Awake

Beautiful day, beautiful mood.
Is there anything better?

My mouth is gin dry, my hair limp, my body sore, and my mind gorgeously foggy.
My attention span is zapped; my day smacks of endless repetition; I am content. (Every time I write a triadic sentence, I flash back to Mr. Hilbert's classroom. I am 17 again. AP English is the bane of my existence. I'll never forget Mary Hayes' sentence:  He was grotesque; he was ugly; he was my prom date. - or something to that affect.)
These are the waning days of my youth, after all.

The night began with the procedures of self-preservation and ended with the tossing out of all best intentions, but doesn't that describe the best nights?

Woke up surrounded by cloud-white sheets. Rolled over and groaned at the coming day.

Oddly fulfilled.

I also have some nasty dubstep playing. There is not enough RedBull in the world to contain me. Or to fuel my future.

Off to be productive, to produce, to hit the grind....whatever it is that the corporate world might be.

On a sidenote, my desk is a hand-me-down (obviously). It's full of odds and ends, and they're all perfect for someone with my small attention span. My current obsession? A stamp that simply says "Acknowledgement." We are nearly paperless, although I find myself stamping things just so I can see the remnants of the 80s business mentality on paper. Acknowledgement.

It's almost as good as the PostIt that said "Relocate." Apparently I wrote it, although I'm not sure what for or why. I got into work one day, and there it was, sitting on my computer. "Relocate." I was furious - they don't want me? They don't like me here and the subtle reminder was there. Relocate.
Turns out, I had set it there. Of course. It was a cute joke for awhile.

Love your day, love your life.

Also, I miss Carlos. Jacob has him. And they're happy. I'm jealous.

Death and then more war

I am more of a pacifist than I'd like to believe.
I don't support the killing of anyone.
I don't support any war.
I get that sometimes it's "necessary" but the days of the World Wars have long since collapsed into wars of greed masked with good intentions.
The best of intentions don't always lead to the best of outcomes - instead, we find ourselves mired in wars we can't pay for, wars that kill our naive kids, wars that tear apart families and countries yet don't bring the peace we'd hoped for.
The rebuilding takes years. The pain lasts forever.
The world is not a better place for our occupations; it's merely a little bit more burdened, heavy with the right hand of America, that democratic bastard.

I don't believe anyone should be celebrating the death of Osama bin Laden. I don't think we've done anything other than kill someone else. He'll become a statistic, as monumental as the toppling of the statue that stood in Baghdad. This day will be a memory. Nothing more. It is not the end. There is no winning. Not even Charlie Sheen can say that today.

And while I do appreciate that it's finally done - and now hopefully our tides of propaganda can shift our focus elsewhere - I regret that it's taken so long, taken so many misfires, taken so much American abuse of lands and peoples that don't belong to us.

And of course, we didn't even tell Pakistan we were going to do it. I understand why. But I think it will ultimately hurt our already fragile relationship with that country.

We dumped his body in the sea. I will give us credit for supposedly giving him a proper goodbye according to Islamic law.

In and out, swift justice for the wounded, for the dead, for the future.
Is it really justice?
Was it really worth it?

Is all that death for one life justification of creating the hell we thought we were trying to end?

Now let's move on.
We'll take the soft uptick in the markets that is sure to follow, we'll take the slight jump of poll numbers, we'll take the fuzzy bipartisan feelings reminiscent of a night spent on ecstasy, but we shouldn't let it swell our already full heads.

I read one blog today that mentioned planting peace roses.
I'm for that.
Let's remind the world that all this bombing and killing and bloodshed is supposed to achieve one thing: peace.

Don't tell your kids we won.
We didn't.
Because there is no we.

(I was listening to a man on NPR talk about Muslims and how he didn't feel any negativity towards them - good, why should he? - and how they felt the same way "we" did. Thanks man, for really showing the separation "we've" created. Who is us and what are they?)

Teach peace and compassion.
Teach understanding and love.
And hope that somewhere, some of those lessons take root in our souls.

