I've been working two (part-time) jobs on campus for the past month, because I'm moving back to academic advising and out of the receptionist position I've had for the last year or so. I am a sucker for "Can you stay just a little longer than two weeks PLEASE???" so I agreed to six. I'm so exhausted lately that the weekends aren't long enough to recoup and I feel like I'm stumbling into every Monday. I have one more week to go of this, after which I will feel good that I did it. For now, though, I think I need my head examined.
I couldn't believe it when a part-time advisor position was posted, but when I saw it, I pounced on it. After I'd started, I was told that I was The Top Choice for the position, which is a nice thing to be told, all pressure aside. So far I've redesigned the excel degree plan worksheets (people DO NOT know how to design things in excel! It's just not that hard!!) and shredded enough ancient student files to make me feel like a former Enron employee. (They had files going back to 1997 for chrissake, and we're only required to keep stuff five years. Seriously, I've freed up half the filing cabinet space.)
Everyone in my almost-former office is telling me they will miss me lots. To which I replied, "Oh good." Inevitable strange looks at that answer, so I was forced to elaborate. "Well I would rather you say you were going to miss me than OH THANK GOD SHE'S LEAVING."
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
A Clue? No Thanks, I've already Got One
In our depressed financial state, Paul has taken to making library trips, resulting in stacks of coverless hardback finance books sitting about like rental furniture made for cats. I've picked up one he finished recently - The Smartest Guys in the Room, which morphed into the documentary of the same name - and is the story of the rise and fall of Enron, complete with a long cast of characters.
Published in 2003, it is a clear testament to the fact that anyone involved with and/or aware of basic - and I mean basic - economics should have seen this current shit coming. Enron happened years ago, and we all just thought wow, how terrible and kept on with business as usual as though Enron had been a lone scavenging wolf, taking an elephant like Arthur Anderson into the abyss when it crashed, rather than the tip of the iceberg our big fat ship was full-steamin' ahead straight into. We've all been playing with monopoly money, counting it giddily and admiring our stupid little plastic houses sitting on their gameboard squares, trusting the Bank to hand out more cash when the dice rolls were lucky, of course they would always be lucky, why wouldn't they be?
My mental picture of the the landscape just before the current crash: Turkeys staring straight up at the sky as it begins raining. Turkeys thinking WTF? Glug, glug, glug...
Published in 2003, it is a clear testament to the fact that anyone involved with and/or aware of basic - and I mean basic - economics should have seen this current shit coming. Enron happened years ago, and we all just thought wow, how terrible and kept on with business as usual as though Enron had been a lone scavenging wolf, taking an elephant like Arthur Anderson into the abyss when it crashed, rather than the tip of the iceberg our big fat ship was full-steamin' ahead straight into. We've all been playing with monopoly money, counting it giddily and admiring our stupid little plastic houses sitting on their gameboard squares, trusting the Bank to hand out more cash when the dice rolls were lucky, of course they would always be lucky, why wouldn't they be?
My mental picture of the the landscape just before the current crash: Turkeys staring straight up at the sky as it begins raining. Turkeys thinking WTF? Glug, glug, glug...
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Time in a Bottle
I am bothered, for about the millionth time, by the fact that I am wishing my life away. I have a habit of feeling that the time period I'm waiting for is always just out of reach, to the point that I am waiting for a day, a week, a month to be over before I can - what? - relax? enjoy myself? stop and think? (No, hell no, I am stopping and thinking all the time. That is not a state to be wished for, though perhaps when I had small children at home I wished for moments of stop-and-think-ness.)
On the way to work this morning I was behind someone who had one of those 911 bumper stickers that read: Don't postpone Joy, and it completely pissed me off. Don't tell me what to do, I thought. Okay, truth? That reaction reared up because postponing Joy seems to be my modus operandi.
What Joy am I postponing? Is there any out for me? Is that the problem - that I don't believe there's ever any out there with my name on it? And how do I go about stopping the postponing of it? This behavior is ingrained in me. I do it naturally. I do it well.Don't Keep Joy in a Bottle. (that's what genies are for?)
