled up in my favorite polka dotted bathrobe and nice warm slippers.

I shuffled down the hall and headed into the garage to get the chicken for dinner tonight out of the beer fridge.

My beloved, upon seeing that I was about to get a healthy dinner started for us, called out to me and said there was something else he wanted for dinner instead of the beer can chicken I had in mind.

I went to him in the den, and he took me in his arms, which I knew after 12 years of married bliss meant that he was about to ask for something I was likely to nix.

He looked at me in my icky fleece pants, big polka dot bathrobe, and nap head, and I could tell from the look on his face that I had looked a bit more put together than I did just in that moment.

Thinking I could diffuse the situation with a funny quip, I said to him, totally tongue-in-cheek, "you wanna hit this, don't you?"

To which my brilliantly funny husband replied, "with a hairbrush!"

Tweet, tweet

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Sat, 08 Jan 2011 23:06:00 +0000

Seems like a whole blog has been a bit beyond my reach lately. But 140 characters? I can pull that off. Follow me at Twitter ... sdfgarcia

Yeah, I know it's not very inventive. But I was techno before techno was cool, so I didn't know I needed some cool hip hop twitter (or blog) name.

I've been thinking about blogging, but it just hasn't happened.

Keep checking in, eventually my words will find their way out of my mind and onto the screen.

Happy New Year!
Lady Steele, aka sdfgarcia

The Sky Is Falling!!

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 12:41:00 +0000

Yep, I'm a Texan. It's 40 degrees here right now, and our local ABC Affiliate has already started with the Winter Weather Closings page. LOVE it!!

New Beginnings

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 02:40:00 +0000

I find myself oddly at peace right now. If you knew, dear reader, what kind of day I have just endured, you would find that sentence wildly out of place. Usually, my life is a whirling dervish of do this and wash that and pay this and be there and don't forget that. Today was my first day back after a very long holiday away from work - thank you HW for that - and it played out just about as I expected it to.

I came back to a stack of emails too complicated to answer from my iPhone on the road and voice mails that I am ashamed to admit I didn't even check. Many of the questions required brain time and research and tactful language, all of which I find difficult to muster when my instinct is to go go go go go, do do do do do. And yet, I found time to think things through, investigate, and respond diplomatically. Well, to most of them, barring that one guy I told to take a long walk off a short pier using really, really nice words.

Anyway, by all accounts, things should be crazy for me. But here I sit, with the television off, with LittleG and MrG parked in front of their respective electronic babysitters, while I tap on my keyboard and try to pull all of those words I have floating around in my brain into some sort of coherent little ditty.

And what do these words in my head want to talk about tonight? The implosion of the married world around me.

Everywhere I look, I see women whose marriages have fallen apart. One fell apart years ago, but for whatever reason, this couple stayed together. Together in a home filled not with love, but apathy, for more years than anyone should have to bear. My friend finally called Time of Death and pulled the sheet up over the carcass of her unhappy union.

Another friend, whose life is so much like my own that I keep checking with MrG to be sure he's happy, saw her marriage self destruct some months ago when her husband abruptly announced he was no longer in love with her, then promptly moved out.

A blogger that I read and for some reason feel like I know, even though our paths have never crossed, had the rug pulled out from under her when her husband revealed one infidelity, which ultimately led to more stories of infidelity and some deep deep betrayal from someone very close to her.

Another friend who has lived apart from her husband for nearly as long as I have known her finally had him served with divorce papers. The final chapter in a long sad story.

These women have all had the "till death do us part" taken out of the equation. Suddenly, they are no longer defined as Mrs. Anyone. They are free to come home from work as late as they wish, cook whatever they want for dinner, or make absolutely nothing. They can clean the house, or not. Or watch whatever they want on television. Or go to the gym, or work in the yard, or see movies with their girlfriends. Their lives, once dependent upon the whim of another human, have become their own again.

Of course there is the other side....there's no one there to cut the grass, no one to change the light bulbs, to share life's dreams and goals, to be a partner. I've got news for you. If you're stepping out on him or he's stepping out on you, that shipped sailed a long time ago.

What's remarkable to me about all of these stories is that these women seem remarkably resilient. Life has handed them warm shit pie, and they've just squirted whipped cream on it and gone about their business.