Odds and Ends and Saturdays

I got an email from Mama P this morning. You'll remember Priscilla, my absolutely insanely wonderful host mother in South Africa.
Her emails are always short and to the point. They never say much, but I'm grateful for them. Today she said that the weather is turning cold, and to say hello to Mike and James Dean for her. I laughed out loud when I read the last bit; I had completely forgotten about that. So here's how it goes:

The night that James was coming to pick me up for our first date, I realized I had no idea what his name was. I knew it was either James or Dean. So we had all just referred to him as James Dean the entire week. I realized that this was eventually going to present a problem, so I called him, and luckily, he didn't answer his phone. Voicemail clued me in on his real name and that was that. But we still called James Dean.

It's amazing how much I miss that place. I know it will never be the same, but it will always have a beautiful place in my heart. I want to get back there, to stand at Muizenberg Beach and feel the waves crash against my feet and fight my way onto the train and off again.

However, my life here is growing daily. While I like that I'm learning a lot at my current job, I'm not satisfied with the compensation and have taken on babysitting to make extra cash. (This supports my lifestyle, which you may be surprised to hear isn't quite as wild as you might think.) Anyway, I've got four families in the rotation and the balancing act is getting a bit hectic.

This week, for example, I will be working all seven days. And twice this week I had to go straight from work to babysit. The other nights I went directly home and was in bed relatively early. It's all fine and well, but I'm not getting any decompression time and am beginning to get a bit stressed.
Hopefully this week will provide ample opportunity for sleep as I'm not scheduled to work any week days.

Alas, today brings more babysitting, volunteering at a choir concert that one of my co-workers is singing in, and then date night. And tomorrow brings babysitting.
I really love the families that I'm sitting for this weekend - I find it much easier to babysit when I'm actually enjoying myself as well. One family has three little girls, and then, of course, there are the twins.   I find myself hoping the symphony season won't end!

Last night, Jacob and I went to see a production of Macbeth at UCD. Jacob was personally invested - he did the music for the show. I went because I waffle back and forth on my hate/love of Shakespeare. This play was pretty well done. The costuming choices were interesting - mostly just corsets - and the cast was tiny, but the leads delivered their lines really well.
After that, we went to an art gallery where they were serving pancakes and alcohol (strange combination, but hey, whatever). After paying $5 to get in and being told that drinks were free - we ended up having to pay $4 for a small cup. Ridiculous. The gallery was cute, but it was trying too hard to replicate the scene in New York. There were topless models being spraypainted (when done properly, it's actually really beautiful), but it just felt like an afterthought, especially as the crowd began to diminish.  After meeting up with our friend Claire and her girlfriend and wandering around looking at some art, we bailed to go dancing.

And so we danced. The night drew to a close, and I was grateful, because the tired had begun creeping through my bones. I went home, said hello to Carlos and Mike, and was asleep nearly immediately. I woke up tired - I didn't get nearly enough sleep. I'm hoping for a nap while I do my laundry.

Tonight, once my obligations are over, I've got a wild night planned (as usual). The guy that I guess I'm dating (I don't know - we eat dinner together sometimes. He made me waffles. I think that counts as sort of edging toward dating?) is going to come down from Boulder (and maybe bring his adorable dog!) and we're going to go see Claire's band play and then (depending on how tired I am or how bored he is) head to a weird art gallery/warehouse for a space party ordeal.

Jacob is super into the electronic scene, which means I find myself at a lot of events. I joking called it a "space cult" based on the theme of the first party he invited me to. Now, we call them space parties. They're not really - just a bunch of people in a room listening to really good (or really bad, depending) music and maybe drinking.

And yes, we may have to relocate Carlos for the evening. Jacob is more than happy to babysit and Carlos has been itching to get out and explore.

Today's fortune in my lunch:

Peace comes from within. Seek it in yourself.

I'll take that.

IUD - Birth Control

http://www.good.is/post/why-isn-t-birth-control-getting-better/

http://www.feministe.us/blog/archives/2011/04/25/we-need-better-birth-control/

http://www.slate.com/id/2223840/

Three articles, today, all linked to or quoted in the others in some form.
I don't have time to make the format all sexy, so just click on them and read.

I am so pro-IUD, it's ridiculous.

Enjoy!

Wikileaks: Or, How My Nuclear/Extended Family Fell Apart

It's been awhile since you've been party to an angry rant directed at someone you're familiar with, so get ready:

Preface: I understand that the airing of "dirty laundry" in the internet is frowned upon. I thought about that for a long time before I did this. It's all based on the lack of transparency. I don't want anyone to question where I'm coming from or think that I'm neglecting my duties.