On the way to work this morning I was behind someone who had one of those 911 bumper stickers that read: Don't postpone Joy, and it completely pissed me off. Don't tell me what to do, I thought. Okay, truth? That reaction reared up because postponing Joy seems to be my modus operandi.
What Joy am I postponing? Is there any out for me? Is that the problem - that I don't believe there's ever any out there with my name on it? And how do I go about stopping the postponing of it? This behavior is ingrained in me. I do it naturally. I do it well.Don't Keep Joy in a Bottle. (that's what genies are for?)
Sunday, April 12, 2009
The Fun Just Doesn't Stop
Paul and Keith are celebrating Easter by watching "Hellboy II" in the other room.
We had Easter lunch at the in-laws. Robert was invited, and it was nice to see him. He looked very good, has taken up weekend cycling and even has a cycling group that does long-distance trips on the weekends. But he admitted that he has yet to change anything in the apartment -- he hasn't given away, packed up or so much as moved a single thing that belonged to Tim. As much as I believe he needs to do these things, for his own emotional good, I can't judge him. I know everyone has to heal at his own pace, in his own way. I can't imagine how I'd be able to stand to pack away Paul's clothes, go through his books and papers, throw out his toothbrush.
Paul lost his job five weeks ago. I suppose we've become one of the many faces of the recession at this point, for all we'd rather not be included, thanks. There is never, or almost never, a good time to be jobless. But to be jobless when two of three children are in college and one is about to begin high school is pretty awful timing. Five years ago we could have hunkered down a bit more financially. Five years from now we'd have two graduated adult children and only one in college. Now? Yikes.
Keith was first chair bass in the symphony orchestra this year, and also made it into the regional orchestra. I was planning to buy him a 3/4 string bass this summer; we've been renting from the schools since he was in 5th grade, and we thought it was time he had his own quality instrument. At the moment, it looks like that won't be happening.
Zach won't be graduating early (next May) because we can't afford to send him to school this summer, and he'll need more than two long semesters to finish the 42 hours remaining for his BFA. He's trying to find work so he can stay in NYC for the summer, as he really doesn't want to leave his girlfriend. He may not get his wish either.
Paul and I are still optimistic, though that's a difficult emotion to maintain at times. The job search scenery out there has changed, as most everyone knows. Anyone who is currently employed should be taking Suze's advice, as I'm glad to say we were attempting to do before this happened - time to cut back on spending and beef up the emergency savings - and the resume - even if you're pretty sure you won't need to. Trust me, for all the economic and business signals that were flashing, we didn't see it coming. Typical human nature: You never think it's gonna be you.
We had Easter lunch at the in-laws. Robert was invited, and it was nice to see him. He looked very good, has taken up weekend cycling and even has a cycling group that does long-distance trips on the weekends. But he admitted that he has yet to change anything in the apartment -- he hasn't given away, packed up or so much as moved a single thing that belonged to Tim. As much as I believe he needs to do these things, for his own emotional good, I can't judge him. I know everyone has to heal at his own pace, in his own way. I can't imagine how I'd be able to stand to pack away Paul's clothes, go through his books and papers, throw out his toothbrush.
Paul lost his job five weeks ago. I suppose we've become one of the many faces of the recession at this point, for all we'd rather not be included, thanks. There is never, or almost never, a good time to be jobless. But to be jobless when two of three children are in college and one is about to begin high school is pretty awful timing. Five years ago we could have hunkered down a bit more financially. Five years from now we'd have two graduated adult children and only one in college. Now? Yikes.
Keith was first chair bass in the symphony orchestra this year, and also made it into the regional orchestra. I was planning to buy him a 3/4 string bass this summer; we've been renting from the schools since he was in 5th grade, and we thought it was time he had his own quality instrument. At the moment, it looks like that won't be happening.
Zach won't be graduating early (next May) because we can't afford to send him to school this summer, and he'll need more than two long semesters to finish the 42 hours remaining for his BFA. He's trying to find work so he can stay in NYC for the summer, as he really doesn't want to leave his girlfriend. He may not get his wish either.