My first friend filed for divorce and escaped a loveless marriage. She has found someone new and is happier than I have ever seen her.

My sister from another mister has flourished, no, reveled, in her new life. She's traveling now and totally unencumbered by He Who Shall Not Be Named. Her children are adjusting, and thankfully, she and HWSNBM are civil enough to co-parent two really great kids.

My blogger friend (can I call her that if I've never technically met her?) is happier than I have ever seen her, and I have been reading her work for years. Many of you know her, because you link in from her blog. I think you would agree that life is much, much happier for her now, and she is almost oozing a sense of optimism, during what should be the darkest time of her life.

My friend with the on-again off-again spouse? Well, I think she's finally moving on, too.

All of these women have put one foot in front of the other and slogged through the muck. And while it's not all bluebirds and butterflies, they are happy more often than not. It is resolve? Have they just been beaten down so badly by life that they have hung their heads and given up? I think not. They have found whatever it takes to get through a really, really tough time. And I think beyond a doubt, that once they come through it, they will be stronger, and surer, and happier than ever.

So why would I call this post New Beginnings when all I've really talked about is the end of these marriages? Because my friends aren't looking at this right now as the end. They all see this as the beginning of their new normal, how life is going to be from here on out. The world is theirs now, from the color of the paint on their walls, to vacations they choose, or new loves if life so deems.

And while I have been terribly torn over the demise of these relationships (it's never easy to watch a marriage dissolve), I am truly optimistic for each of my friends that, as Max Ehrmann once wrote, "the universe is no doubt unfolding as it should."

So I am going to be happy today with what I've got. A really hard job and a marriage that, while not always a bouquet of roses, is at least intact. And I will celebrate (if that's even the appropriate thing to do) as my friends jump off and begin their new lives as Ms. Someone.

Go hug your spouse tonight, or your divorce attorney, whatever the case may be. Oh yeah, MrG? I love you!

60 Miles. 3 Days. The Experience of a Lifetime

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 05:38:00 +0000

I have not put pen to paper, or in this instance, keyboard to screen, just yet, because I just don't know that I have the words to describe my 3-Day Walk two weeks ago. But I have to get it out there, even if I don't do it justice.

Remarkable. Inspiring. Gut wrenching. Amazing. All of these words, and many more. These words aren't just for the three days I spent on the walk, but for the nearly 10 months I spent getting ready.

I walked this year, truly, because my friend Shelly walked for me last year, and I knew she wanted me to go with her. I didn't think I could do it. I honestly didn't know when I signed up that I would even see it through. She was so right to ask me to come along, because it was life changing for me.

My sister, after some degree of cajoling (I believe I stopped just short of begging) came down from Chicago to walk with me. Having her here with me, encouraging me, walking beside me, sharing a tent for those twelve minutes I was actually awake, was a huge factor in me getting through the experience.

My friend Vicki walked with me most mornings this summer, at the butt-crack of dawn, in unbearable heat and humidity. She never complained, and she never once backed out on me.

Friends, family, clients, and businesses I frequent made donations. Some more than I ever would have expected or imagined. My precious baby girl brought me a fist full of one dollar bills one evening, saying, "Mom, this is for your walk." Sometimes total strangers took me by surprise by donating, some of them very, very generously. I asked everyone I came in contact with for a donation. And then I asked some more. At the end, I had raised over $6,000.

My dear sweet friends at work supported me and encouraged me and put up with me talking about the walk again and again and again.

MrG was tireless in his efforts to be sure I was properly outfitted...sleeping bag, camp pad, blow up pillow, a funny little flashlight to wear on my head. Heaven knows he has no idea what I spent on shoes, shirts, socks....and since I do sales and not math, not even I will ever know.

After all the training and fundraising and worry, the first day of the walk dawned clear and cold. Bundled in layers, adrenaline flowing, we finally began our walk. We encountered shortly an elementary school with students cheering, flags waving, and pink balloons floating in the air. It was here the lump formed in my throat and I swallowed back tears. That lump stayed with me all three days.

All along the walk, cars passed us, honking, waving, sending encouragement from inside their warm little cocoons. Homeowners came out, offering candy, water, encouragement. Cheering stations were set up along the walk path, and sometimes I think they just randomly formed, like a flash mob of love. You cannot imagine how much the cheers of strangers can mean when you're trying to put one foot in front of the other, over and over again.

