I smile when my classmates ask me how my weekend was. It was great, I say and smile politely. How was yours?
Truth is, I haven't had a weekend (by choice) in two years. When I revamped my life two years ago and took a position as a Client Care Coordinator at a veterinary hospital, I volunteered to work every Saturday in exchange for having Sundays and Mondays off. My reason was triple-fold: my husband works Saturdays, after 11 years in a cubicle in a variety of office jobs, I was tired of the Monday-Friday, 9-5 grind, and Saturdays at a dog and cat hospital are a really fun/interesting/insane/sometimes relaxing/mostly crazy kind of madness. We see many harried parents with kids in tow who are decked out in soccer uniforms bringing their pets in for annual exams, nail trims, grooming or vaccines. There are husbands that come in with a long laundry list of errands and read me verbatim what their spouse has written: "Well, the wife sent me out the door this morning and she said after I went to the hardware store - you know the one down there on, on, well you know the one down there (while jerking a thumb in some indeterminable direction), then I needed to get our cat Mitsy some food. And you know she eats that really expensive one. You know the one that doesn't make her puke. 'Cuz you know when she pukes it's always when she's sitting in my lap while I'm trying to do the crossword. Anyhow, I got here on my list that we need three cans of the hypoallergenic food. You know, the one that costs an arm and a leg. That darn cat. I tell you; she eats better than I do!" I talk to clients like this all day long and it's usually a lot of fun. We also see dogs with fish hooks in their mouths (after getting a little too excited after a day of fishing), dogs with sometimes very serious bite wounds from an encounter at the dog park that got a little out of hand, and the list goes on.
For the last couple of months, I have still worked Saturdays but now Sunday is devoted to studying all day and since I can no longer work on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I instead work Mondays, Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. This leaves little room for a "weekend." And so I laugh when my very young classmates who haven't had to yet work for a living and are full-time students, kindly ask me about my weekend. But I smile and think to myself, yes, maybe I didn't have a weekend, but I'm getting closer to the weak part of myself ending. The part of me that rudely whispers you can't do this. You're not smart enough. Good luck getting it all done. You're going to need it. These negative voices are only a whisper now. They used to be loud enough to paralyze me and make excuses for staying at jobs that just pay the bills in industries that I don't want to work in. They used to be loud enough to make me doubt myself. To wonder if I would ever make it out of the hole it felt like I was in for too long.
I guess sometimes it takes choosing to give up something that everybody puts a high value on (Saturdays and Sundays)for a little while to get yourself to a different place. And I guess sometimes it does take losing a "weekend" to lose the weak end of who you thought you were to become who you are really meant to be.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Look at it this way
"In the right light, at the right time, everything is extraordinary." --Aaron Rose
I like to think that I'm a morning person. That I bounce out of bed every day smiling and singing showtunes. That I don't start looking forward to bedtime even while I'm still in bed hitting the snooze button and grumbling about waking up. Truth is that it takes coffee, a hot shower, generous amounts of moisturizer and concealer and a small amount of celebrity gossip website surfing to get me to start the day. Most of the time this equation works. I drink some caffeine, slather some makeup on, wish for the millionth time that I had low-maintenance hair, read some motivational quotes from the working out/eating healthy online community that I'm part of, smile at my husband while we wish each other a happy day and briefly kiss like the end of the world is coming, and I'm on my way out the door.
One day earlier this spring I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I can't remember what had me in a bad mood. Perhaps I ran out of coffee? Or forgot to charge my cellphone therefore limiting my ability to surf the web? I do remember feeling like the Care Bear named Grumpy or Stormy or Angry that has a dark raincloud over his head and is always mopey or frowning. Even the sun shining in through the windows at work made me scowl. As I put my sunglasses on (to minimize the glare from the sun hitting the computer monitor and giving me a headache), one of my co-workers noticed my expression and laughed at me. Which of course, made me furrow my brows even more. She then said, "Look at it this way, Valerie. The sun is shining, the rain and gray clouds are gone and summer is on its way!"
I thought about this later that week when I returned a gift from my late mother-in-law. Instead of giving me cash, the Nordstrom's sales associate handed me an iridescent gift card with a receipt showing $48.98 credit. I must have looked a little confused, because she said, "Look at it this way. Now you can buy something you really want!" I smiled a little sadly and walked to the parking lot thinking that I couldn't really get what I wanted with that gift card. What I wanted was another birthday with my late mother-in-law where she'd buy me some pretty earrings and we'd joke about perpetually turning 31. What I wanted was another summer of boating on the Columbia River with her and my father-in-law. What I wanted was to watch her eyes crinkle up as she laughed while teasing my father-in-law or my husband. I blinked as a tear fell from my eye and bounced off the iridescent gift card that I still had in my hand. I tilted it and noticed how the shiny surface gleamed at me as I moved it. At first glance it doesn't look like much. Just like a plain silver gift card, but pick it up and move it around under the light and suddenly there are patterns dancing around and you can almost see prisms.
I thought about how grief feels like that sometimes. On the surface it seems fine and the sorrow seems bearable. And then you tilt it and suddenly you're in tears. Maybe it's a trigger like Mother's Day when you are taking stock of your life and celebrating family. Or I'm driving to work and get a little lost in thought and start daydreaming and tear up. Lani was my husband's stepmother but to me she was like an old friend that maybe you only see every couple of months, but it never feels like it's been that long and you can just pick up where you left off. I couldn't tell you what her favorite color was or why she decided to become a nurse, but I can tell you that she loved getting flowers, religiously drank French Vanilla roast decaf coffee after dinner and always proudly displayed Christmas gifts that I bought her. On paper I guess you could say that we weren't that close. We didn't do chick flicks or have heart-to-heart talks, but if you tilt the relationship you realize just how much she meant to me. She meant an ally, another person in my corner, a mentor in how to achieve a healthy work/life balance, and a guide to navigating the sometimes tricky path called in-laws. I was a little intimidated by her the first time I met her and for a long time I worried that maybe she didn't think I was good enough for her stepson. She had a wonderfully dry sense of humor and had a knack for just telling it like it is and didn't beat around the bush. When I wanted an honest opinion about my job, a conflict or a career change, she told me the truth. I always worried that she thought I was too giggly, too flighty and maybe not practical enough and I had a hard time making conversation with her in the beginning, but I only recall that now as I've been reflecting on my relationship with her. In many ways she was more a friend to me than anything else and I like to think I was the same to her.
I used the gift card for some hot pink and black running shoes from Nordstrom Rack. I still feel a little guilty about returning the gift she bought me, but the last time I saw her she assured me there would be no hurt feelings if I returned it. I smiled as I thought of the conversation we would have had if she was still alive. "Well, look at it this way, Valerie. You essentially got to choose your own Christmas present." And we'd talk about discount shopping and deal-hunting and how fun it is to have cute shoes even if you're only going to wear them on the treadmill in your house and nobody will actually see them. What I wouldn't tell her is that I still have the gift card even though there's no money left on it. I guess I like that in a round-about way I still have the last thing she gave me. I keep it in my wallet near my debit card. I like that at any time I could pick it up and watch the light bounce around on it and think of her generous and encouraging spirit.
A few weeks ago Grant and I attended his cousin's wedding on Camano Island in the Puget Sound. It was a rare clear and warm day in May and a boathouse right on the water provided the perfect backdrop for an evening of celebration and dancing. I laughed at the stories my husband and brother and sister-in-law were swapping as we sat outside on the deck drinking wine and beer and toasting their cousin. And, as I always do at weddings I thought about family and marriage and the rocky storms that come through life. I thought about the wedding vows that mean more and more to me the older I get. I thought about the "until death do us part" vow as I asked my father-in-law if he wanted another beer. As I looked at the sunlight bouncing off the gentle waves as dusk settled in on the Puget Sound, I thought about Lani's laugh and her gifts to her family before she left. I smiled as I watched a tear sneak down my cheek and bounce off my wine glass. I smiled even more as I swallowed some more wine and pulled my husband out onto the dance floor and I thought yes, just look at it this way Valerie. The iridescence of her life will remain with me long after the gift card has been reused or recycled or ends up in a landfill. The light that picks up the reflections and bounces them around will remain. And I'm inspired to live my life in a way that when I'm gone, those that I leave behind will celebrate our time together and embrace the light as it dances and changes shape as it moves across their life.
I like to think that I'm a morning person. That I bounce out of bed every day smiling and singing showtunes. That I don't start looking forward to bedtime even while I'm still in bed hitting the snooze button and grumbling about waking up. Truth is that it takes coffee, a hot shower, generous amounts of moisturizer and concealer and a small amount of celebrity gossip website surfing to get me to start the day. Most of the time this equation works. I drink some caffeine, slather some makeup on, wish for the millionth time that I had low-maintenance hair, read some motivational quotes from the working out/eating healthy online community that I'm part of, smile at my husband while we wish each other a happy day and briefly kiss like the end of the world is coming, and I'm on my way out the door.
One day earlier this spring I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I can't remember what had me in a bad mood. Perhaps I ran out of coffee? Or forgot to charge my cellphone therefore limiting my ability to surf the web? I do remember feeling like the Care Bear named Grumpy or Stormy or Angry that has a dark raincloud over his head and is always mopey or frowning. Even the sun shining in through the windows at work made me scowl. As I put my sunglasses on (to minimize the glare from the sun hitting the computer monitor and giving me a headache), one of my co-workers noticed my expression and laughed at me. Which of course, made me furrow my brows even more. She then said, "Look at it this way, Valerie. The sun is shining, the rain and gray clouds are gone and summer is on its way!"