Paul and I are still optimistic, though that's a difficult emotion to maintain at times. The job search scenery out there has changed, as most everyone knows. Anyone who is currently employed should be taking Suze's advice, as I'm glad to say we were attempting to do before this happened - time to cut back on spending and beef up the emergency savings - and the resume - even if you're pretty sure you won't need to. Trust me, for all the economic and business signals that were flashing, we didn't see it coming. Typical human nature: You never think it's gonna be you.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Birth Rights
I met Tim's birthmother and aunt last February, and have been in touch with them both through email since then. They are lovely people. I could see Tim in his mother's face, though she swore, especially when she looked at photos of Tim from high school, that he was the spitting image of his father. Tim is gone, and yet here were people such as this, ready and willing to invite him into their arms and hearts, into their families. Devastated that they would never know him. Desperate to gather up everything I could tell or show them about him.
My birthmother couldn't care less about me, as far as I can tell from her non-response. I found myself jealous, when I met Tim's family. It didn't seem fair. And yet I was struck so much more by the unfairness to Tim, that he's missed such love and acceptance, that I can ignore my own feelings on the matter. They aren't banished, but by God they can be dismissed as trivial.
I've given up ever hearing from Leslie. For whatever reason, she is one of those biological mothers, birthmothers, first mothers, who do not want contact with the child she gave away. As a person who is curious, who is willing to approach emotional things with logic and logical things with emotion, I am baffled by her non-response. For good or ill, non-response is not in my repertoire when someone is reaching out to me. I understand that people come in many forms, but that doesn't help me understand, certainly not in this instance, when the reacher is me.
Tomorrow is Tim's birthday. He would have been 42. I miss him less and less, more and more. I suppose those who have lost someone would understand. I do not think of him as often, but when I do, it's an avalanche of missing him.
My birthmother couldn't care less about me, as far as I can tell from her non-response. I found myself jealous, when I met Tim's family. It didn't seem fair. And yet I was struck so much more by the unfairness to Tim, that he's missed such love and acceptance, that I can ignore my own feelings on the matter. They aren't banished, but by God they can be dismissed as trivial.
I've given up ever hearing from Leslie. For whatever reason, she is one of those biological mothers, birthmothers, first mothers, who do not want contact with the child she gave away. As a person who is curious, who is willing to approach emotional things with logic and logical things with emotion, I am baffled by her non-response. For good or ill, non-response is not in my repertoire when someone is reaching out to me. I understand that people come in many forms, but that doesn't help me understand, certainly not in this instance, when the reacher is me.
Tomorrow is Tim's birthday. He would have been 42. I miss him less and less, more and more. I suppose those who have lost someone would understand. I do not think of him as often, but when I do, it's an avalanche of missing him.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Silly Putty
I found myself in the Old Lady Injured Shoulder Club at physical therapy last week. There were four of us who arrived at the same time, and I was far and away the youngest of the group. Upon arrival, we were each directed to a comfy chair, where heat packs were placed on injured shoulders, and we were handed lumps of some sort of play-doh/clay/putty stuff to knead. My putty began to morph into a rabbit.
"Oh, what are you making?" one lady asked. I held up the bunny, which was somehow wearing a smirk, one ear beginning to droop over one eye. It was like the damned thing was channeling my emotions. "You're so creative! Look at that!" said another lady, sporting a sweatshirt with a cat face painted right in the center.
By this point, the physical therapist, Jeff, who is a not much older than Zach, noticed what was going on. He is used to being in charge - Doorframe stretch! Now take this ginormous ball and walk it up the wall! Now do pushups against the wall! To ze pullies! To ze hand bike!
Jeff tried to regain control, his mouth set in the manner of an adult faced with a set of mutinous children: "Ladies," he said sternly. We weren't about to have our fun ruined by some whippersnapper. We all snickered simultaneously at his chastisement, each holding up a creation for the inspection of the group, resulting in further giggling at each others' barely artistic efforts.
Jeff gave up with an exasperated roll of his 20-something eyes.
"Are you an artist?" one of the ladies asked me. I smiled and shook my head, thinking of my artist birthmother. I have no idea what kind of art Leslie does, or whether she does it for profit or merely for recreation. I wondered in that moment if my desire to mold a lump of therapy putty into a thing instead of just sitting there squeezing it for 5 minutes (as expected) came from her.