I will never forget what happened shortly after lunch on Friday. We had a chance to sit down, take off our shoes, wiggle our toes and rest for awhile. We ate a healthy lunch, rehydrated and headed back out. It is so much harder to start once you've stopped. About a mile or so in, I honestly thought I was not going to be able to make it. We came around a corner, and I saw on the right two signs. One said "Go Stephanie," and the other said "You Can Do It." Jokingly, I said to my teammates, "I am going to pretend that is for me - it will keep me going." Right about that time, Vicki, my summer walking partner, jumped out and hugged me. It kept me going all right, just as it's making me tear up as I relive it right now.

We finally made it to our campsite that evening where some lovely college students pitched our tents for us. It's good they were there, because my legs were so sore that if I had knelt down, it might have taken 911 to get me back up. We had a hot meal, a hot shower, and slept very, very soundly as temperatures hit a low of 39 degrees.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Day 2 was cold. We got an early start after a hot breakfast and walked hard. We had enjoyed light chatter and laughter for most of the walk, but after lunch, we all sort of pulled inside ourselves, willing one foot in front of the other again and again. Saturday was very hard as the physical and the emotional effort weighed heavily on all of us. The high points on Saturday were the cheering stations, and of course our Walker Stalkers, my BFF and my mom.

God bless them. They were there for us at every stop, bringing coffee, cookies, mom kisses, and allowing us to offload layers of clothing as the day warmed up. I will say this without hesitation. I could not have done this without them. Just knowing they were 2 or 3 or 4 miles down the road was enough to keep me going, and they cheered us and fed us and encouraged us all along the way. I will never find the words to tell them what their support meant during those three days. LittleG and MrG were honorary Walker Stalkers on Saturday and Sunday, and seeing my sweet baby girl and her Daddy really lifted me up when my spirits were down.

Somehow we made it back to camp at the end of Day 2, fed ourselves, showered, and fell again unconscious in the cold night air. We woke on Day 3 where some nice Boy Scouts helped us take down our tents and get our gear to the gear trucks, and after breakfast, off we went again.

The trip on Sunday was shorter, and when we finally arrived at the finish line, we walked across it together, hand in hand with our team, and went through a group of crew and other walkers who cheered us in. I can't tell you what it's like to have a thousand or so people cheering you on at the end.

We cheered the last walkers in, and they got us lined up to move into the closing ceremony. Because I'm a survivor, I separated from my team and moved into a holding area with the other survivors. The sea of white shirts parted as those of us in pink walked through, and thousands of women celebrated our success. I will never forget what it felt like to walk through the applause and tears, through the sea of white.

I could write for hours and still never describe what I saw or do justice to what it felt like to walk those 60 miles. Men in bras and pink skirts, women still bald from chemo, crying as we passed them on the street. Men holding signs thanking us for walking for their wives. Thousands and thousands who cheered for us. Popsicles, candy, even hot french fries and ketchup, shared in love with total strangers.

I have thought for some time that I do not want my life to be defined by breast cancer. I got it, we caught it, I beat it. My life was never in danger. I had some extremely frightening times, some painful ones. But this thing was never going to kill me. And yet, I get to wear the badge of Survivor, to walk proudly in my pink shirt, surrounded by people celebrating my success.

I raised over $6,000, and I did it without cheating, or without backing from national corporate sponsors of the event. I got up on summer mornings, when I much would have rather slept in, and walked in the heat. I stuck my hand out and asked for money again and again. From friends and family and strangers. When that wasn't enough, I asked more people. I bought a sleeping bag, for the love of all that's holy!

I walked more in one day than most people walk in a week. Then, I slept in a tent. On the ground. In the cold. And I got up the next day and did it again. Twice.

My blisters and sore muscles have healed. Physically, I've recovered. But I don't know that emotionally I am there yet. And I'm not really sure I want to be.

I don't want my life defined by my breast cancer. But my breast cancer walk? That's a different story. I am proud to say I challenged myself physically and emotionally and I did something I never truly thought I could do. Besides becoming a wife and a mom, it's the biggest thing I've ever done. And it was life changing.

So thank you Shelly, Rhonda, Leigh Ann, Vicki, Mom, Jimz, MrG, LittleG, and countless donors, supporters, and cheer squads, for the experience of a lifetime.