I thought about this later that week when I returned a gift from my late mother-in-law. Instead of giving me cash, the Nordstrom's sales associate handed me an iridescent gift card with a receipt showing $48.98 credit. I must have looked a little confused, because she said, "Look at it this way. Now you can buy something you really want!" I smiled a little sadly and walked to the parking lot thinking that I couldn't really get what I wanted with that gift card. What I wanted was another birthday with my late mother-in-law where she'd buy me some pretty earrings and we'd joke about perpetually turning 31. What I wanted was another summer of boating on the Columbia River with her and my father-in-law. What I wanted was to watch her eyes crinkle up as she laughed while teasing my father-in-law or my husband. I blinked as a tear fell from my eye and bounced off the iridescent gift card that I still had in my hand. I tilted it and noticed how the shiny surface gleamed at me as I moved it. At first glance it doesn't look like much. Just like a plain silver gift card, but pick it up and move it around under the light and suddenly there are patterns dancing around and you can almost see prisms.
I thought about how grief feels like that sometimes. On the surface it seems fine and the sorrow seems bearable. And then you tilt it and suddenly you're in tears. Maybe it's a trigger like Mother's Day when you are taking stock of your life and celebrating family. Or I'm driving to work and get a little lost in thought and start daydreaming and tear up. Lani was my husband's stepmother but to me she was like an old friend that maybe you only see every couple of months, but it never feels like it's been that long and you can just pick up where you left off. I couldn't tell you what her favorite color was or why she decided to become a nurse, but I can tell you that she loved getting flowers, religiously drank French Vanilla roast decaf coffee after dinner and always proudly displayed Christmas gifts that I bought her. On paper I guess you could say that we weren't that close. We didn't do chick flicks or have heart-to-heart talks, but if you tilt the relationship you realize just how much she meant to me. She meant an ally, another person in my corner, a mentor in how to achieve a healthy work/life balance, and a guide to navigating the sometimes tricky path called in-laws. I was a little intimidated by her the first time I met her and for a long time I worried that maybe she didn't think I was good enough for her stepson. She had a wonderfully dry sense of humor and had a knack for just telling it like it is and didn't beat around the bush. When I wanted an honest opinion about my job, a conflict or a career change, she told me the truth. I always worried that she thought I was too giggly, too flighty and maybe not practical enough and I had a hard time making conversation with her in the beginning, but I only recall that now as I've been reflecting on my relationship with her. In many ways she was more a friend to me than anything else and I like to think I was the same to her.
I used the gift card for some hot pink and black running shoes from Nordstrom Rack. I still feel a little guilty about returning the gift she bought me, but the last time I saw her she assured me there would be no hurt feelings if I returned it. I smiled as I thought of the conversation we would have had if she was still alive. "Well, look at it this way, Valerie. You essentially got to choose your own Christmas present." And we'd talk about discount shopping and deal-hunting and how fun it is to have cute shoes even if you're only going to wear them on the treadmill in your house and nobody will actually see them. What I wouldn't tell her is that I still have the gift card even though there's no money left on it. I guess I like that in a round-about way I still have the last thing she gave me. I keep it in my wallet near my debit card. I like that at any time I could pick it up and watch the light bounce around on it and think of her generous and encouraging spirit.
A few weeks ago Grant and I attended his cousin's wedding on Camano Island in the Puget Sound. It was a rare clear and warm day in May and a boathouse right on the water provided the perfect backdrop for an evening of celebration and dancing. I laughed at the stories my husband and brother and sister-in-law were swapping as we sat outside on the deck drinking wine and beer and toasting their cousin. And, as I always do at weddings I thought about family and marriage and the rocky storms that come through life. I thought about the wedding vows that mean more and more to me the older I get. I thought about the "until death do us part" vow as I asked my father-in-law if he wanted another beer. As I looked at the sunlight bouncing off the gentle waves as dusk settled in on the Puget Sound, I thought about Lani's laugh and her gifts to her family before she left. I smiled as I watched a tear sneak down my cheek and bounce off my wine glass. I smiled even more as I swallowed some more wine and pulled my husband out onto the dance floor and I thought yes, just look at it this way Valerie. The iridescence of her life will remain with me long after the gift card has been reused or recycled or ends up in a landfill. The light that picks up the reflections and bounces them around will remain. And I'm inspired to live my life in a way that when I'm gone, those that I leave behind will celebrate our time together and embrace the light as it dances and changes shape as it moves across their life.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
NPR and Me
"Insist upon yourself. Be original." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson
When I was 21, I had an internship working in a small independent bookstore called Annie Bloom's Books. Nestled in the heart of a small pocket of Portland known to locals as Multnomah Village, it was famous for its relaxed and inviting ambiance which was created by big purple puffy chairs that begged to be lounged on, Oscar Wilde the friendly resident store cat (who hated being called a he, since she had actually mothered several kittens), and its heady, intellectual, borderline literary genius staff. I was thrilled to be included in this group and simultaneously a little worried that I wasn't quite smart or hip enough. Mostly I couldn't believe I was lucky enough to work in this adorable bookstore that is much like the younger sister of the Portland cornerstone Powell's Books.
Fortunately I had erudite parents* who not only encouraged me to use ridiculous-sounding words like erudite, but also showed me the importance of reading for pleasure and also to expand my horizons and I think this helped me to (mostly) fit in with the bookstore staff. I could hold my own when discussing the classics (well, most of them anyway -- the ones I hadn't read I just pretended like I had and nodded and agreed during the conversations) and I eagerly used the generous store discount and lenient lending in-store policy to introduce myself to new authors and genres. The staff also religiously celebrated the month-long event in April called Turn off Your TV and Read a Book or something like that. I joined them one year and didn't find it too hard to do. Again, I have my parents to thank for that - as a child they insisted on limited television intake (I spent my alotted one hour a week helping Angela Lansbury solve crimes on Murder, She Wrote), so skipping TV for a month wasn't too much of a stretch.
I frequently worked the Saturday afternoon shift with a quirky, late 20-something guy who I thought was the coolest thing since Oprah Winfrey's book club. Matt* taught 3rd grade and divided his off time between working at the bookstore, writing poetry, and helping his wife care for their newborn son. He was an avid listener to NPR and I was so anxious to impress him that I started using my 45 minute commute to introduce myself to public radio so we could converse about world events, new films, interviews with Pullitzer Prize winners and all the other fascinating things that are shared on NPR. Unfortunately this effort lasted for about 20 minutes, as I found it practically lulled me to sleep. I remember sharing this with my older brother and sister and they both laughed at me and agreed neither of them knew anyone under the age of 25 that enjoyed NPR. I shrugged and figured when I was "grown-up" then I would get smarter and start listening then. They both then proceeded to give me the "just be yourself and don't be someone you're not just to impress somebody" speech that seems like a rite of passage for older siblings to give.
Fast forward 10+ years and I have since used my 45-60 minute commute to reintroduce myself to NPR and have quickly become a convert. In the past week, I have become more knowledgeable about the tensions between North and South Korea, learned about a "laughing epidemic" in Tanzania, and listened to an interview from a guy that is working on the sound effects for the new Jurassic Park movie. He has a neighbor that has such a unique voice he is able to use it for one of the dinosaur's growls or roars or yelps or whatever sound dinosaurs are supposed to make. I love these stories. They remind me to get out of my head and that there's a great big world out there.
Earlier today I found myself again trying to impress a boy. This one is my 10-year-old nephew and since I am 25 years older than Zach, I worry that I am not cool enough. I doubt he cares about how much I know now because of NPR or what books I have just read or my opinions of world events. I think he just cares that I care about him. That I know how to listen and that I can remember what it's like to be a kid and feel like the decisions that are being made for you don't make sense. Turns out he got a cell phone for his birthay yesterday and I was his first phone call. I listened to him talk about his siblings driving him crazy and how he wanted to play catcher this season in baseball and that he and I should watch the movie Rio soon and re-watch Despicable Me sometime even though we saw it in 3D in the theater a few years ago. He told me about bowling for his birthday party and how much he was looking forward to going to a Timbers soccer game and hoped to meet some of the players. I told him we would talk to his mom about planning another movie outing soon and that he could call or text me anytime he wants. I smiled as I hung up the phone. Turns out his mom and my older brother were right - there's no need to listen to NPR to be friends with the Matts and Zachs in the world. I just need to be me.
*Special thanks to my parents, Gary and Becky Nelson, for helping me become me by driving me to the library and assuring me it was perfectly normal for a 9 year old to read the dictionary.
*I have changed his name to protect myself. I would pass out from embarrassment if he ever knew that I had this intellectual crush on him.
When I was 21, I had an internship working in a small independent bookstore called Annie Bloom's Books. Nestled in the heart of a small pocket of Portland known to locals as Multnomah Village, it was famous for its relaxed and inviting ambiance which was created by big purple puffy chairs that begged to be lounged on, Oscar Wilde the friendly resident store cat (who hated being called a he, since she had actually mothered several kittens), and its heady, intellectual, borderline literary genius staff. I was thrilled to be included in this group and simultaneously a little worried that I wasn't quite smart or hip enough. Mostly I couldn't believe I was lucky enough to work in this adorable bookstore that is much like the younger sister of the Portland cornerstone Powell's Books.
Fortunately I had erudite parents* who not only encouraged me to use ridiculous-sounding words like erudite, but also showed me the importance of reading for pleasure and also to expand my horizons and I think this helped me to (mostly) fit in with the bookstore staff. I could hold my own when discussing the classics (well, most of them anyway -- the ones I hadn't read I just pretended like I had and nodded and agreed during the conversations) and I eagerly used the generous store discount and lenient lending in-store policy to introduce myself to new authors and genres. The staff also religiously celebrated the month-long event in April called Turn off Your TV and Read a Book or something like that. I joined them one year and didn't find it too hard to do. Again, I have my parents to thank for that - as a child they insisted on limited television intake (I spent my alotted one hour a week helping Angela Lansbury solve crimes on Murder, She Wrote), so skipping TV for a month wasn't too much of a stretch.