She is everywhere - in made-for-tv movies, in songs, in the smile of the stranger sitting next to me in physical therapy. Leslie told Mary that she didn't understand my need for establishing a connection with her.
There is no need to establish a connection. The connection already exists. There is only her denial of it, and me wondering what the hell I can do to convince her.
"Oh, what are you making?" one lady asked. I held up the bunny, which was somehow wearing a smirk, one ear beginning to droop over one eye. It was like the damned thing was channeling my emotions. "You're so creative! Look at that!" said another lady, sporting a sweatshirt with a cat face painted right in the center.
By this point, the physical therapist, Jeff, who is a not much older than Zach, noticed what was going on. He is used to being in charge - Doorframe stretch! Now take this ginormous ball and walk it up the wall! Now do pushups against the wall! To ze pullies! To ze hand bike!
Jeff tried to regain control, his mouth set in the manner of an adult faced with a set of mutinous children: "Ladies," he said sternly. We weren't about to have our fun ruined by some whippersnapper. We all snickered simultaneously at his chastisement, each holding up a creation for the inspection of the group, resulting in further giggling at each others' barely artistic efforts.
Jeff gave up with an exasperated roll of his 20-something eyes.
"Are you an artist?" one of the ladies asked me. I smiled and shook my head, thinking of my artist birthmother. I have no idea what kind of art Leslie does, or whether she does it for profit or merely for recreation. I wondered in that moment if my desire to mold a lump of therapy putty into a thing instead of just sitting there squeezing it for 5 minutes (as expected) came from her.
She is everywhere - in made-for-tv movies, in songs, in the smile of the stranger sitting next to me in physical therapy. Leslie told Mary that she didn't understand my need for establishing a connection with her.
There is no need to establish a connection. The connection already exists. There is only her denial of it, and me wondering what the hell I can do to convince her.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Bright Side?
So last night we were watching Miami CSI, my guilty pleasure show. One of the main characters (Delko) has apparently been targeted to be murdered by...
...his birthfather. (The attempt was unsuccessful, of course.)
So I turned to Paul and I said, "Well, I guess the bright side is that at least Leslie isn't trying to kill me."
...his birthfather. (The attempt was unsuccessful, of course.)
So I turned to Paul and I said, "Well, I guess the bright side is that at least Leslie isn't trying to kill me."
Thursday, December 04, 2008
I'd Laugh, but My Humorous is Fractured
I'm a couple of hours out from a darvocet (usually not taken during the day... will explain in a moment), but I'll try to keep this succinct and not rambly.
My orthopedic doc said he doesn't see a torn ligament or tendon (yay), but I have a proximal humerus fracture (boo). He also believes I dislocated my shoulder when I fell, and there's a large amount of fluid - "blood" he said - under the ball part, which I guess is rather like a bruise. He agrees that Paul must have relocated it when he was getting me out of the car at the Care Now.
We'd been at the "Care Now" (ha!) for a while, but when they said it would be another hour or so we went to sit in the car because I was so uncomfortable sitting in the waiting room chair. When Paul was helping me out of the car 90 minutes later, something happened that caused me excruciating pain for 10-15 minutes. I was bawling the whole time, and no amount of embarrassment could make it stop. (There's a reason they generally give people sedatives before they pop things back into place.)
So today I was back at work, wearing a sling, dressed in a big shirt, elastic-waist pants and New Balance trainers. I haven't felt this unglamourous since 7th grade.
I requisitioned Hannah's automatic transmission car. Actually, we are sharing. I would have swapped cars with her but she doesn't drive a stick, and we determined that she mainly needs the car on weekends (since she lives in the dorm) and I only need it during the week. She was all sweetness and generous attitude about it, so I told her I'd take care of all the gas while we're sharing.
My orthopedic doc said he doesn't see a torn ligament or tendon (yay), but I have a proximal humerus fracture (boo). He also believes I dislocated my shoulder when I fell, and there's a large amount of fluid - "blood" he said - under the ball part, which I guess is rather like a bruise. He agrees that Paul must have relocated it when he was getting me out of the car at the Care Now.
