TGIF

I realize it's been over a week now since I've posted.  And honestly, I do have a good excuse for it.  In case you haven't noticed, much of my writing has been about things that aren't necessarily *pleasant* to talk about.  I suppose I like talking about unpleasant things quite a bit, but fact be told, discussing all of the unpleasantries in my life will only bring about more of the like.  And so, with nothing negative to discuss, I haven't done much discussing. 


Until. Now.


From here on out, I'm ONLY going to write about the GOOD, GREAT, AWESOME things that are going on around me.  Remember how I was loathing work?  Well, I'm done with that.  Because I've made up my mind that I'm not staying there.  Something wonderful and--more or less--made just for me is going to come along and give me the opportunity of a lifetime!  Actually, I already applied for the job.  And I have to say, my cover letter preeeeetty much kicks ass.  Just saying.  Fingers crossed that they'll look over the fact that I don't have a bachelor's degree and (I suppose) no professional experience and give me a call.  


Aside from that, there are some stupendous things that I've allowed to cloud my mind the past few days:


1. Our BFFs bought a house that is almost literally right across the street from us!  We always said that (preferably after winning the jackpot) we would build our own subdivision and live near each other.  Well, since the lottery hasn't been drawn in our names yet, this is the next best thing!  And, after all, a new subdivision would mean a lack of greenery that I so desire.  While our house isn't perfect, it is in an ideal location.  
                                                  
                                                    BFFs, Ryan and Sera
                                                  (aren't they adorable?)


2. Mega-millionaires.  That's what we're going to be.  I know, I know--the odds of winning are like one in a hundred million thousand kaboodles.  But somebody has to win.  And that is going to be me.  I've already been planning what I'm going to do with the loot.  I figure--of a $540 million jackpot, I'd probably only "take home" about $300 million or so.  You know, after taxes and whatnot.   About $100 million would go to family and friends.  About $50 million would go straight to charity.  I always thought if I win the lottery, I'd give a good chunk to our local humane society.  So they could build a new, larger facility (the one they have now has been a bit hidden by the new overpass for the highway).  Then, too, they could hire more staff and take in more animals.  After that, I thought I'd start a foundation of sorts.  I'd call it something like "The Do-Good Grants" or "Pay-it-Forward Project," where people could apply for assistance in helping others in some way.  Even just small things, like paying someone's expenses who wants to help rebuild homes, helping their local humane society, food shelters looking for donations during the holidays, etc.  
We'd probably only end up keeping about $10-$20 million for ourselves.  Saving most of it.  As I said before, we really like where we live.  So buying a new house would be out of the question.  But of course we'd make all the necessary changes to bring it up to "dream home" status...an addition (up and out), landscaping, finishing off the basement, adding a second car stall to the garage.  We'd probably end up in a hotel for a few months while all the work was being done (or living with some family or friends in the meantime).  
As for work, I wouldn't even call to say I'm not coming in.  I'd just never show up.  Ever.  


3. Though small, I found a really neat (and FREE!) app on my phone.  For pictures.  Finally.  I kept thinking to myself, Why can't I do some gnarly editing on my pics like I see so many people are able to do?  Guess it just took some looking around to find the right app for it.  Here are some pics I've remastered:

My eyes really aren't *that* green.

Darling Addeline

Having fun with it.  And, probably letting it take up too much time.  Oh well.  

4. Back on the whole work topic...remember how I've been hating on the new girl?  Well, once I began to let go of the idea of being "stuck" at my job and having to deal with the kick to the ego and her "taking" the position that should have been mine, I decided to give her a shot.  I had to be honest with myself and realize that it was not her fault.  She's doing a fine job.  And I'm starting to like her more now that I'm actually giving her a chance.  Which is great because it makes going to work less taxing.  I've noticed things that should give us something to talk about, too.  For example, she has her lip pierced also and has a few (visible) tattoos.  So I think of that as opposed to the outrageously large truck she drives or the John Deere lanyard or the fact that she just bought some chickens.  And, to be honest, one of my best friends is a farmgirl so I really can't judge.  All in all, I've been trying to see the things I have in common with people instead of the things that we do not.

...finding the good in life, one day at a time...