Editors and grammar snobs, rejoice!

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 14:21:00 +0000

Today, friends, is a big day. Many of you won't know this, and most of you won't care; I will share my excitement nonetheless.

It's a big day for those of us who deem ourselves "grammar geeks." Celebrate with me, if you will, the 7th Annual Punctuation Day®. The Official National Punctuation Day website says today is "A celebration of the lowly comma, correctly used quotation marks, and other proper uses of periods, semicolons, and the ever-mysterious ellipsis."

Can I get an Amen?

I don't make my living writing, thank God! And I don't make my living editing. But I do appreciate a finely written piece, properly punctuated and spelled correctly. I have no tolerance for newspaper articles, web news, blog posts, and user comments that are just grammatically wrong. How can these people publish this with their names attached?

I'd like to think I don't make punctuation mistakes, ever. I know, though, that I'm totally guilty of misusing and overusing the ellipsis. Maybe I'll make that my plan for next year: to learn to use the ellipsis correctly.

Or maybe, I'll just keep doing what I've been doing all along, standing in judgement (privately of course) of the horrid writing I see so often.

I'm seriously hoping there is a "National Your/You're Day," followed quickly by a "National I/Me/Myself Day." That would SO rock!

Do all of us grammar geeks a favor if you will - if just for this one day - and try to use those little punctuation marks correctly. We'll work on spelling and proper pronoun usage when the time comes.

Love,
Lady Steele
English minor and grammar snob (EMAG)

I'm a pink warrior!

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 16:07:00 +0000

I haven't written much about my upcoming 3-Day walk, because frankly, training for it has sucked up all of my time, energy, and words. I am training every morning with my neighbor, Vicki, who gets up way earlier than she has to because she knows I need the help. We walk 2-3 miles, beginning at 5:30 am, or as my best friend says, "the butt crack of dawn." Amen, sister.

I've thrown in a handful of 5 or 6 mile treks at the gym on the treadmill, and I almost always do hill intervals when I'm there. So it's not just five miles of flat boredom. I've also done some random 3-5 mile trips on my own around our neighborhood.

Yesterday, I took it to a new level. One of the local teams held a training walk - 14 miles. The group meets in a city north of me and the walk started at 5:45 am. Butt crack of dawn indeed, since I had to get up, get myself fed and dressed, and across town in time to walk with very perky people for much longer than I've ever walked at one time on purpose. One of them sang a team song. Egad. Another one brought an MP3 player speaker thingie, so everyone around her got to listen to her music. Cat rocks while she walks!

The first seven miles went extremely well, with the exception of a very steep hill at about mile 6.5. Once we crested the hill and my heart stopped feeling like it was going to burst out of my chest, my body calmed down, and I felt pretty good by the time we got to the halfway mark.

We rested for awhile, rehydrated, and carb loaded for the trip back. On the return leg, that nice steep hill was a lot better going down than it was coming up, but my body was challenged in other ways by trying to slow down the forward momentum.

I did just fine until about mile 10, and at that point, I was pretty sure someone was going to have to come pick me up and take me back to my car. My bag, which previously felt so light, began to weigh me down, and I could not find a comfortable way to carry it. The sun, all 82 degrees of it, felt white hot on my exposed skin, and I felt like it was laughing at my feeble attempt to shield myself with only SPF 85. I was sweating - honest to God sweating - my clothes soaked through, and sweat running into my eyes. I was decidedly feeling not so fresh.

And that's when I started to feel the dreaded "hot spot" which indicates a blister is forming. On the top edge of my right heel, an excruciating little burn grew bigger with every few steps.

In the dark of the morning, I had failed to notice that we were walking downhill for about the first mile.You guessed it; that means the last mile was uphill. And a damn long last mile it was. I fell further and further behind the front of the pack and had to stop more than once to cool off.

But I made it.... 5 hours and 45 minutes later... hot and sweaty, sunburned and pale, somehow both at the same time. My heart was racing, I had sweat running into places I didn't know I owned. But I made it. And I wasn't the last person to make it to the finish line.

I was a rickety mess for the rest of the day as the lactic acid moved in and out of various muscles. Physically, I was exhausted, but mentally, I was doing jumping jacks and push ups. I took only a brief nap, about an hour, while LittleG enjoyed some time with a friend. After that, I felt like I ought to at least be awake and in the same room with her, even if I was being still and quiet.