I frequently worked the Saturday afternoon shift with a quirky, late 20-something guy who I thought was the coolest thing since Oprah Winfrey's book club. Matt* taught 3rd grade and divided his off time between working at the bookstore, writing poetry, and helping his wife care for their newborn son. He was an avid listener to NPR and I was so anxious to impress him that I started using my 45 minute commute to introduce myself to public radio so we could converse about world events, new films, interviews with Pullitzer Prize winners and all the other fascinating things that are shared on NPR. Unfortunately this effort lasted for about 20 minutes, as I found it practically lulled me to sleep. I remember sharing this with my older brother and sister and they both laughed at me and agreed neither of them knew anyone under the age of 25 that enjoyed NPR. I shrugged and figured when I was "grown-up" then I would get smarter and start listening then. They both then proceeded to give me the "just be yourself and don't be someone you're not just to impress somebody" speech that seems like a rite of passage for older siblings to give.
Fast forward 10+ years and I have since used my 45-60 minute commute to reintroduce myself to NPR and have quickly become a convert. In the past week, I have become more knowledgeable about the tensions between North and South Korea, learned about a "laughing epidemic" in Tanzania, and listened to an interview from a guy that is working on the sound effects for the new Jurassic Park movie. He has a neighbor that has such a unique voice he is able to use it for one of the dinosaur's growls or roars or yelps or whatever sound dinosaurs are supposed to make. I love these stories. They remind me to get out of my head and that there's a great big world out there.
Earlier today I found myself again trying to impress a boy. This one is my 10-year-old nephew and since I am 25 years older than Zach, I worry that I am not cool enough. I doubt he cares about how much I know now because of NPR or what books I have just read or my opinions of world events. I think he just cares that I care about him. That I know how to listen and that I can remember what it's like to be a kid and feel like the decisions that are being made for you don't make sense. Turns out he got a cell phone for his birthay yesterday and I was his first phone call. I listened to him talk about his siblings driving him crazy and how he wanted to play catcher this season in baseball and that he and I should watch the movie Rio soon and re-watch Despicable Me sometime even though we saw it in 3D in the theater a few years ago. He told me about bowling for his birthday party and how much he was looking forward to going to a Timbers soccer game and hoped to meet some of the players. I told him we would talk to his mom about planning another movie outing soon and that he could call or text me anytime he wants. I smiled as I hung up the phone. Turns out his mom and my older brother were right - there's no need to listen to NPR to be friends with the Matts and Zachs in the world. I just need to be me.
*Special thanks to my parents, Gary and Becky Nelson, for helping me become me by driving me to the library and assuring me it was perfectly normal for a 9 year old to read the dictionary.
*I have changed his name to protect myself. I would pass out from embarrassment if he ever knew that I had this intellectual crush on him.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Take a load off
"I expect to pass through this world but once; any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now, let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again." -- Stephan Grellet
I have a car alarm that only works at inappropriate times. It blares when it is just me trying to get into the car if I haven't jiggled the key counterclockwise in the driver's side door while facing north and standing on one foot. Or at least that's how finicky it feels like it is and the methods I have to employ to avoid setting it off. It doesn't happen every time, but it has happened enough in the last few weeks that I have now been unlocking the passenger door first and then walking around to the driver's side door to get in to avoid my ears getting assaulted again.
At first I found this to be quite pesky and grumbled and scowled every morning and throughout the day when I would need to get into my car. Then one morning after I struggled to get my purse, lunch bag, water bottle, coffee mug, makeup tote (and all the other random items that I deem necessary for a happy and successful day) in the car via the passenger side, it occurred to me how nice it felt to set all of them down and walk to the other side of the car without holding anything. I'm like a turtle most of the time. I carry many of my belongings at one time on my back, or rather right next to me in the car. And sure it's a short little walk from my front door to the car, but sometimes it is still long enough to make everything feel heavier than it actually is.
I thought about this sporadically as I drove into work (I have a hefty commute which allows me many minutes to ponder things) and it remained in my free-floating thoughts that day. I work in a veterinary clinic where we treat dogs and cats and take care of their oftentimes very nervous owners depending on the reason for why the animal has come in to see us. Some procedures that the doctors do can be done in the exam rooms with the owner present, but some need to be done in the treatment area in the back of the hospital where the veterinary technicians work and they have lift tables and many instruments at their disposal. This is the case for probably 90% of clients that bring their pets in, if not more. Many people simply sit in the lobby and use the time to phone friends or family members to catch up, or play scrabble on their phones, read books on their Kindles or read the gossip magazines found in the magazine racks under the bulletin boards that advertise pleas to reunite lost pets with their distraught owners. Some pass the time by staring off into space - I imagine to enjoy the little break in their day from their various responsibilities and errands. Many of them chat with me and my fellow receptionists which I always enjoy. Some trade stories with fellow clients - what are you in for? Oh my Yorkie has to get her monthly nail trim (pedicures as some jokingly call it), what about you? Oh my German Shepherd is getting stitches removed from her spay last week and getting vaccinated, so I can get her licensed with the county. And the other client nods her head sympathetically and they exchange knowing looks about the care needed for pets and these two strangers connect over the commonality of being a pet owner.
More times than I can count there have been people waiting for their pets to be done with a routine procedure when a weeping pet owner comes rushing in presenting an emergency situation - their cat was hit by a car, their dog got stung by a bee and is experiencing swelling or an allergic reaction, or their dog ingested something harmful or something else from the many and very scary and tragic things that can happen to pets. More often than not the waiting client will be seen comforting the crying owner while the doctors assess and administer emergency procedures. It's almost breathtaking to witness when two strangers sometimes from two very different walks of life connect and one provides comfort to the other. Most times I get tears in my eyes because of where it touches me in my heart and soul. Inevitably what comes out next is anxiety about having the available funds to pay for an emergency situation like this. And the other client pulls me or one of my coworkers aside and says please take this $20 or $50 or $100 or $200 and put it towards their bill. They tell us they know how upsetting it is to have something happen to a member of your family and the distraught clint has enough to worry about besides their bill.
After thanking the Good Samaritan profusely and wiping away a few tears, we watch them leave and it really seems like they walk a little lighter even though they have just partially taken on another's burden. I know the emotional client feels very grateful and almost walks a little lighter as well. It seems ironic, since technically if you help another human being you should feel that weight but it almost has a balancing effect instead. Almost like the weights that Lady Justice holds that are never quite even - there is no fairness in the world for what happens to some people and not others. But maybe this is life's way of trying to make burdens a little more even or maybe not seem so big and overwhelming. Like maybe you put your problems and worries in perspective and count your blessings that it is not you experiencing that tragedy today. But you know that you may someday experience something similar and you hope that maybe you'll find yourself surrounded by Good Samaritans that will help you shoulder and carry your grief when that time comes.
I'd like to say that these occurrences stay with me long enough to keep me out of my own head and from dwelling on my own problems or issues that I'm grappling with, but honestly I'm more than a little human and I quickly forget. Sometimes though I do find these things seep into my subconscious and manifest themselves in ways that make me happy and help others at the same time. Last week I helped a coworker with a charity event that helps recently rescued girls from human trafficking attend the prom. They were asking for donations for gift baskets full of items to prepare for a formal dance i.e. hairbrushes, nail polish, makeup, etc. I love doing stuff like this and headed to Dollar Tree and put on my what would I like if I was a teenage girl hat (which is actually not too hard when you're married to your high school sweetheart. You still feel like you're 17 going on 18 most of the time which isn't as bad as it sounds, it's actually kind of fun and liberating). I piled my basket high with bright pink and purple compact mirrors, glittery nail polish and eye shadow, nail clippers with zebra and leopard print on them and scented lotion and hand sanitizer in cute travel bags. I laughed to myself as the checker rang me up and raised an eyebrow as she looked at the age lines in my forehead and around my eyes and probably wondered why I wasn't shopping for my age or at least acting like it. I shrugged and we both smiled and wished each other a good afternoon. I grinned as I walked to my car and thought about the girls that I would probably never meet but who weighed on my heart as they came out of unspeakably horrible situations that robbed them of so many things that I have taken for granted in my life. I got chills as I pictured them choosing high heels to match their fancy dresses and styling their hair with the sequined hairbands I had just bought them. And I'll be darned if I didn't notice how heavy the bags were as I heaved them into the passenger side of my car and headed back to my corner of the working world where I'm lucky enough to sometimes witness strangers attempt to balance the burdens of others and in turn, achieve more of a balance in their life. And in mine.
I have a car alarm that only works at inappropriate times. It blares when it is just me trying to get into the car if I haven't jiggled the key counterclockwise in the driver's side door while facing north and standing on one foot. Or at least that's how finicky it feels like it is and the methods I have to employ to avoid setting it off. It doesn't happen every time, but it has happened enough in the last few weeks that I have now been unlocking the passenger door first and then walking around to the driver's side door to get in to avoid my ears getting assaulted again.
At first I found this to be quite pesky and grumbled and scowled every morning and throughout the day when I would need to get into my car. Then one morning after I struggled to get my purse, lunch bag, water bottle, coffee mug, makeup tote (and all the other random items that I deem necessary for a happy and successful day) in the car via the passenger side, it occurred to me how nice it felt to set all of them down and walk to the other side of the car without holding anything. I'm like a turtle most of the time. I carry many of my belongings at one time on my back, or rather right next to me in the car. And sure it's a short little walk from my front door to the car, but sometimes it is still long enough to make everything feel heavier than it actually is.