St. Patrick's Day and a literal broken heart

I had just turned 17.  Literally.  My birthday had been just three days before.  On my birthday, I had taken a chance and went to a nearby tattoo/body piercing studio to get my eyebrow pierced.  As luck would have it, the guy who pierced me either couldn't count or didn't care that I was technically not old enough in the state of Illinois to get pierced.  With my eyebrow feeling as if it were sticking out a mile off my face, I went home that evening with reluctance, wondering what my parents would say.  I wasn't too concerned about my mom--she was a bit more lenient when it came to self-expression.  My dad, on the other hand, was much more conservative in that respect.  And, as I knew already, my mom was just fine with it (though not really a big fan) and my dad wouldn't even look me in the face.  Such is life, I thought, and went about life as usual.


The previous July, I had lost my grandma.  She had been in a long battle with (I'm a poor excuse for remembering medical conditions) something that affected her lungs (not cancer).  As she slowly deteriorated, it became more and more difficult--for everyone--to see her suffer.  Though it was the first death of someone important in my life, I understood that it was best.  I may have cried harder than ever before at her wake and funeral (for me, for my mom, for my grandpa), but I knew that she was no longer suffering and that thought made it easier to swallow.  


The following months were even harder.  They were really, really difficult for my grandpa.  I knew people to be in love, but to this day, I can't say I have seen two people who were so great for each other.  They had been married for 55 years.  Fifty-five long, beautiful years.  (I can only hope to aspire to that.)  And after she passed, my grandpa seemed to lose all joy in life.  He would go through the motions, be kind and caring, but you could just see the pain at the loss of his one true love in his eyes.  I even went with my boyfriend (now husband) to the animal shelter to try and find him a cat to keep him company (I wound up getting Dexter, my dear deceased dog, instead).  


Everyone took turns staying with him a few nights throughout the week.  You have to figure, after living with someone for so long, that the most difficult part is just being alone.  Completely alone, in the house you lived together in for almost a lifetime.  I took a turn, too.  Stayed over at his house one night.  I used to love staying at my grandparents' house.  I did quite often as a child.  I could go on about the memories I had staying there (sleeping next to my grandma, remembering them waking up suuuuper early, being weirded-out by their lack of teeth in the morning).  But this time it was different.  I felt so out of place.  I knew that nothing I could say or do could take away any bit of the broken-heartedness he was feeling.


My grandpa turned 90 years old on March 10th, 2002.  A week after his birthday, my mom, along with her brother and sister, had gone to my grandpa's house.  It was late morning and they were cooking breakfast.  Eggs, as I recall.  Scrambled eggs.  And, most likely, some toast.  My grandpa sat and ate his in the chair he always sat in.  But before he could finish, he had a heartattack.  (They would later laugh and joke that my mom's eggs were what killed him.)


Somewhere around noon, I was just finishing getting ready and about to bound down the stairs when I overheard my dad calling my brothers into the kitchen.  I can only (to this day, still) assume that he was still mad at me for getting the piercing, as he failed to call me into the room.  From the top of the stairs, I heard him tell my two older brothers that our grandpa had died of a heartattack that morning.  Without leaving any room for questions, answers or explanations, I grabbed my purse and ran out the door.


I don't know what I expected to find at my grandpa's house.  Obviously, they wouldn't still be there.  But that's where I went.  And, at a time without as many cell phones (I think I had one, but my mom surely did not), I was unable to find out where they had gone.  I'm not really sure what I wanted to find.  Whether I wanted to be told that he would be alright, or see him one last time, or to know that his (though not medically diagnosed) suffering would be over.  But since I couldn't reach those whom I truly wanted to reach, I did what any teenage girl would do and went to see my boyfriend at his work.  He comforted me for the time his boss allowed him to step out and then I retreated home.


At his funeral, the tone was much different than it had been at my grandma's.  All funerals are sad, but this time, the overall feeling was one of peace.  With my grandma, we all felt the heavy heart my grandpa felt at the time.  But with that gone, we were able to accept the joy. The joy that they both must have felt to be together again. Anyone who knows me, knows my feelings of skepticism when it comes to the afterlife.  Though these wonderings have grown over the years, in my heart of hearts I know that they are somehow, someway, in some form, together.  