I dreaded how I would feel this morning, but as morning dawned and I began to stretch into my day, nothing really hurt. I've been up about three hours now, and my shoulders are sore, but my legs and back feel pretty good. My blister still hurts like a mo-fo, but I think I'll live.

So while that last four miles felt like torture and I was so sure I would never recover, today I don't feel so bad. I'm so glad I took the time and made the effort to make this walk, and hung in there even when I thought I couldn't make it. It showed me that not only can I do it, but the morning after is not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.

But Lady Steele, you might say, you only walked 14 miles, and just two months from now, you'll be walking 20 miles a day, three days in a row. Well, dear reader, some things will be different on the actual walk.

I will not have a heavy pack to deal with. That one thing, more than any other, affected how well I walked and how I feel this morning. I learned my lesson about what I need to carry, and what I don't. I do not need an entire day's worth of calories in various varieties. Power bars, carb bites, electrolyte jelly beans and gooey packs on their own don't weigh much, but an entire side bag filled with them is total overkill. We stop every three miles, so carrying an additional 24 ounces of water is a waste of energy. My BFF will be at all the stops, and if I need to jettison jackets or pants, she'll be there to take them from me so I don't have to wag them around with me.

I will prepare better for blisters - I will be moleskinned, band-aided, padded, and protected. A blister will not be the reason I don't finish.

I know that whatever pain I'm feeling while I'm feeling it is short term and will pass.

Finally, my sister will be there with me. And while she is in much better physical shape than I am, she has said she will walk beside me at my pace for as long as it takes. So even if we are the last ones to make it in, by God, we are going to make it together.

I have four requests, dear reader. First, please donate to my cause if you can. It's easy...just click the "Donate" button on the 3-day widget to the right. You can pay online with a credit card, or print a donation form to mail in with a check.

Second, if you have been touched by breast cancer, whether you've fought it yourself, or loved someone who has, I will walk for you or your loved one. Even if you don't donate! Put the name of the person in the comments below, and let me know if this person is a survivor or not. I'll have these names on ribbons, hanging from my pack, so others will see them as I walk, and so they are a constant source of encouragement to me.

Third, any time you're driving and you see a group of people walking together, such as might happen when they are training for a walk, please please please honk your horn, wave like crazy and shout words of encouragement. You cannot believe how much the simple acts, like these, of total strangers, makes a difference to those who might be thinking that they just won't be able to make it. And if you're the couple in the silver Honda CRV who passed me yesterday when I was just about to throw in the towel, thank you. You might be the reason I made it.

Fourth, if you've not done so this year, please go get a mammogram. Yeah, it sucks. It is embarrassing, uncomfortable, and can be expensive without good insurance. It was a regular screening mammogram that caught my cancer. Mine was caught early, and consequently, my life was never in danger. Had I waited or skipped the mammogram altogether, the outcome might have been very, very different.

I have just two months to go until the event begins. I need $1,400 to get to my fundraising goal, and at least three more good training walks. For more information, go to www.the3day.org/goto/StephanieGarcia. Keep those cards and letters coming, friends..

Pink out,
Lady Steele

Ahhhhhhhh!

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 14:16:00 +0000

A picture is, indeed, worth a thousand words!

Whoopeeeee!!

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 11:19:00 +0000

You can't see me, and it's a good thing, because I have been skipping around my kitchen in a sweaty sports bra and shorts.....this is what the weather guy has in store for us, and I am absolutely GIDDY with excitement!!

I might need a hobby.

Drop it like it's hot

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 02:08:00 +0000

It's that time of year in Texas again. The ground is parched and cracked, and if you listen closely, you can almost hear it begging to be watered. The long grass along the highway, formerly regal and tall, is now brown and leaning plaintively, having surrendered its last drop of moisture to the hot summer sun. Trees are drooping, long fields of grass have gone brown in the heat. Even the swimming pools, which usually provide some cooling relief, are superheated. For more than 20 days this summer, we've been over 100⁰. We had a streak of 100⁰+ days that ran for 18 days in a row, and it's beginning to wear on all of us.

My favorite euphemism for the heat is "hotter than the hinges of hell." Apparently, I've used that phrase a time too often, because my officemate recently sent me an email with these phrases. Nothing else, just these. She made her point.