I thought about this sporadically as I drove into work (I have a hefty commute which allows me many minutes to ponder things) and it remained in my free-floating thoughts that day. I work in a veterinary clinic where we treat dogs and cats and take care of their oftentimes very nervous owners depending on the reason for why the animal has come in to see us. Some procedures that the doctors do can be done in the exam rooms with the owner present, but some need to be done in the treatment area in the back of the hospital where the veterinary technicians work and they have lift tables and many instruments at their disposal. This is the case for probably 90% of clients that bring their pets in, if not more. Many people simply sit in the lobby and use the time to phone friends or family members to catch up, or play scrabble on their phones, read books on their Kindles or read the gossip magazines found in the magazine racks under the bulletin boards that advertise pleas to reunite lost pets with their distraught owners. Some pass the time by staring off into space - I imagine to enjoy the little break in their day from their various responsibilities and errands. Many of them chat with me and my fellow receptionists which I always enjoy. Some trade stories with fellow clients - what are you in for? Oh my Yorkie has to get her monthly nail trim (pedicures as some jokingly call it), what about you? Oh my German Shepherd is getting stitches removed from her spay last week and getting vaccinated, so I can get her licensed with the county. And the other client nods her head sympathetically and they exchange knowing looks about the care needed for pets and these two strangers connect over the commonality of being a pet owner.
More times than I can count there have been people waiting for their pets to be done with a routine procedure when a weeping pet owner comes rushing in presenting an emergency situation - their cat was hit by a car, their dog got stung by a bee and is experiencing swelling or an allergic reaction, or their dog ingested something harmful or something else from the many and very scary and tragic things that can happen to pets. More often than not the waiting client will be seen comforting the crying owner while the doctors assess and administer emergency procedures. It's almost breathtaking to witness when two strangers sometimes from two very different walks of life connect and one provides comfort to the other. Most times I get tears in my eyes because of where it touches me in my heart and soul. Inevitably what comes out next is anxiety about having the available funds to pay for an emergency situation like this. And the other client pulls me or one of my coworkers aside and says please take this $20 or $50 or $100 or $200 and put it towards their bill. They tell us they know how upsetting it is to have something happen to a member of your family and the distraught clint has enough to worry about besides their bill.
After thanking the Good Samaritan profusely and wiping away a few tears, we watch them leave and it really seems like they walk a little lighter even though they have just partially taken on another's burden. I know the emotional client feels very grateful and almost walks a little lighter as well. It seems ironic, since technically if you help another human being you should feel that weight but it almost has a balancing effect instead. Almost like the weights that Lady Justice holds that are never quite even - there is no fairness in the world for what happens to some people and not others. But maybe this is life's way of trying to make burdens a little more even or maybe not seem so big and overwhelming. Like maybe you put your problems and worries in perspective and count your blessings that it is not you experiencing that tragedy today. But you know that you may someday experience something similar and you hope that maybe you'll find yourself surrounded by Good Samaritans that will help you shoulder and carry your grief when that time comes.
I'd like to say that these occurrences stay with me long enough to keep me out of my own head and from dwelling on my own problems or issues that I'm grappling with, but honestly I'm more than a little human and I quickly forget. Sometimes though I do find these things seep into my subconscious and manifest themselves in ways that make me happy and help others at the same time. Last week I helped a coworker with a charity event that helps recently rescued girls from human trafficking attend the prom. They were asking for donations for gift baskets full of items to prepare for a formal dance i.e. hairbrushes, nail polish, makeup, etc. I love doing stuff like this and headed to Dollar Tree and put on my what would I like if I was a teenage girl hat (which is actually not too hard when you're married to your high school sweetheart. You still feel like you're 17 going on 18 most of the time which isn't as bad as it sounds, it's actually kind of fun and liberating). I piled my basket high with bright pink and purple compact mirrors, glittery nail polish and eye shadow, nail clippers with zebra and leopard print on them and scented lotion and hand sanitizer in cute travel bags. I laughed to myself as the checker rang me up and raised an eyebrow as she looked at the age lines in my forehead and around my eyes and probably wondered why I wasn't shopping for my age or at least acting like it. I shrugged and we both smiled and wished each other a good afternoon. I grinned as I walked to my car and thought about the girls that I would probably never meet but who weighed on my heart as they came out of unspeakably horrible situations that robbed them of so many things that I have taken for granted in my life. I got chills as I pictured them choosing high heels to match their fancy dresses and styling their hair with the sequined hairbands I had just bought them. And I'll be darned if I didn't notice how heavy the bags were as I heaved them into the passenger side of my car and headed back to my corner of the working world where I'm lucky enough to sometimes witness strangers attempt to balance the burdens of others and in turn, achieve more of a balance in their life. And in mine.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
She's nice, but she's pretty high-maintenance
"Life is simple, it's just not easy." -- Author Unknown
Yesterday I was reminded of a truth about myself that I usually try to keep hidden. Or at least not go out of my way to point it out to people. I'm pretty high-maintenance. This observation came from a co-worker as we were discussing our plans for the evening. Mine were not exciting at all - go to the grocery store, stop by a friend's house, and work out -- and I should probably just have stopped there. But I like to talk and so I elaborated that I had to specifically go to New Seasons Market (because that's the only place I can find it) to get coconut milk creamer to put in my organic drip coffee, text my friend so I could coordinate my arrival with her family coming home from a wedding that day and I could buy some fresh eggs from her that she gets from the chickens in her back yard. And I wanted to do my daily 3.5 mile (working on getting up to 4) power walk outside so that I wouldn't be using the treadmill while Grant would be watching the March Madness basketball games. And I didn't just want to go for a walk around my neighborhood, I specifically wanted to go along the Springwater Corridor Trail but since I would be going solo, I had to make sure I went before it got too late and too dark.
I usually am offended when people remark that I'm high-maintenance, unless I have just immediately admitted it and they are agreeing with me. For whatever reason, this interaction didn't bother me. Chalk it up to personal growth, maturity, getting a thicker skin or perhaps the epiphany that I had last night that maybe I'm doing the world a favor by being a little finicky. I'm not trying to justify anything (okay maybe just a little bit), I just know myself and I know what I need to make me the best possible version of myself. This has been a painful, time-consuming process filled with much soul-searching, complaining (cleverly disguised as "observations") and a large amount of acceptance of what I know to be true of myself.
I know that if I were to go back to my old ways of drinking the cheapest ground coffee on the shelf and using sweet, sugary (and delicious) normal coffee creamer (both much more readily available at all supermarkets and less expensive) and telling myself that tomorrow is another day and I could just work out then and it was almost dark outside and maybe not a good idea to work out, I'd be back to where I used to be (aka not the best version of me). For the past eight months I have strived to eat a Paleo diet and exercise at least 6 days a week. This has meant many trips (sometimes inconvenient) to New Seasons, Whole Foods, Farmer's Markets and farm-fresh fruit and vegetable stands while I figure out what will work best for me and Grant and our bank account and waistlines. It has meant saying no thank you to non-organic coffee (which I love, maybe am even a little obsessive about)and politely passing on delicious wonderful-looking non-Paleo foods offered to me (sometimes almost on a daily basis). It has meant trying new things like fresh eggs that are not the pale white color like I'm used to (I thought there was something wrong with brown eggs when I was a kid and refused to eat them). It has meant being a little more pro-active and planning meals for the week on the weekends. It has meant a little less spontaneity - no more quick trips to Winco at 10:00 at night to get chicken breasts or ground beef - now we shop at the local butcher (or as I like to call it the meat market, haha) which is not open 24/7, but more like 9 hours a day for 6 days a week and almost all of those hours coincide with when I'm at work. It has meant walking into the grocery store and only getting the items on my list and not dawdling in the specialty gift section so I can get home after work and have enough time to work out. It has meant more discipline and structure in my life which I used to run from and unfairly and rudely judge people who had that (and healthier lifestyles) and call them rigid and high-maintenance. Pretty ironic and I just have to laugh at myself, even while I'm shuddering at how hypocritical and pot calling the kettle black I can be.
I now know that eating Paleo and doing my power-walking (while I ease slowly back into jogging and hopefully one day soon running) makes me a far better Valerie. I know this because I look better, feel better, act better and friends and family have told me that I seem like I'm back to my old self - happy and a little quirky. I now know that maybe being high-maintenance isn't such a bad thing. I'm a firm believer in the concepts of pay it forward and that we are all connected. I lump those together in my mind, mainly because of my job. I work in a veterinary clinic with dogs and cats and their owners and sometimes their owner's family members. I have never had a job where I worked with the public so much. Unless you count my summer job before college of working at the Maidenform Factory Outlet Store, but really that was only half the population. And sometimes it was their brave husbands or boyfriends intent on purchasing intimate apparel for the women in their life. There are many people that I talk to on the phone or help in person that I'm almost certain I am one of a very small amount of human contact in their day - maybe even in some extreme cases for the week. Don't I owe it to them as their friendly neighborhood veterinary clinic representative to be the best I can be, maybe even Valerie 2.0? If I don't take care of my myself and listen to my body and mind's positive feedback of eating a more anti-inflammatory diet and getting my sweat on more often than not, I run the risk of not being my normal, cheerful self. I like to think I help people and make their day a little better, or at the very least, I don't make it worse for them. Then I like to extrapolate that to the rest of their day. Maybe then they're in a better mood so they're pleasant to the bank teller and the drycleaner and the rest of the people on their list of errands for that day. And then maybe those people are a little happier and they have positive interactions in their day and in their life and so on and so forth. I like to think this way even if it may be a little Pollyanna-ish and maybe not even realistic.