I don't have a solution to the problem below. I'm just thinking thoughts. I do my thinking when I'm typing. I like to record bouts of emotional turmoil for reflection and later, growth.

I love everyone in this post. I've taken out names. I want the same things they want. A husband, a family, a full life.
I have a very full life. I am very loved. Don't question that for a minute.
So what if I like "alternative" culture? We can't all live in polo shirts in plaid (it makes my thighs look fat). Black is much more slimming. And the vampire look is all the rage these days. (Ew)

Of course, this is very personal. But it involves me, too. And yes, it's incredibly self-centered. It's how I feel. This is my space. I can write about whatever I want, and that's what I've chosen to do.
I'm pissed, so this might lack the eloquence I'd usually try to use to cloak the emotions I'm feeling.
I don't sleep well; I have dreams about this situation all the time; I'm generally annoyed.
For once, I'm at a loss for words. I've let an email reply sit out there on the interwebs for more than two months because I literally cannot think of a suitable reply to that reply. I'm stumped by the inability to respond without losing my dignity by accepting a weak excuse, or without burning a bridge, or grovelling. And if there's one thing I don't do, it's grovel.

It's been a long time coming.
It started long ago. It's part of who Dad is. Weird.
I get that, and I understand that sometimes it's hard to be around him. But my argument against that is thus: You're his family. You can stand to be around him for four hours at a time, like four times a year. It's much harder to be his daughter than to be his brother, or his sister, or his mother.
Your counter-argument: But, our children!
I counter like this: He's not a sexual predator. He's not on drugs. He's not a drunk. Yes, he's a completely degenerate bum, but he's not (at heart) a bad man. Your kids will have to learn how to interact with people who aren't as affluent or as socially graceful as you someday, they might as well start now.

I've been talking to Mom about this for awhile now, trying to puzzle out why we're so often excluded from Barry family events.
And then Christmas happened.
The text message came in just before 7pm Christmas Eve. "We now have other plans tomorrow. Hope to see you soon."
Burn. Well played, Uncle [redacted]. The smoothest dis-invite I've ever had, without any admission of the actual invite ever existing. (Actually, the only one. I don't think I've ever been dis-invited from anything.)

Here's the email I sent:

Hello,

I hope you're all having a good start to the year.

Now that all the holiday rush has died down, I just wanted to drop you

a note to let you know how incredibly disappointed I was in the way

that Christmas was handled this year, and in the way that many

family/holiday events are often handled.

In the future, if you choose to renege on invitations at 6 o'clock the

night before a major holiday, please just don't bother inviting me at

all.

I can't speak for [redacted], so I won't, but I am incredibly hurt. It's not

that I minded crying a little bit, but even worse was having to listen

to [redacted] cry on the other end of the phone the day after Christmas.

While I hope that I am correct in assuming that you didn't want to

have any contact with [redacted], I also hope you understand that [redacted] and I

are both independent adults who are capable of social interaction

without him. We haven't lived with him on any consistent basis since

we were 16 and have displayed none of his odd social proclivities.

If that's not the case, and there's something wrong with the two of us

or with me personally, I'd prefer to address it now rather than be

continually excluded from Barry family events.

Sincerely,

Katie

However, it turns out that I was incorrect. I spent hour agonizing over the text of that email. I consulted. I edited. I won't post the entire response, because I consider myself to be not that much of an asshole, but here are specific excerpts that relate to my post today. And I don't consider them privileged.

My text the night before was to make sure nothing was

"assumed" even though we hadn't discussed anything firm and to get [redacted]'s

number. The only way this was triggered was that [redacted] had begun to leave

several messages indicating he wanted to come over.

Another point that disappoints us is that you make no mention of the

numerous holiday events over the years in which you were included.

Often times those events were adjusted to fit your schedule with your

Mom's side of the family. We were happy to do this, but to be told that

we've "continuously excluded" you confuses us.

You mention [redacted] in your note. Right or wrong, holidays and family

events have certainly been impacted due to [redacted]'s behavior. For all of

his great qualities, it's no secret that his behavior can often times

add stress, drama, etc. I really hate pointing this out since he is

your Dad, but I want to be fair to you and as an "adult." I don't think

you'd find this surprising. Unfortunately, his impact has played a role

in not spending more time with you and [redacted] over the years. For so long

it was always a "package deal." I'm truly sorry that you've been

"caught in the middle" in so many instances. Thanks for pointing out

(right or wrong) that it's no longer the case.