Hotter than a hen in a wool blanket
Hotter than a two-dollar pistol
Hotter'n love in hayin' time
Hotter than a nanny goat in a pepper patch
Hotter than a nun's bug
Hotter than a half-made fox in a forest fire

Anyway, it has been hotter than the hinges of hell, and all of the above. At this time of year, electric bills soar, tempers flare, and we all just wait for good news about cooler days ahead. And I think that's what we got this week....

That's right, folks, I am excited about highs in the high 90s. How damn hot does it have to be to take a screen shot of your weather forecast, especially when temperatures that high would have the majority of the country calling uncle? The answer is...very.

A couple of weeks ago, I was out picking up dinner when a summer storm popped up unexpectedly. Big fat raindrops fell from the sky, and I kid you not, everyone in the lobby went to the window to watch the few drops that made it to the earth. I stepped outside and drank in the smell of fresh rain, if just for a moment. While I was out there, a little girl in a white car rolled her window down about two inches, stuck a tiny hand out and caught raindrops. I envied her because she touched the rain, when I just got to smell it.

I heard on Friday, I think, that summer only lasts for 35 more days. It's a shame I can't just huddle in the dark, curtains drawn and ceiling fans swirling, until the final days of heat pass. But I will get up every day and head into the heat and wait for cooler days ahead.

Soon, the hot days will pass and we'll be looking at a nice mild winter while the rest of you dig out of snow for three months. But for now, my life sucks more than yours.

I'm off to find a slurpee and a hand fan.

California Gurls, indeed

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 16:33:00 +0000

2 backpacks...........................................................$40
School supplies.......................................................$56
School uniforms.......................................................$143
New shoes, three times............................................$174.89
Lunches...................................................................$372.50
Watching your mom humiliate you at graduation........priceless

2 women charged in kindergarten graduation brawl
Associated Press
Posted on August 5, 2010 at 9:05 AM

VICTORVILLE, Calif. (AP) – Two women have been charged with misdemeanors for a fight that led to a brawl during a Southern California kindergarten graduation ceremony.

San Bernardino County investigators say the women were arguing and it got physical in a field near the June ceremony at Puesta del Sol Elementary in Victorville.

Several men got involved and the incident turned into a brawl, forcing school officials to place the school on lockdown until deputies sorted things out. No one was hurt.

Court records show misdemeanor charges have been filed against 31-year-old Queiona Burt and 29-year-old Marina Ruth Vargas.

Prosecutors say they face up to six months in jail if convicted for interference with peaceful conduct at a school and 90 days in jail for unlawful acts committed on school grounds.

I'm from Texas, and we usually reserve our humiliating bar fights for places like bars.

Maybe those Daisy Dukes and bikinis on top are a bit much. Or is it the sand in their stilettos? Way to represent, California!

Happy Birthday, Baby Sister

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 14:30:00 +0000

I can't ever remember a time without her. 41 years ago, my parents brought a tiny baby home and introduced me, still a baby myself, to my little sister. I don't remember life without her, so as far as I'm concerned, she has been here my entire life.

Her job, although I was two years older than she, was to protect me. She protected me at night, kept my piggies safe from the big bad wolf, and everything else that goes bump in the night. As family lore tells it, she kept me safe from most things that go bump in the day, too. She was always the brave one. She kept our room clean, let me sleep with her when I was scared, and took care of me when I got sick in the night.

Although she's younger, it seems like I've always lived in her shadow. She did everything better than me. She cleaned house better (I regret I never got the urge). She made better grades. The teachers liked her better. She had more friends. She was better with the boys. She managed her money better.

She definitely snuck out better, as our mother discovered late one summer evening when she came in and found me tucked safely in my bed, with my sister nowhere to be seen. It was some hours later when my sister snuck back in and tried to slide between her covers, only to find Mom laying there, mad as a wet hen, and I'm certain just as disappointed. I don't think I made it any easier for my sister when I tried to console my mom by telling her, "don't worry, she does this all the time." Oopsie.

My sister saved me from some terrible decision making when she drug me off to college with her before what should have been my junior year. We lived together for years after, laughing hysterically as only sisters can do. I will never forget one morning as we were reading the paper, when she asked me with a quizzical look on her face what in the world a "toe-aster" pastry was. "Toaster pastry?" I replied. I will never look at a pop-tart without thinking of us, sitting at our kitchen table, laughing until tears rolled down our faces.