I just finished the last of my delicious breakfast of locally grown sauteed zuchinni and hard-boiled brown egg and I can almost see the bottom of my big pink coffee mug, which makes me a little sad and am tempted to brew another cup. But it's now time to strap on my running shoes and log my 3.75 miles for the day. Maybe these actions will impact somebody in my life and somebody overseas as the two of them engage in a dispute over a cell phone or cable or credit card bill and maybe it will be a little more pleasant for them both. Maybe not. However, healthy eating and exercising do impact me in my little corner of the world and that's a pretty good place to start.
Yesterday I was reminded of a truth about myself that I usually try to keep hidden. Or at least not go out of my way to point it out to people. I'm pretty high-maintenance. This observation came from a co-worker as we were discussing our plans for the evening. Mine were not exciting at all - go to the grocery store, stop by a friend's house, and work out -- and I should probably just have stopped there. But I like to talk and so I elaborated that I had to specifically go to New Seasons Market (because that's the only place I can find it) to get coconut milk creamer to put in my organic drip coffee, text my friend so I could coordinate my arrival with her family coming home from a wedding that day and I could buy some fresh eggs from her that she gets from the chickens in her back yard. And I wanted to do my daily 3.5 mile (working on getting up to 4) power walk outside so that I wouldn't be using the treadmill while Grant would be watching the March Madness basketball games. And I didn't just want to go for a walk around my neighborhood, I specifically wanted to go along the Springwater Corridor Trail but since I would be going solo, I had to make sure I went before it got too late and too dark.
I usually am offended when people remark that I'm high-maintenance, unless I have just immediately admitted it and they are agreeing with me. For whatever reason, this interaction didn't bother me. Chalk it up to personal growth, maturity, getting a thicker skin or perhaps the epiphany that I had last night that maybe I'm doing the world a favor by being a little finicky. I'm not trying to justify anything (okay maybe just a little bit), I just know myself and I know what I need to make me the best possible version of myself. This has been a painful, time-consuming process filled with much soul-searching, complaining (cleverly disguised as "observations") and a large amount of acceptance of what I know to be true of myself.
I know that if I were to go back to my old ways of drinking the cheapest ground coffee on the shelf and using sweet, sugary (and delicious) normal coffee creamer (both much more readily available at all supermarkets and less expensive) and telling myself that tomorrow is another day and I could just work out then and it was almost dark outside and maybe not a good idea to work out, I'd be back to where I used to be (aka not the best version of me). For the past eight months I have strived to eat a Paleo diet and exercise at least 6 days a week. This has meant many trips (sometimes inconvenient) to New Seasons, Whole Foods, Farmer's Markets and farm-fresh fruit and vegetable stands while I figure out what will work best for me and Grant and our bank account and waistlines. It has meant saying no thank you to non-organic coffee (which I love, maybe am even a little obsessive about)and politely passing on delicious wonderful-looking non-Paleo foods offered to me (sometimes almost on a daily basis). It has meant trying new things like fresh eggs that are not the pale white color like I'm used to (I thought there was something wrong with brown eggs when I was a kid and refused to eat them). It has meant being a little more pro-active and planning meals for the week on the weekends. It has meant a little less spontaneity - no more quick trips to Winco at 10:00 at night to get chicken breasts or ground beef - now we shop at the local butcher (or as I like to call it the meat market, haha) which is not open 24/7, but more like 9 hours a day for 6 days a week and almost all of those hours coincide with when I'm at work. It has meant walking into the grocery store and only getting the items on my list and not dawdling in the specialty gift section so I can get home after work and have enough time to work out. It has meant more discipline and structure in my life which I used to run from and unfairly and rudely judge people who had that (and healthier lifestyles) and call them rigid and high-maintenance. Pretty ironic and I just have to laugh at myself, even while I'm shuddering at how hypocritical and pot calling the kettle black I can be.
I now know that eating Paleo and doing my power-walking (while I ease slowly back into jogging and hopefully one day soon running) makes me a far better Valerie. I know this because I look better, feel better, act better and friends and family have told me that I seem like I'm back to my old self - happy and a little quirky. I now know that maybe being high-maintenance isn't such a bad thing. I'm a firm believer in the concepts of pay it forward and that we are all connected. I lump those together in my mind, mainly because of my job. I work in a veterinary clinic with dogs and cats and their owners and sometimes their owner's family members. I have never had a job where I worked with the public so much. Unless you count my summer job before college of working at the Maidenform Factory Outlet Store, but really that was only half the population. And sometimes it was their brave husbands or boyfriends intent on purchasing intimate apparel for the women in their life. There are many people that I talk to on the phone or help in person that I'm almost certain I am one of a very small amount of human contact in their day - maybe even in some extreme cases for the week. Don't I owe it to them as their friendly neighborhood veterinary clinic representative to be the best I can be, maybe even Valerie 2.0? If I don't take care of my myself and listen to my body and mind's positive feedback of eating a more anti-inflammatory diet and getting my sweat on more often than not, I run the risk of not being my normal, cheerful self. I like to think I help people and make their day a little better, or at the very least, I don't make it worse for them. Then I like to extrapolate that to the rest of their day. Maybe then they're in a better mood so they're pleasant to the bank teller and the drycleaner and the rest of the people on their list of errands for that day. And then maybe those people are a little happier and they have positive interactions in their day and in their life and so on and so forth. I like to think this way even if it may be a little Pollyanna-ish and maybe not even realistic.
I just finished the last of my delicious breakfast of locally grown sauteed zuchinni and hard-boiled brown egg and I can almost see the bottom of my big pink coffee mug, which makes me a little sad and am tempted to brew another cup. But it's now time to strap on my running shoes and log my 3.75 miles for the day. Maybe these actions will impact somebody in my life and somebody overseas as the two of them engage in a dispute over a cell phone or cable or credit card bill and maybe it will be a little more pleasant for them both. Maybe not. However, healthy eating and exercising do impact me in my little corner of the world and that's a pretty good place to start.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Some Assembly Required
"All of us are born with a set of instinctive fears - of falling, of the dark, of lobsters, of falling on lobsters in the dark, or speaking before a Rotary Club, and of the words "Some Assembly Required." --Dave Barry, American writer and humorist.
Sometimes life feels like something you get at IKEA. You see the object in the catalog or online or at your friend's house. And you think: that brick red bureau with the artfully "distressed" wood would look great in the corner of the bedroom under the window near the plant that doesn't get enough sunlight. Don't you think so, dear? you say to your SO.* Then as you drive home, or log off, or close the catalog, you picture said bureau in the bedroom with freshly laundered (and neatly folded) clothes in it. You picture the poor houseplant that is thirsty and bedraggled thriving on top of the dusty red chest of drawers. You picture sunlight streaming through the windows (that are obviously sparkling clean and streak-free in this daydream), bringing the plant back to life and you smile because you think all you need to do is drive up the freeway to IKEA, barter with other cars for a parking spot (only to find you are still almost 1/4 mile away), walk through the doors that automatically open, (apparently they know you can't waste energy on opening a door, you're going to need it for the "some assembly required" part of the IKEA purchase) find the aisle in the giant cavern of a warehouse that contains this new little bit of heaven that you've been daydreaming about, pay for it (all while marveling how inexpensive it is), load it in the car, stop for take-out and a 6-pack of beer to help sweeten the deal when you ask your SO to assemble it, hold the door open while you and your SO wrestle the strangly shaped and deceptively heavy box into the house, open the beer for the SO and one for yourself and plop down on the couch to watch Sex and the City reruns and give your toenails a quick touch-up with pink nail polish and offer moral support while your SO grunts and swears and creates new frown lines in his face from constant scowling for 2+ hours while putting it together.
And the beautiful red chest of drawers magically gets assembled (even though it took a few more beers and some promises on your part to swap chores for the week (actually I think it was more like a month). And you both heave it into the bedroom and stand back. The SO to admire his handiwork and genius that he figured out that bracket a and bracket b were not meant to live in nuts and bolts matrimony like the instruction pamphlet insinuiated but actually were not even necessary and he has triumphantly thrown them in the trashcan. You open a drawer expecting to find neatly placed linens that are wrinkle-free and that have just come in from being dried on a clothesline in a sunny field of sunflowers. You expect to see that because that's what's supposed to happen. You bought the dresser from IKEA. You assembled it yourself (okay, the SO did), you used the laundry detergent that promises that "smells like it was line dried in the sun on a clothesline in a sunny field of sunflowers" scent. But in reality, the drawer kind of catches a little and makes a funny squeaking noise when you open it all the way. And you didn't get the clothes in the dryer soon enough so they sat in the washer and got all wrinkly while you contemplated painting your fingernails to match your toenails. And you turn around to complain to the SO (not realizing the absurdity of what you are about to complain about, after all he did just assemble the darn thing, isn't that enough, I mean, come on Valerie, get a grip) and you see that he has parked himself on the couch to seek solace in ESPN. And you sigh and take the wrinkly t-shirts out and set the dryer on the "fluff cycle, no heat" with a fabric softener sheet and start working on the dishes which have inexplicably materialized because didn't you just have take-out for dinner and where are the dirty dishes coming from.