We'd been at the "Care Now" (ha!) for a while, but when they said it would be another hour or so we went to sit in the car because I was so uncomfortable sitting in the waiting room chair. When Paul was helping me out of the car 90 minutes later, something happened that caused me excruciating pain for 10-15 minutes. I was bawling the whole time, and no amount of embarrassment could make it stop. (There's a reason they generally give people sedatives before they pop things back into place.)
So today I was back at work, wearing a sling, dressed in a big shirt, elastic-waist pants and New Balance trainers. I haven't felt this unglamourous since 7th grade.
I requisitioned Hannah's automatic transmission car. Actually, we are sharing. I would have swapped cars with her but she doesn't drive a stick, and we determined that she mainly needs the car on weekends (since she lives in the dorm) and I only need it during the week. She was all sweetness and generous attitude about it, so I told her I'd take care of all the gas while we're sharing.
Monday, December 01, 2008
My Civic is Misconstruing my Disinterest
The Thursday before Thanksgiving I was at work five minutes before I went outside to trek across campus with a package, missed a step down, hit the concrete at an angle and ran 2-3 steps trying to right myself (fail!) before landing hard on both knees and my outstretched right hand.
I rolled over (off of my bloody knees) and ended up sitting down, legs outstretched in the middle of an expanse of concrete, purse to the left, package to the right, in a pair of ruined khaki slacks. My right arm refused to be used for leverage, so I couldn't get up. For a moment I was embarrassed and then the pain came and I didn't give a shit. (I looked around and though I could see at least three people nearby not one person came over to help me or acted like they'd seen a thing. I find it REALLY hard to believe that no one caught the action on this one, it had to be spectacular. I wish I had it on film, I really do.)
So with my nearly-in-tears-baby-voice I called to a guy who was about 15 feet away, repairing a brick wall, "Sir? Um, could you help me please?" and God love him, he heard me and ran over.
After two sets of xrays at a Care Now (an oxymoron, if ever there was one), I saw an orthopedic surgeon who ordered an MRI and took me off work officially for two weeks. I am now waiting for the radiologist's report to reach my orthopedic guy, so I'm not sure what the final call is, but the tech who did the MRI said, "That's messed up."
My arm is in a sling (most of the time), and I am seriously bored out of my mind. Today I gave up and perused what was available to watch on television, as I've become adept at working the remote left-handed. I found some free on-demand movies and watched About Schmidt (pretty good), and Seven Samurai (wow, definitely worth the three plus hours).
Things that don't go quite the same when done with my non-dominant left hand:
* writing (der)
* eating with utensils
* putting on mascara
* putting in a contact lens
* squeezing the toothpaste onto the toothbrush
* brushing my teeth
* showering
* brushing my hair
* straightening my hair
* putting in earrings
* plucking unwanted eyebrow hairs
* using scissors
* typing (Yes, this is going Really. Slowly.)
* texting
Things impossible to do one-handed:
* putting my hair in a ponytail
* putting on jeans
* tying my own shoes
* applying deoderant
* flossing
* picking up anything remotely requiring the balance and/or strength of two hands
* cutting my own steak
* taking lids off of things
* starting a fire in the fireplace
* driving my *$%&#@! stickshift car (sorry, Civic)
I rolled over (off of my bloody knees) and ended up sitting down, legs outstretched in the middle of an expanse of concrete, purse to the left, package to the right, in a pair of ruined khaki slacks. My right arm refused to be used for leverage, so I couldn't get up. For a moment I was embarrassed and then the pain came and I didn't give a shit. (I looked around and though I could see at least three people nearby not one person came over to help me or acted like they'd seen a thing. I find it REALLY hard to believe that no one caught the action on this one, it had to be spectacular. I wish I had it on film, I really do.)
So with my nearly-in-tears-baby-voice I called to a guy who was about 15 feet away, repairing a brick wall, "Sir? Um, could you help me please?" and God love him, he heard me and ran over.
After two sets of xrays at a Care Now (an oxymoron, if ever there was one), I saw an orthopedic surgeon who ordered an MRI and took me off work officially for two weeks. I am now waiting for the radiologist's report to reach my orthopedic guy, so I'm not sure what the final call is, but the tech who did the MRI said, "That's messed up."