So, while for many people, St. Patrick's Day is a day of--well--drinking, for me it was the day that my grandpa's heart finally broke.  After everyone trying with all their might for nearly 8 months to try and patch it back together again, he finally let go, knowing that the only way it would be able to heal was if he just let it break.  


10 years: seems like a lifetime ago, and yet, yesterday.
I miss you so, grandpa.  

The effects of a good book

I'm always hesitant to begin reading a new book.  For a long time, I just thought that I was much too picky.  I judged books by their covers for sure.  And I was never really sure what types of books would actually interest me.  I knew I liked true stories.  Funny, witty, quirky stories.  Never was I a fan of many classics.  I found them boring and I always wondered whether or not they actually put as much effort into creating symbolism and irony and basing themes and plot lines on the then-current political situations.  I never understood why, especially when a good book surfaced in our reading classes, we weren't allowed to just take it at face value and appreciate a good book without having to delve into the undertones.  Don't get me wrong, I love finding the hidden messages in books.  And I loved writing papers based on those findings.  Mostly because I was always good at both of those things.  But maybe, too, that was part of the reason I never hunted for a good read on my own: I was so used to finding the meaning in everything that I didn't want to over-think a really simple book.
 

My husband borrowed the book, The Hunger Games from his sister about two months ago.  She gave rave reviews, and after seeing the preview of the movie when we went to see The Muppets, I suppose we were both a bit intrigued.  I, however, thought it would be more likely that I see the movie first and maybe one day read the book.  My husband, on the other hand, gratefully read the book his sister lent him, followed by the second and third in the series.  I brushed it off a bit when he would try telling me about the book.  I wasn't interested.  I would see the movie and decide from there whether or not the book would be worth my while (being that books are usually better than the movies--if the movie were good, the book would be great).  


The end of February also brought the end of the boundless life that was my dog.  Living with my parents since I had married and moved out  (about 5 years now), I was the one who brought him home, named him, trained him, rough-housed with him, and loved him since 2001.  That's not to say that the rest of the family wasn't totally head over heels for him, too.  My parents babied him.  Let him take over the couch.  Took him, sometimes, to holiday gatherings.  I even had a few pictures taken with him on my wedding day.  

It was a shock (more or less) when he passed.  From what I heard of the story, he had tried to sneak some chips from the coffee table, only to find my dad's foot in his side, kicking him away.  My mom, hearing the racket, shooed him outside for a while.  Upon his return indoors, he proceeded to lay down in the living room, unmoving.  To make a long, sad story short, they brought him to the animal hospital, where they found out that a cancerous tumor, most likely on his liver, had ruptured.  There was little to no hope that he would have made it the car ride to the 24-hour animal emergency hospital about an hour away (and even more uncertainty about how he would handle surgery), so they let him go.  The point I was getting to (no, I have not forgotten, I know sometimes I get off track) is that as a result of this, I reread The Art of Racing in the Rain.  In something like a record 3 days.  For me, that's fast.  I also work and have two girls under 3, two dogs, a husband, and a house to tend to.  It jumpstarted my yearning for more good books.


Finally, at my husband's urging, I began to read The Hunger Games.  As per usual, it took a few chapters to really get into the book.  And once I did, it was difficult to put it down.  Within about a week, I flew through the rest of the series.  I was afraid that the blood, guts, gore and suspense would hinder any hope for pleasant dreams at night, but I had to get through it.  I became engulfed in my reading, staying up hours past the time I would normally hit the hay.  


At one point, after I finished the second book, I considered waiting a week or so to begin the third.  I relayed this to my husband one night when he asked me how I was enjoying the books--my consideration to put my reading on hold.  He asked, "Is it because you have children now, that you can't imagine having to send them into the games?  Picturing yourself in the book?" The thought hadn't crossed my mind.  I know better than to believe anything like that could happen in our world (or do I?).  But, no, it wasn't that.  As I've gotten older and my search for myself has progressed, I have come to realize one major flaw in my genetic makeup: anxiety.  It was present in junior high, when I'd get butterflies on the drive to school.  It was there when I fell in love with my husband, just seeing him would fill my face with red.  It is always there, whenever I am forced to confront any sort of "issue" that has been on my mind--the shaking in my voice, my mind, my entire body, as if at any second I will burst into tears, even if it isn't something sad.  For some time I have considered consulting my doctor about it.  But as I sit here now, I realize that it makes up who I am.  