A couple of weeks pass and while the IKEA purchase was not able to rescuitate the neglected houseplant and you guiltily threw it in the compost wondering why you can't seem to keep houseplants happy, you do notice that the framed picture of you and the SO looks really cute on it. He's smirking in that mischievous way that you find so charming and you're wearing a puffy red vest that matches the brick red "distressed" wood of the dresser and you had just got your hair done (blonde highlights) and the picture was taken at the Thanksgiving when you met your brother's first child and the big topic of conversation was where did she get her red hair and look at those big brown eyes and your brother is convinced she looks like you did when you were a baby. And while you're putting the clothes away (not bothering to fold them, because really who has the patience for that) you realize that the squeaky drawer isn't as annoying. In fact, it kind of makes you giggle as you remember the day that you and the SO vowed to never again purchase items with the warning of "some assembly required" on the box.
Fast forward a few years, and you find yourself writing a blog entry about the one and only time you and the SO bought furniture from IKEA and you remind him of it and he rolls his eyes and exhales loudly and states simply never again and there's no amount of beer that's worth that again. And you laugh and you think about how life is sometimes like something you get at IKEA. You start out with what you think is a brilliant idea, you go to execute it (sometimes quite clumsily, especially in my case) and there's all these steps that seem like they take a lot of time and effort and some of them feel like roadblocks, but you muddle your way through it and the finished product looks nothing like what it was supposed to look like in your head. And you sulk and pout and stamp your foot in irritation. And then you cool off and you realize the finished product is actually better than what you pictured and had planned for and now has a good anecdote. And you realize that you don't really care about neatly folded clothes and thriving houseplants (although you certainly would never turn them down). You realize that the dresser has now become a piece of your history with your SO and there is something comforting about hearing that squeak when you open that middle drawer and it catches and kind of locks into place. And you find yourself calling to your SO as he sits in the other room watching ESPN saying hey babe, come check out this adorable bookshelf I just found on IKEA website. We could put it in the living room and store all of my journals on it. And maybe we could go to the plant nursery this weekend and find a cactus or some ivy to put on it. Oh and wouldn't that picture of us at your sister's wedding look great on it. And you find yourself in that daydream again while your SO sighs, kisses you on the forehead and heads to the kitchen to find the take-out menus and the bottle opener.
*SO=Significant Other
Sometimes life feels like something you get at IKEA. You see the object in the catalog or online or at your friend's house. And you think: that brick red bureau with the artfully "distressed" wood would look great in the corner of the bedroom under the window near the plant that doesn't get enough sunlight. Don't you think so, dear? you say to your SO.* Then as you drive home, or log off, or close the catalog, you picture said bureau in the bedroom with freshly laundered (and neatly folded) clothes in it. You picture the poor houseplant that is thirsty and bedraggled thriving on top of the dusty red chest of drawers. You picture sunlight streaming through the windows (that are obviously sparkling clean and streak-free in this daydream), bringing the plant back to life and you smile because you think all you need to do is drive up the freeway to IKEA, barter with other cars for a parking spot (only to find you are still almost 1/4 mile away), walk through the doors that automatically open, (apparently they know you can't waste energy on opening a door, you're going to need it for the "some assembly required" part of the IKEA purchase) find the aisle in the giant cavern of a warehouse that contains this new little bit of heaven that you've been daydreaming about, pay for it (all while marveling how inexpensive it is), load it in the car, stop for take-out and a 6-pack of beer to help sweeten the deal when you ask your SO to assemble it, hold the door open while you and your SO wrestle the strangly shaped and deceptively heavy box into the house, open the beer for the SO and one for yourself and plop down on the couch to watch Sex and the City reruns and give your toenails a quick touch-up with pink nail polish and offer moral support while your SO grunts and swears and creates new frown lines in his face from constant scowling for 2+ hours while putting it together.
And the beautiful red chest of drawers magically gets assembled (even though it took a few more beers and some promises on your part to swap chores for the week (actually I think it was more like a month). And you both heave it into the bedroom and stand back. The SO to admire his handiwork and genius that he figured out that bracket a and bracket b were not meant to live in nuts and bolts matrimony like the instruction pamphlet insinuiated but actually were not even necessary and he has triumphantly thrown them in the trashcan. You open a drawer expecting to find neatly placed linens that are wrinkle-free and that have just come in from being dried on a clothesline in a sunny field of sunflowers. You expect to see that because that's what's supposed to happen. You bought the dresser from IKEA. You assembled it yourself (okay, the SO did), you used the laundry detergent that promises that "smells like it was line dried in the sun on a clothesline in a sunny field of sunflowers" scent. But in reality, the drawer kind of catches a little and makes a funny squeaking noise when you open it all the way. And you didn't get the clothes in the dryer soon enough so they sat in the washer and got all wrinkly while you contemplated painting your fingernails to match your toenails. And you turn around to complain to the SO (not realizing the absurdity of what you are about to complain about, after all he did just assemble the darn thing, isn't that enough, I mean, come on Valerie, get a grip) and you see that he has parked himself on the couch to seek solace in ESPN. And you sigh and take the wrinkly t-shirts out and set the dryer on the "fluff cycle, no heat" with a fabric softener sheet and start working on the dishes which have inexplicably materialized because didn't you just have take-out for dinner and where are the dirty dishes coming from.
A couple of weeks pass and while the IKEA purchase was not able to rescuitate the neglected houseplant and you guiltily threw it in the compost wondering why you can't seem to keep houseplants happy, you do notice that the framed picture of you and the SO looks really cute on it. He's smirking in that mischievous way that you find so charming and you're wearing a puffy red vest that matches the brick red "distressed" wood of the dresser and you had just got your hair done (blonde highlights) and the picture was taken at the Thanksgiving when you met your brother's first child and the big topic of conversation was where did she get her red hair and look at those big brown eyes and your brother is convinced she looks like you did when you were a baby. And while you're putting the clothes away (not bothering to fold them, because really who has the patience for that) you realize that the squeaky drawer isn't as annoying. In fact, it kind of makes you giggle as you remember the day that you and the SO vowed to never again purchase items with the warning of "some assembly required" on the box.
Fast forward a few years, and you find yourself writing a blog entry about the one and only time you and the SO bought furniture from IKEA and you remind him of it and he rolls his eyes and exhales loudly and states simply never again and there's no amount of beer that's worth that again. And you laugh and you think about how life is sometimes like something you get at IKEA. You start out with what you think is a brilliant idea, you go to execute it (sometimes quite clumsily, especially in my case) and there's all these steps that seem like they take a lot of time and effort and some of them feel like roadblocks, but you muddle your way through it and the finished product looks nothing like what it was supposed to look like in your head. And you sulk and pout and stamp your foot in irritation. And then you cool off and you realize the finished product is actually better than what you pictured and had planned for and now has a good anecdote. And you realize that you don't really care about neatly folded clothes and thriving houseplants (although you certainly would never turn them down). You realize that the dresser has now become a piece of your history with your SO and there is something comforting about hearing that squeak when you open that middle drawer and it catches and kind of locks into place. And you find yourself calling to your SO as he sits in the other room watching ESPN saying hey babe, come check out this adorable bookshelf I just found on IKEA website. We could put it in the living room and store all of my journals on it. And maybe we could go to the plant nursery this weekend and find a cactus or some ivy to put on it. Oh and wouldn't that picture of us at your sister's wedding look great on it. And you find yourself in that daydream again while your SO sighs, kisses you on the forehead and heads to the kitchen to find the take-out menus and the bottle opener.
*SO=Significant Other
Monday, March 18, 2013
Weight For It
"Don't throw that in the Goodwill pile, honey. Wait and see. You might use it someday." --my mother, Becky Nelson, circa mid 1980s? or at least for as long as I can remember.
I drive a mullet car. And I'm okay with it. It's an unassuming beige 1997 Honda Accord with a spoiler on the back and almost 300,000 miles on the engine. It gets me from point A to B, has moderately comfortable seats, a detachable radio face that plays my books on cd and two cup holders for my water bottle and coffee mug. I keep it relatively clean, as I do spend almost 2 hours a day in it 5 days a week. I have a small garbage can that sometimes gets a little full and occasionally I can't decide which book to start "reading" so there will be loose cds and cases strewn about, but never for very long. I am an interesting mix of my mother and father in that regard. My mother abhorred any sort of clutter or trash or dust in her car and used to pay me to vacuum and clean it as a kid. My dad's car couldn't be a more stark contrast. He has library books, books on tape, lunch sacks (usually empty), receipts, gloves, shoes, etc. The list goes on and actually it's always a little fun to ride in his eggplant-colored FJ Cruiser now, as it's like an archaeological peek into his life. But the trunk of my car is the proverbial closet where you stuff everything when you find out you're having unexpected visitors at your house and you haven't been very tidy lately. Ergo, a mullet car: business and cleanliness in the front, and party and what seems like mayhem at times in the back in the trunk.
This clever (or at least I thought it was) analogy came to me this weekend as I pulled out items from the trunk to give to Goodwill. The give-away pile, library items to return, clothes and/or gifts to take back (there are still some from Christmas to exchange, yikes), and a myriad of strange car-type things like a quart of oil, oil filter and funnel, jug of water, jumper cables, a wrench, and screwdriver all call my trunk home. It's almost horrifying at times. And every time I open it, I vow to return/exchange/purge everything in there.