The Toe-Aster pastry is just as funny as the time we came home together in her car. She drove a stick shift, and for some reason, I was driving that night. We'd just driven three hours with a squirmy puppy in the car and were rounding third base headed for home when I exited the freeway and inconveniently forgot to downshift. The car lurched wildly, my sister frantically held on to the puppy, trying to tell me what to do, while, I, confused as hell, hysterically yelled, "This is not my car!" as I tried to avoid killing either us or the car. Good times indeed.

For some reason, despite the fact she seemed better at most things than I, she often turned to me for advice growing up. I always gave it. Some of it good, some of it not so much. When she had a big decision to make about her career a few years ago, she called me and we talked for a long time about it. It struck me as odd that she, stuck between the offer of a partnership at her CPA firm and an offer to be a CFO, called me to discuss her options. After all, she's the one who did my taxes, and she knew damn well what tax bracket I fell in. It seemed ironic to me at the time that she was asking me for advice when either of the two jobs she had in front of her paid many, many, many times what I brought in.

My sister has made the decision to come walk the 3-day Komen walk with me in November. Under duress, I might add, as I spent an entire day convincing her that she can, indeed, raise the minimum necessary to walk. It took me two months to raise my money; it took her just about a day. And she is now the #1 fundraiser in the Dallas-Fort Worth walk. Not by much, but by God, she's at the top of the list.

When I congratulated her yesterday, she said she was proud, too, but knowing that I was proud of her meant even more. It dawned on me then that I've never said I'm proud of her. I think sisters are like an old married couple. So many things are left unsaid because you just know the other person knows what you're thinking.

So, here you go, Adnohr.

I am so proud of the child you were and the grown up you've become. I am proud you left a miserable relationship that was eating you up to marry a really, really terrific guy who loves you and supports you. I am proud of the ridiculous amount of money that you make and the stunning home you own. I'm proud of your expensive toys, although most of them frighten me to some degree. I am proud of the support you give the people you love and the sacrifice you're making to walk with me in November. I am ridiculously proud that you've raised over $10,000 to eradicate breast cancer forever, when you were worried you couldn't raise two grand.

I'm proud that you're well read and interesting and fun to be around. I'm proud to be the sister of the life of the party. I'm proud you take care of yourself and those around you, even when the ones around you make it hard sometimes. Your sense of family and purpose are astounding at times, and that makes me proud.

I think all sisters love each other, by default, because that's what we're supposed to do. But it's another thing entirely to hold your sister in high esteem, to love her and honor her. They say pride is a sin, but I'm not buying it.

So, Little Sister, today is for you. I love you and I am so so proud of you!
Einahpets

ps - I didn't buy a card. Again.

Unequally yoked

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 15:13:00 +0000

Oh, the joys of targeted marketing. NOT!

Here's what I had in my inbox this morning:

It's not that I'm opposed to the person of color. In fact there are several "Black" men (it's ok to refer to them that way if the ad does, right?) that I find wildly attractive. Sterling Sharp, Blair Underwood, Taye Diggs. All very, very yummy. But I digress...

I think we all know that my tastes run more to the Brown than the Black.

As a reminder, here's what I look like:

Yes, those are freckles. And blue eyes. Oh yeah, and I've been married for 11 years. To a Mexican.

You'll see if you look closely enough, that there is an "opt out" option at the bottom of the email, and I've tried to exercise that option several times.

So, I tried a different approach today. Since the email at least appears to come from a human's email address, I emailed him back a picture of me. And one of my Mexican husband. And asked him nicely to include us both in his database of singles if he thought we would be a fit for his service. Otherwise, would he kindly remove my address from his system? I'm really, truly, not interested. Unless of course, Taye Diggs is on there and wouldn't mind a dalliance with a 40-something married white chick

I'm now taking bets on whether or not I'll get another email from our friends at BlackPeopleMeet.com.

You want in?

Peace out,
LadySteele

If it's not Sex, it's Lesbians. Good gosh, y'all.

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 18:39:00 +0000

First it was The idiots at ABC, now it's our Holy Grail of Radio, KERA.