My arm is in a sling (most of the time), and I am seriously bored out of my mind. Today I gave up and perused what was available to watch on television, as I've become adept at working the remote left-handed. I found some free on-demand movies and watched About Schmidt (pretty good), and Seven Samurai (wow, definitely worth the three plus hours).
Things that don't go quite the same when done with my non-dominant left hand:
* writing (der)
* eating with utensils
* putting on mascara
* putting in a contact lens
* squeezing the toothpaste onto the toothbrush
* brushing my teeth
* showering
* brushing my hair
* straightening my hair
* putting in earrings
* plucking unwanted eyebrow hairs
* using scissors
* typing (Yes, this is going Really. Slowly.)
* texting
Things impossible to do one-handed:
* putting my hair in a ponytail
* putting on jeans
* tying my own shoes
* applying deoderant
* flossing
* picking up anything remotely requiring the balance and/or strength of two hands
* cutting my own steak
* taking lids off of things
* starting a fire in the fireplace
* driving my *$%&#@! stickshift car (sorry, Civic)
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Mono a Mono
Well, it isn't quite mano a mano combat... but it sure feels like somebody slugged me. I stayed home from work last Thursday and went to the doctor on Friday with symptoms of: run over by truck feeling and overly emotional episodes out of the blue -- as in crying if, say, the cat hurt my feelings.
At 17, I was diagnosed with mononucleosis, via labwork. Once you've had an outbreak of this virus (cause by EBV), it isn't supposed to come back as an active virus because the antibodies grant you immunity (even though you may be contagious here and there throughout your life without being aware of it - which I didn't know, either).
So imagine my surprise when my doctor called me at work Tuesday and said, "You have mono! The mono spot test and the EPV antibodies test are positive." Apparently, because of my weakened immune system, the damn thing is reactivating during periods of stress - physical or emotional. This may be the answer my hematologist was looking for 7 years ago. My aplastic anemia diagnosis was given "idiopathic" as its cause - but he suspected a recurring virus, and I'm guessing this is likely it. The suckiest thing is knowing that my stem cell production is probably kaput for a while, which is not good for anyone but especially for someone who doesn't have enough of those suckers to start with.
Rats.
Meanwhile, I haven't heard from Leslie, still. And after hours of searching through the Texas birth book for her, I found her. Oh, I didn't mention, did I, that she is also adopted?? Yeah. She wasn't in the birth book under her adopted name, so I was hoping for an "infant of" entry for her birthdate. I got to the letter M and found it... but it wasn't an infant of. She was named, and moreover, her adoptive parents kept the first and middle name she was given, so she probably wasn't an infant at adoption.
I can't imagine what has been causing me stress. Unfortunately, repressed curiousity is also a known stress inducer. Okay I made that up. But I think in my case it might be true.
At 17, I was diagnosed with mononucleosis, via labwork. Once you've had an outbreak of this virus (cause by EBV), it isn't supposed to come back as an active virus because the antibodies grant you immunity (even though you may be contagious here and there throughout your life without being aware of it - which I didn't know, either).
So imagine my surprise when my doctor called me at work Tuesday and said, "You have mono! The mono spot test and the EPV antibodies test are positive." Apparently, because of my weakened immune system, the damn thing is reactivating during periods of stress - physical or emotional. This may be the answer my hematologist was looking for 7 years ago. My aplastic anemia diagnosis was given "idiopathic" as its cause - but he suspected a recurring virus, and I'm guessing this is likely it. The suckiest thing is knowing that my stem cell production is probably kaput for a while, which is not good for anyone but especially for someone who doesn't have enough of those suckers to start with.
Rats.
Meanwhile, I haven't heard from Leslie, still. And after hours of searching through the Texas birth book for her, I found her. Oh, I didn't mention, did I, that she is also adopted?? Yeah. She wasn't in the birth book under her adopted name, so I was hoping for an "infant of" entry for her birthdate. I got to the letter M and found it... but it wasn't an infant of. She was named, and moreover, her adoptive parents kept the first and middle name she was given, so she probably wasn't an infant at adoption.
I can't imagine what has been causing me stress. Unfortunately, repressed curiousity is also a known stress inducer. Okay I made that up. But I think in my case it might be true.
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