The last Christmas present my late mother-in-law gave me is in the trunk right now tucked into a Nordstrom bag with the receipt. It is a workout top that I think is made for serious gym-goers and those cool bendy stretchy people that do yoga and pilates and always seem to look fashionable even as they sweat. (I am neither of those things. YET. Working on it - stay tuned). It's purple and lavender and designed to be just thrown over the top of whatever you're wearing to work out in. She watched me closely as I opened it and held it up to check the fit. It is very loose fitting, has huge sleeves and unfortunately is one of those items that usually only looks good on the mannequin that's wearing it in the store display. I don't feel confident that it is made for someone that is built like me. It seems like it would look good on a super skinny person that is naturally thin, can eat whatever she wants with no consequences, and doesn't even know what people do in a gym. It just looks like a tent on me. And not like a cool sleek REI tent. Just like a tent masquerading as a mu mu. But I know she bought it for me because of the quest I embarked on in August 2012 to eat a (mostly) Paleo diet and get myself back to running shape. She would quietly encourage me every time I saw her. She didn't make me feel uncomfortable with her remarks about my weight loss and that she could notice the difference. She was just matter of fact and refused to listen as I thanked her for the compliment and then sheepishly confessed that I felt a journey like this is often a little embarrassing. You want people to notice that you are looking healthier because you want your hard work and new habits to be noticed and to feel validated. But it can also be mortifying to recognize just how much weight there is to lose and you can't believe how long it's been there and then there is the horrifying fear of failure and that it may never comes off. She would just shake her head and say who cares about the number of pounds that need to go away and good for you and keep going and you can do it and of course you'll be successful.
As we packed up and headed out to the car that night, I thanked her again for the gift. She looked me in the eye and said to please return/exchange it if I didn't like it and that she wouldn't be offended and she wanted me to have something that I liked and would use. I looked at her and said I would, all the while knowing I wouldn't. How could I possibly return it when it is the last Christmas gift she bought for me and knowing the thought and care that went into it. There was an interesting exchange then between us that happened without very many words. She unblinking looked at me and her look told me that I should be more practical and not so sentimental. That I shouldn't hold on to something that didn't fit or work for me just because she picked it up off the rack, looked at it, intentionally chose the purple/lavender one (which is one of my favorite colors and scents) and wrapped it for me thinking it was something I could use and that it was the last thing she gave me. Her look told me to keep on keeping on. To keep climbing on the treadmill everyday and keep trading gluten, dairy, wheat, etc for meat, vegetables and fruit since it was making me feel better and get healthier and to keep buying clothes that were just a little too small because soon they would fit. Her look told me to move on and to not let her illness get me down or derail my progress. That her cancer diagnosis was a part of life. And that she was okay with it. And that she loved me and that she was happy to be a part of my life and to help me continue on with my positive lifestyle changes.
I retrieved my library items from the trunk today and ran them over to the slot that is always kinda fun to open and feed books through it and to listen for the loud thud as the books hit the pile. I then paused for a minute as I always do and wondered what other books were down there with the ones I had just returned and if I would like any of them. I snapped out of my reverie as I realized I was parked in the no-parking zone in the front and the engine was still running (yes, I am one of those annoying people I'm ashamed to admit). I dodged some glares from fellow library patrons and hurried over to close the trunk which was looking more empty and organized than it had been in months. I'll have another stack of library items to return soon since my latest vice is "junk food" for my brain: mindless mystery novels - for both reading and listening. And another round of spring cleaning next week will yield an even bigger Goodwill pile. The Nordstrom's bag will stay in the trunk a little longer, though. I can't bear to be practical and part with it just yet. And I'd like to wait (and weight) to see if I have a use for it. I have a feeling it's already being used and I just haven't realized it yet.
I drive a mullet car. And I'm okay with it. It's an unassuming beige 1997 Honda Accord with a spoiler on the back and almost 300,000 miles on the engine. It gets me from point A to B, has moderately comfortable seats, a detachable radio face that plays my books on cd and two cup holders for my water bottle and coffee mug. I keep it relatively clean, as I do spend almost 2 hours a day in it 5 days a week. I have a small garbage can that sometimes gets a little full and occasionally I can't decide which book to start "reading" so there will be loose cds and cases strewn about, but never for very long. I am an interesting mix of my mother and father in that regard. My mother abhorred any sort of clutter or trash or dust in her car and used to pay me to vacuum and clean it as a kid. My dad's car couldn't be a more stark contrast. He has library books, books on tape, lunch sacks (usually empty), receipts, gloves, shoes, etc. The list goes on and actually it's always a little fun to ride in his eggplant-colored FJ Cruiser now, as it's like an archaeological peek into his life. But the trunk of my car is the proverbial closet where you stuff everything when you find out you're having unexpected visitors at your house and you haven't been very tidy lately. Ergo, a mullet car: business and cleanliness in the front, and party and what seems like mayhem at times in the back in the trunk.
This clever (or at least I thought it was) analogy came to me this weekend as I pulled out items from the trunk to give to Goodwill. The give-away pile, library items to return, clothes and/or gifts to take back (there are still some from Christmas to exchange, yikes), and a myriad of strange car-type things like a quart of oil, oil filter and funnel, jug of water, jumper cables, a wrench, and screwdriver all call my trunk home. It's almost horrifying at times. And every time I open it, I vow to return/exchange/purge everything in there.
The last Christmas present my late mother-in-law gave me is in the trunk right now tucked into a Nordstrom bag with the receipt. It is a workout top that I think is made for serious gym-goers and those cool bendy stretchy people that do yoga and pilates and always seem to look fashionable even as they sweat. (I am neither of those things. YET. Working on it - stay tuned). It's purple and lavender and designed to be just thrown over the top of whatever you're wearing to work out in. She watched me closely as I opened it and held it up to check the fit. It is very loose fitting, has huge sleeves and unfortunately is one of those items that usually only looks good on the mannequin that's wearing it in the store display. I don't feel confident that it is made for someone that is built like me. It seems like it would look good on a super skinny person that is naturally thin, can eat whatever she wants with no consequences, and doesn't even know what people do in a gym. It just looks like a tent on me. And not like a cool sleek REI tent. Just like a tent masquerading as a mu mu. But I know she bought it for me because of the quest I embarked on in August 2012 to eat a (mostly) Paleo diet and get myself back to running shape. She would quietly encourage me every time I saw her. She didn't make me feel uncomfortable with her remarks about my weight loss and that she could notice the difference. She was just matter of fact and refused to listen as I thanked her for the compliment and then sheepishly confessed that I felt a journey like this is often a little embarrassing. You want people to notice that you are looking healthier because you want your hard work and new habits to be noticed and to feel validated. But it can also be mortifying to recognize just how much weight there is to lose and you can't believe how long it's been there and then there is the horrifying fear of failure and that it may never comes off. She would just shake her head and say who cares about the number of pounds that need to go away and good for you and keep going and you can do it and of course you'll be successful.
As we packed up and headed out to the car that night, I thanked her again for the gift. She looked me in the eye and said to please return/exchange it if I didn't like it and that she wouldn't be offended and she wanted me to have something that I liked and would use. I looked at her and said I would, all the while knowing I wouldn't. How could I possibly return it when it is the last Christmas gift she bought for me and knowing the thought and care that went into it. There was an interesting exchange then between us that happened without very many words. She unblinking looked at me and her look told me that I should be more practical and not so sentimental. That I shouldn't hold on to something that didn't fit or work for me just because she picked it up off the rack, looked at it, intentionally chose the purple/lavender one (which is one of my favorite colors and scents) and wrapped it for me thinking it was something I could use and that it was the last thing she gave me. Her look told me to keep on keeping on. To keep climbing on the treadmill everyday and keep trading gluten, dairy, wheat, etc for meat, vegetables and fruit since it was making me feel better and get healthier and to keep buying clothes that were just a little too small because soon they would fit. Her look told me to move on and to not let her illness get me down or derail my progress. That her cancer diagnosis was a part of life. And that she was okay with it. And that she loved me and that she was happy to be a part of my life and to help me continue on with my positive lifestyle changes.
I retrieved my library items from the trunk today and ran them over to the slot that is always kinda fun to open and feed books through it and to listen for the loud thud as the books hit the pile. I then paused for a minute as I always do and wondered what other books were down there with the ones I had just returned and if I would like any of them. I snapped out of my reverie as I realized I was parked in the no-parking zone in the front and the engine was still running (yes, I am one of those annoying people I'm ashamed to admit). I dodged some glares from fellow library patrons and hurried over to close the trunk which was looking more empty and organized than it had been in months. I'll have another stack of library items to return soon since my latest vice is "junk food" for my brain: mindless mystery novels - for both reading and listening. And another round of spring cleaning next week will yield an even bigger Goodwill pile. The Nordstrom's bag will stay in the trunk a little longer, though. I can't bear to be practical and part with it just yet. And I'd like to wait (and weight) to see if I have a use for it. I have a feeling it's already being used and I just haven't realized it yet.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Sunny with a chance of bling
"We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over." --James Boswell.
Saturday's weather calls for sunshine and 59 degrees. Saturday's entry on the calendar calls for me to attend my mother-in-law's memorial service. And Friday night's mood called for some complaining - I don't want to go to the memorial service. I have nothing to wear and I won't have anybody to talk to while I'm there.
It sounds silly and like I'm wailing about the first day of classes at a new high school or a new job, not a memorial service. Every woman is "supposed" to have a black dress or some sort of funeral-befitting ensemble in their closet. And I do have a LBD, but it has sequins on it and the only shoes that I have to wear with it are black knee-high boots and I usually pair it with "diamond" chandelier earrings and a black cocktail ring. But I'm not sure if wearing sparkles and bling to a memorial service is respectful and appropriate. This conundrum plagued me today as I dug through my closet brainstorming what I could wear and trying to find nylons that didn't have any runs or holes in them. As my options narrowed and I pulled out the black dress to iron (since it really is the best option), I reminded myself that the seats at the memorial service will be filled with many, many people that I love and I'm looking forward to seeing them. Problem solved. I do have something to wear and I will have plenty of in-laws to chat with.