LittleG and I were on the way to the "lye-bary" on Saturday, and the good folks at National Public Radio were interviewing people who make movies. Safe enough topic, I think to myself.

Turns out I was wrong.

The subject of the interview during that timeslot was the woman who wrote the book or the screenplay upon which The Kids are All Right is based. This is not going to end well, I think to myself, remembering the storyline of the movie, and my inquisitive little sponge in her booster seat right behind me.

I act quickly to change the station to some far more kid-friendly selection, maybe Lady Gaga, Ke$ha or 50 Cent. Unfortunately, I don't hit that button fast enough.

"Mom," says LittleG, "what is a lesbian?" And there it is.

EGAD.

If you've read me at all, you know I just don't swing that way. I do tend to be pretty liberal in my views on "others," be they a different religion, skin color, or sexual persuasion. I don't always understand the other guy, but I do my best to accept them.

For the benefit of one of my extremely conservative readers, I should throw in here that we've all sinned and fallen short and I don't think I or any other human has the right to judge another. Those aren't my words, and I've paraphrased just a bit, but I think you get the gist of it.

Anyway, just because I am reasonably comfortable with the concept of a lesbian doesn't mean I'm ready to explain it to my six year old.

I know, based on six years of dealing with this child, that I had better answer her question, or she'll just keep asking it. And the more she asks, the more interesting the concept will become.

So I walked a fine line and said that sometimes moms love moms instead of moms loving dads, and in our family, we don't judge people like that. Everyone is different, and that's ok.

And my beautiful, precious, perceptive little girl says, "I get it Mom. They are just different than us, just like if their skin was another color. Can we get another Mudge book when we get inside?"

Sometimes the simplest answer is the right one. I'm a little hacked off at NPR that I had to have that conversation with her at this point in her life, but perhaps by having a simple conversation now, the harder conversations yet to come will be a little easier.

Gotta go - I need to go burn a "safe for LittleG" mix tape for the car. Wonder where I put that personalized Veggie Tales CD?

All comments welcome....well, almost all!

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Dear 峻帆峻帆峻帆, 玉苓玉苓, and 雅芳:

I've received several comments on my blogs from you, and while I'm sure you're all lovely people, your comments are written entirely in an Asian language that this particular ugly American cain't quite git the gist of.

Plus, you've got those annoying html codes in your message, and I'm not willing to approve your comments. Who knows what kind of whacky site those links take you. I'm not about to find out, nor am I going to expose my ever-dwindling reader base to the links.

Please do us both a favor and quit trying. I'm not going to approve your comments, and I'm frankly, a bit tired of refusing them. Please stop.

Thanks a bunch.
Lady Steele

¿Qué?

noreply@blogger.com (StephanieG) — Tue, 18 May 2010 20:54:00 +0000

Dear Dominos Pizza,

You've gone a little far in your attempt to personalize your marketing message to my family. Back in the day when you were keeping us hopped up on free chocolate lava crunch cakes, I was all about it. An occasional free coupon for bread sticks keeps MrG feeling happy. We love that.

What we don't love is receiving emails like this:

I realize it's cool right now to personalize marketing efforts to your prospects. Heck, I do it all day myself.

But I resent like hell that you assume, based on my last name, and perhaps my zip code, that you should be marketing to me in Spanish. Isn't anyone out there paying attention, for the love of Pedro? Check out the photo at the right. You darn near can't get any more non-Hispanic than I am.

How are you deciding which customers get which version of the email? Do you have some brain trust in a little room having conversations like this? "Oh, his name is Dominelli - send him the Italian one." "And her name is Silja - she should get the Indian one." "And his name is Kalniņš - send him the Latvian one."

I don't know how the decisions are made, but I sure recommend someone pay attention to what's being sent out, and think about the effect your message is having on the people receiving it. I don't want pizza now. Instead, a big plate of steaming enchiladas seems more in order. Don't you think?

While researching this piece, I found that Garcia is actually the 15th most popular last name in France. If you're going to send me marketing pieces I can't read, can I at least get them in French? I love the little squiggly things over the letters.

Hasta la vista,
SenoraSteele

p.s. My next door neighbor to the west whose last name is Flores doesn't speak a lick of Spanish either. But the guy named Brown on the east side does. So can you be sure they get the correct email? That ought to send the brain trust into a tizzy.