I cried when I read this email.

But then I got mad. That's why I haven't been able to respond. I have nothing to say. I do, but I can't say it. I don't know. And now it's just too late to say anything.

RENEGE! (I'm not going to respond to that bit. I'm biting my tongue.)

I don't talk to Dad. I see him maybe once every couple of months. I'm not a pipeline of Barry family information that goes directly to him. I'm not inviting him to events. 

I was a child when they rearranged all of their schedules. I'm not the one who made up that horrible divorce custody schedule; I'm just the one who got dragged along for the ride.

You do realize I hate Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, etc? The only consolation is that divorce brought double the Thanksgiving dinners and two distinct styles of cranberries. I'm pro-divorce as far as Thanksgiving goes, and very thankful for them.

And I'm also thankful for all the rough rearranging that was done, but I apologize for it. If I had known it was such a problem, I guess I could have....wait a minute, done nothing. I was twelve. I don't want to hear about it.

Now, of course, complain. If we were demanding change now, you shouldn't have to acquiese. Don't rearrange anything for us. We're autonomous adults ("adults" is a term of debate for another day, but we're self-sufficient, theoretically productive members of society, which in today's world, qualifies us as adult). We are capable of handling ourselves in public, in private, wherever. We are capable of managing a schedule. I recently synced my Outlook calendar with my phone calendar and began actually logging dates in there. I'm legit. (Small step for me, large eye-roll for the rest of you.)

I don't manage Dad! It's not my fault he calls you!

I would also like to address the part where (you don't get to read that part) Uncle [redacted] says that he'd like me to list family events that I've been excluded from.

Let's start now.

The day after Christmas I'm housesitting. I get a call from [redacted]. She's nonchalant. We talk. She asks me how yesterday went, we're both tip-toeing around what we know is about to come up. She tells me that it was nice, they opened presents, they did this and that and the kids played with this and that. Pretty soon, we're both crying. I have to hang up because this is bullshit.
[Redacted] and I are both pretty chill people. We don't expect big dinners. I'll host! I'll cook (badly). [Redacted] will cook (better). We'll put on the dinner, we'll have a cold cut and cheese platter. I don't want to see you for your food, I want to see you for you. I love pajamas. I own a bunch, for all occasions, even Christmas.
I cry. That's when I know everything is really broken.

It's a Tuesday. I have dinner plans with Mom. I get a call from Aunt [redacted] saying that they're in town and want to have dinner. I call Mom and cancel.

At dinner, [redacted: cousin] asks me if I'm going to California. I ask, why? She tells me they're all going to see [redacted: other cousin] graduate from high school. Oh, I say, I'm sorry, I have to work. Inside, I'm thinking, huh, definitely wasn't invited to that.

Throughout the meal, Aunt [redacted] is constantly saying how nice it is that we're so flexible, and blathering on about how it's so nice that we can just be spontaneous. It's all for Dad's benefit, because he's complaining and pressing them for details.

I get that.

Then I find out that they've been in town since Friday. Then I find out that we both went to the parade downtown on Saturday. I would have liked to have seen them. I was sober.

I bring that up because I believe that my father's side of the family has not received the most accurate information about me since I stopped living with my father. He's got a set of assumptions about my behavior that are entirely incorrect.

Yes, I drink. Yes, I go out.

Yes, I'm 22, and I have a full-time job and I babysit on the side. I have responsibilities and I'm not neglecting any of them. I have a cat-son and a dilapidated car that I love. I get regular oil changes. I vote. I can pretend to be Catholic when necessary. I'm spiritual. I believe in a g-d. I've never been arrested. I'm going to stop. This is getting weird.

(I don't know, what makes a person a good role model?)

Those are two recent examples, but I can dig further if necessary. I'd prefer not to, though.

I would like to have a good relationship with my younger cousins, but it's very difficult. I was really excited about this summer, when I had the opportunity to drive through the state where some of them live (most awkward attempt to talk around that ever) and stay with them. I had hoped that I was able to leave a positive impression and set a good example for my cousins. I talked with my Aunt and Uncle and was grateful for their hospitality and their generosity.