But Lani was my ally at events like this. She married my father-in-law 15 years ago and I have been here for about 8 of those years. She knew the family gossip (I learned long ago that husbands are useless in that department), spoke the language, and knew where the landmines were. She was like a knowledgeable guide who didn't mind showing the ropes to the new kid. If it wasn't her memorial service and she was going to be there tomorrow, we would talk about the weather (Isn't it amazing for early March? It almost makes the rain worth it, etc) and I would tell her she looked nice, because she always did. And she would laugh and say she didn't know what to wear, but this skirt or dress or whatever is what she's worn in the past to other funerals. Then I would confess about my obsessing about my wardrobe choice and I'd ask if she thought I looked okay. And she'd tell me I looked fine and if I felt like dressing up and wearing flashy jewelry or nail polish etc, I should and nobody probably noticed or cared anyway. Then I would crack an inappropriate joke about shopping for a dress or an outfit to wear to a funeral and how tacky that seems. We'd chuckle, sip our wine, and then inevitably the conversation would disintegrate and we would drift away to find our respective spouses.
I stumbled across Mr. Boswell's accurate reflection of how and when a friendship starts sometime in high school. I frequently remembered his words in college as I met many people that stil remain friends to this day. I've thought about that quote when I started new jobs, or joined a new church or met some new faces at a dinner party and came away with new friends. I never thought about it with my relationship to my mother-in-law until we were warned in October that she did not have much time left. I don't know when the drop happened to bump us into friendship. I never dreamed that the small talk that seemed so trite and mundane would mean so much. I just know that what I thought was a whole bunch of talking about nothing turned into a something that turned into a unique friendship that will remain in my heart for the rest of my life.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some purple glitter nail polish to apply and some boots to slip on. Sunny with a chance of bling sounds like the start to a great conversation.
Saturday's weather calls for sunshine and 59 degrees. Saturday's entry on the calendar calls for me to attend my mother-in-law's memorial service. And Friday night's mood called for some complaining - I don't want to go to the memorial service. I have nothing to wear and I won't have anybody to talk to while I'm there.
It sounds silly and like I'm wailing about the first day of classes at a new high school or a new job, not a memorial service. Every woman is "supposed" to have a black dress or some sort of funeral-befitting ensemble in their closet. And I do have a LBD, but it has sequins on it and the only shoes that I have to wear with it are black knee-high boots and I usually pair it with "diamond" chandelier earrings and a black cocktail ring. But I'm not sure if wearing sparkles and bling to a memorial service is respectful and appropriate. This conundrum plagued me today as I dug through my closet brainstorming what I could wear and trying to find nylons that didn't have any runs or holes in them. As my options narrowed and I pulled out the black dress to iron (since it really is the best option), I reminded myself that the seats at the memorial service will be filled with many, many people that I love and I'm looking forward to seeing them. Problem solved. I do have something to wear and I will have plenty of in-laws to chat with.
But Lani was my ally at events like this. She married my father-in-law 15 years ago and I have been here for about 8 of those years. She knew the family gossip (I learned long ago that husbands are useless in that department), spoke the language, and knew where the landmines were. She was like a knowledgeable guide who didn't mind showing the ropes to the new kid. If it wasn't her memorial service and she was going to be there tomorrow, we would talk about the weather (Isn't it amazing for early March? It almost makes the rain worth it, etc) and I would tell her she looked nice, because she always did. And she would laugh and say she didn't know what to wear, but this skirt or dress or whatever is what she's worn in the past to other funerals. Then I would confess about my obsessing about my wardrobe choice and I'd ask if she thought I looked okay. And she'd tell me I looked fine and if I felt like dressing up and wearing flashy jewelry or nail polish etc, I should and nobody probably noticed or cared anyway. Then I would crack an inappropriate joke about shopping for a dress or an outfit to wear to a funeral and how tacky that seems. We'd chuckle, sip our wine, and then inevitably the conversation would disintegrate and we would drift away to find our respective spouses.
I stumbled across Mr. Boswell's accurate reflection of how and when a friendship starts sometime in high school. I frequently remembered his words in college as I met many people that stil remain friends to this day. I've thought about that quote when I started new jobs, or joined a new church or met some new faces at a dinner party and came away with new friends. I never thought about it with my relationship to my mother-in-law until we were warned in October that she did not have much time left. I don't know when the drop happened to bump us into friendship. I never dreamed that the small talk that seemed so trite and mundane would mean so much. I just know that what I thought was a whole bunch of talking about nothing turned into a something that turned into a unique friendship that will remain in my heart for the rest of my life.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some purple glitter nail polish to apply and some boots to slip on. Sunny with a chance of bling sounds like the start to a great conversation.
Monday, March 4, 2013
March(ing) Fo(u)rth
"In mathematics you don't understand things. You just get used to them." -- Johann von Neumann
March 1-18 is one of my favorite times of year. The anti-climactic, oftentimes dreary month of January is over and February has breezed in and out quickly leaving chocolate hearts and celebrations of late presidents' birthdays in its wake. March is a fun word to say - it's concise, one syllable and can be a verb, noun or even an order. March 1st tells me and my fellow sun-deprived Oregonians that spring really is coming and the rainy winter months are almost over. March 4th may be the only date that you could use in a game of charades, hence the bad pun in this blog's title, but March 15 is perhaps the best, as any English major will remind you to "Beware the Ides of March." I think that's from Shakespeare's Hamlet, but I never remember. I'm almost ashamed to put that in writing, as I can just picture the horror on my high school (and college) English teacher's face that I did not retain that fact. Finally, who doesn't love St. Patrick's Day? Sure, maybe it's just one of those commercial holidays designed to encourage consumers to buy "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" t-shirts, shamrock stickers and green beer, but it's still fun.
I thought about these dates that I look forward to every year today when I was out for a walk in my neighborhood. I thought about how I may never look at March 1st the same again, since it was the day my mother-in-law passed away. I thought about how it almost makes me smile that it was March when she left us. I can almost imagine her determined spirit telling her body to not javascript:void(0);go in February, but to wait just one more day and she'd have made it to March. I picture her saying that with a little bit of pride in her voice, since at Thanksgiving she told all of us she planned on being around for "a good long time." I thought about how perhaps December, January and February are only three months to me, but perhaps they were "a good long time" to her. Maybe when you get sick and your doctors and your body are fighting 24/7 to keep your body living, maybe three months is just the right amount of time. The right amount of time to watch the Ducks in whatever Bowl they played in over New Year's. (She'd laugh at that statement and that I could never get my football facts straight). The right amount of time to decorate the Christmas tree and wrap presents one last time. The right amount of time for her to surrender her body and say goodbye to her family and friends and to reassure us with love one more time that it was all going to be okay.
Three months was not "a good long time" to me and I will always wish that it was longer. It will be one of those things that I don't understand, but I will try to get used to it. In the meantime, I will remind those around me of my nerd status and talk about Shakespearean betrayal on March 15th and warn them of those ides. I will eat some green vegetables, drink a Guinness beer, and wear a Kiss Me, I'm Irish" t-shirt on March 17th. I'll continue my countdown to Daylight Savings Time and I'll look forward to seeing the first daffodils and tulips of the season appear. And most importantly, I will march on.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Life really does go on....
"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." --Robert Frost.
I will remember you as you once were - with bright and intelligent blue eyes framed by pretty golden hair. I will remember you complaining about how the Blazers were or weren't performing and the latest stats on the Ducks. I will remember you rolling your eyes at me at the funny quirks of our shared family and the camaraderie that we had - both having married similar men and being thrown together in family events with strange traditions. I will remember the day cruises on the boat with the name that I couldn't pronounce but that meant relaxation. Mostly I will remember Thanksgiving and Christmas 2012 where you told me goodbye over a glass of wine, and I pretended not to understand you. I will remember that soon you will be out of pain and home for good. I will remember that from misunderstandings and rocky beginnings can come beauty and mutual respect.
And, as I fold laundry, return library books, schedule dentist appointments, buy wedding gifts, and continue on with the many tasks that make up time on this earth, I will remember that you have told me life does go on. And that it will go on without you. I will remember that I should not mourn a life lost too soon, but celebrate a spirit and a love that will remain in me and our family for as long as we all shall live. And as I continue down my journey that has been blessed with many happy memories with you, I will remember that perhaps this is what it is all about. Balancing all of these seemingly incongrous events that stacked next to each other don't seem to relate, but if looked at all piled up together and jumbled, they create a beautiful mosaic called life. And I will shed a happy tear for your part in the mosaic that is my life.
I will remember you as you once were - with bright and intelligent blue eyes framed by pretty golden hair. I will remember you complaining about how the Blazers were or weren't performing and the latest stats on the Ducks. I will remember you rolling your eyes at me at the funny quirks of our shared family and the camaraderie that we had - both having married similar men and being thrown together in family events with strange traditions. I will remember the day cruises on the boat with the name that I couldn't pronounce but that meant relaxation. Mostly I will remember Thanksgiving and Christmas 2012 where you told me goodbye over a glass of wine, and I pretended not to understand you. I will remember that soon you will be out of pain and home for good. I will remember that from misunderstandings and rocky beginnings can come beauty and mutual respect.
And, as I fold laundry, return library books, schedule dentist appointments, buy wedding gifts, and continue on with the many tasks that make up time on this earth, I will remember that you have told me life does go on. And that it will go on without you. I will remember that I should not mourn a life lost too soon, but celebrate a spirit and a love that will remain in me and our family for as long as we all shall live. And as I continue down my journey that has been blessed with many happy memories with you, I will remember that perhaps this is what it is all about. Balancing all of these seemingly incongrous events that stacked next to each other don't seem to relate, but if looked at all piled up together and jumbled, they create a beautiful mosaic called life. And I will shed a happy tear for your part in the mosaic that is my life.
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