With the ending of the second book, I was too intrigued to let the third one sit on the shelf for much more than half the day.  I dove in and finished it within 2 days.  A funny thing happened, though, as I was working yesterday.  I began comparing my life to the book.  I am in no way a Katniss Everdeen.  Mostly, I am pleasant.  I think I like to think of myself as harder than I really am.  Tough.  As my defense, I use sarcasm.  Dry humor.  Dodge questions from people I don't really want to talk to.  I can be mean, but rarely to someone's face.  If I actually am, I suppose I don't realize it.  So I guess in that way, I may be like Katniss.  And, I suppose, I can be gullible and follow along with a plan to save the ones I really love.  And yeah, I guess my biggest fight is the fight I have to find and save myself.


But as I swept the floor at work last night, I pictured it as part of a game.  My boss, President Snow.  My co-workers, the other pledges.  Some allies, some enemies.  And he puts us as odds against each other.  Maybe my boss is a previous victor and mentor for the new girl at work, my biggest enemy.  And they fight hard to try to get me to break.  I've been falling apart at work for weeks now.  And everyday I tell myself this is it, I can't do it anymore.  But of course, bills have to be paid and I have to keep up my end.  But yesterday, being my birthday (stupid me for not requesting the day off) and being stuck at work with my two biggest enemies, I'd had it.  The new girl came in (mind you, she is still a cashier at the moment, NOT a shift manager), didn't even say hello, put her drawer in and slithered away to ask the boss what he wanted her to do.  If I haven't mentioned this before, the unspoken (though known) way to do it is: when you come in, you ring and let the other person get up for a while.  It's really just this air of superiority that she carries which drives me nuts.  So many times last night, I thought of myself as Katniss Everdeen, tempted to pull an arrow from my shoulder and aim it straight for her heart. I found myself trying to think of ways to get her fired.  I had confronted a co-worker with the question, How does one get fired? and, after some discussion, realized the only way we have seen people get fired is for stealing.  I can't force someone to steal, so it would have to be set-up.  And one offense wouldn't do it.  It would take several wrongdoings.  Which would have to be thought out carefully.  And I'd probably need to enlist the efforts of at least two of my allies.  Putting things in her purse?  Leaving the office with only her and our cash drawers in there, only to come in to reconcile the drawer, finding it short.  Perhaps drawing her in to some sort of harassment.   


Of course, this is all just daydreaming on my part.  Just like daydreaming about telling my boss to fuck off, that I quit.  THAT day, however, I am determined to make happen sooner than later.  As with most things, actually trying to get my co-worker fired will take too much effort and probably wouldn't even satisfy me in the longrun.  The best I can hope for is finding something else....anything else, short of taking my clothes off, to make a living.  For now.  Because I obviously have hopes and dreams.  My biggest battle is just not to get picked-off in the meantime, not let the actions (openly hostile and offensive or otherwise) of others to bring me down.


I suppose until the day comes that I can finally bid that place adieu (which, with the help of an angry facebook status update and an old friend, may be soon enough), I just have to put on my poker face; pretend that nothing bothers me and bust my ass until I get where I want.


I can be a girl on fire, too.

me+parenting = more patience

Working within the industry that I do, there are many people you remember throughout the years.  While some of them, you find, are there almost every day or, more specifically, at a certain time on certain days of the week (there is one woman who always comes in on Friday nights around 7:30 pm), there are others who have, for one reason or another, left an impression on you.  For some, it may be that they are always kind or remind me of someone important in my life: there is one old man (who, thinking now, I haven't seen in quite a while) who reminds me of my grandpa.  Besides the fact that he's old and friendly, the thing that really did it was when he started singing "Katie, K-K-K-Katie!! You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore..."  Though it is a bit of a generational song (and I'm sure for many folks that age, a girl named Katie is sure to spark remembrance of the tune), there is the sentimental part of me that still thinks of my grandpa singing it to me as a little girl.  


I worked for the company for two years before I had my first daughter.  In just that short amount of time, certain things about me had changed.  I always thought that I was an easy-going, go-with-the-flow type of girl.  I was friendly.  All the time.  To everyone.  I understood that each person's mood and attitude was affected by their circumstances and tried to be patient when it came to difficult customers.  I was really good at hiding any sort of annoyance that I felt when it came to the crabby, rude and intimidating customers.


But little by little, the longer I worked there, the more I realized just how awful some people could be--and for no reason at all!  It began to wear on me.  More often than not, I walked in the door with a sour mood, knowing that I had yet another day of biting my tongue ahead of me.  Though it sometimes got to me, I knew that I needed a job.  With the economy heading down the shitter, I still needed to the rent and the bills, and this job was all I had.  So biting my tongue became a daily thing.  I'd come home after rough days, pry my mouth open and let the blood spill.  I don't mean that I reaped havoc on those around me, but I let all the petty crap from the day out over a cup-o-joe and a few cigarettes with my roommates (three best friends and my husband). 


I can clearly recall my first encounter with one particular woman.  At about 4'10", she was about 4' around as well.  With dark hair, dark eyes, and clothed in a sloppy shirt and what I would guess were pajama pants, she strolled up to my line with a full cart, including a child in the front.  When the person in front of her was done gathering up their things, she was about half-way done unloading her things onto the conveyor belt.  As we like to keep things moving, I began to ring her items up and place them into a spare basket (which all cashiers have on hand when ringing).  


Tired and annoyed, she looked at me and said, "Can you wait to use my cart?"
Rolling my eyes (I thought out of her sight), I pushed my cart behind me a bit and sighed.
"Are you having a bad day?" she questioned, catching me off guard.
"Excuse me?" I had to say something so I could gather my marbles.
"It seems like you're having a bad day.  You're being very rude."
Again, I was taken aback.  Whaaaat?  Someone willing to say exactly what was on their mind?  How jealous I was! Why can't I do that?  Oh...wait...because she could easily call corporate and that would be the end of this job for me.  And, as we discussed earlier, I needed it.  As much as I hated it, I needed it.  I'm just not the type of person who can up and quit, thinking (hoping, knowing) something better would come along. 
With that thought in my head and what felt like every last drop of blood in my body rushing to my face, I replied, "No ma'am. I'm very sorry. I was not meaning to be rude."  


Argh, the humbling effect of being put in my place.  It was not something I was used to and not at all something that felt very good.  The me before I worked there would never had needed to be put in her place.   She knew where she stood and was always very kind, considerate and thoughtful of everyone.  That moment stuck in my head.  Obviously, its still stuck in my head.  For a long time I resented the woman who called me out on having an attitude.  


In July of 2009, my first daughter, Addeline was born.  After a brief labor, followed my a surprise (and emergency?) c-section, she burst into my life with a power I never before understood.  The first few weeks at home were hard.  We slept on the main level, as I wasn't supposed to go up and down stairs.  I woke with her through the night, cradled her to sleep on my chest, napped in the afternoons, and rarely got out of my pajamas.  I soaked up all the rest and relaxation I could, as I never had surgery of that sort before.  Between the first and third month, she began being a bit colicky.  She had stretches of crying, only to be soothed by me.  I guess its being the mother--the caregiver, the life source.  I felt bad for my husband when, after 8 weeks, I returned to work.  Lucky for him, we were both on the same schedule, and so most evenings when I had to work, his father, sister, or my parents, would watch Addie.  I felt bad for them, too.  It broke their hearts every time she would cry, unable to be soothed, for hours on end.  


With those 8 weeks of nonstop childcare under my belt, I returned to work with a new found patience.  While it was a bit of an escape for me to return to work (I was in need to some time away, so that I could enjoy the time I was home more), I worked even harder than before, so that I may get home to spend time with the ones I loved.  Beaming as a new mother does, I felt more joy in the work I did.  I saw things in a whole new light.  I was the person I had been before, only better.


And that woman who pointed out my misgivings?  I still see her.  She probably comes in once a week or so.  But as a fellow mother, I get it now.  We do it all: care for our children, chase them around at home and at the store, work, work, work, run to the store in our pajamas (my husband's BIGGEST pet peeve), and hope that the cashier in line understands when we don't want to move our case of water or the kids to a new cart.