The base of the problem here is that I wouldn't be so upset if I didn't genuinely care. These people are my family, and just because I'm now mostly estranged from my father (for my own personal sanity), I don't understand why I've been shut out as well.

When I was a teenager, and just starting to have problems with my dad, I spent nearly every weekend at [redacted]'s house. She really saved me, and those are some really nice memories. We would go get our toes done, or we'd cook dinner, or we'd run errands together. I cherish those times and am eternally grateful to have had somewhere else to go when things weren't great. She never said anything about it, but I respect her for understanding that I needed somewhere to go.

When we didn't have any furniture or good sheets, she took me out and we bought flannel sheets, a comforter, and a rug for Christmas one year. I still have all of that (except the comforter). I still remember how excited I was to decorate my rom.

That same year, in what I now know was an attempt to pull my struggling self-esteem up, she and Aunt [redacted] took me to buy makeup. Oh my g-d, I still have dreams about that stuff. I was so genuinely happy. And I am still genuinely grateful. I love my Mom but she's not great at super girly stuff that like, and I really looked up to Aunt [redacted] because to me, she was epitome of what a woman should be. She was funny, smart, happy. I wanted all of that, too.

But now I realize that I'm not exactly like them. I have literally been racking my brain for months (years, really) to try and figure out what it is about me that doesn't jive.

I honestly don't know.

I think it's that sometimes I forget to send out thank you notes. I really do write them. Every time I move, I find a bunch of thank you notes that have been addressed, sealed, the whole works, just not sent. I'm sorry about that.

Or maybe it's that I don't send enough gifts. I want to blame Dad on this one, but here I am trying to assert my independence, so obviously that's not going to work. I'll try harder.

Or maybe it's that I'm not Catholic. But I went to Catholic grade schools, a Catholic high school, a Catholic university. I graduated. I did what they wanted. I'm not a heathen, I'm just not a Christian. But I don't tell their kids that. I answer their questions honestly but sometimes I do lie just to protect their upbringings. I know Catholicism in and out. I'm good.

Once, when I was like fifteen, Uncle [redacted] and Aunt [redacted] found a lighter at their house. At that time, I had just become a black-cotton-clad child and was expressing my inner rage, so naturally, they thought it was mine. I denied it, because it wasn't. I later found out it belonged to [redacted] but he was too scared to say anything. Maybe that was where it all started to go wrong. I'm sorry. I didn't lie.

I don't lie. I don't cheat. I don't steal.

(That's my life philosophy. It's not that hard to do, really. I feel like aiming for those goals is good. From there, you can expand yourself into the best person you can be.)

Anyway, those are my theories. I'm sorry my father is a nut. It's not all his fault. It's the [redacted] syndrome. It affects him socially. Granted, even after the mitigating circumstances, he's still a lot to handle, but a lot of that is also generated when the people who are supposed to love him unconditionally get irritated. (I'm guilty of being the ultimate hypocrite here, I realize that. But seriously, if there's a group, four hours doesn't seem so bad, does it? I manage dinners, coffees, whatever. It's not going to kill you.)

I'm not invited to Easter, go figure.

Let's just all be estranged and call it good.

I will at least say that my mom's side of the family is always willing to rearrange things for us as necessary. And sometimes they even go out of their way to see us. It's nice. I know that if I call Aunt [redacted] for something, a favor, or a plan, or an activity, she'll respond. In a timely manner. Who'd have thought?

I guess it comes down to this: you can't choose your family (even when you're adopted), but you can choose to interact for the better or the worst. Some people love me for who I am, even if I'm not following their idea of the perfect life path. Some don't, I guess. It hurts. I'm not good at conflict; I'm not good at trying to figure out why I don't belong. But I guess this is a chance for me to get better at it.

Ugh, Easter. People wonder why I get so agitated around the holiday season. Wouldn't you?

Women's Empowerment

Don't read my blog today.
Take 20 minutes and watch this.

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

Release

I'm free now. I'll still wonder, I guess, but I know what should have been.

The tears threatened to bubble up to the surface, but they never came and as the feeling ebbed away, I began to smile.

I'll never be that person, but at least I'm still me.

Fruitypants: or why I love my little brother

These are those rare moments when you realize that everything is truly beautiful, and you must not be missing anything at all.

Our trivia team took 4th place (out of 32 teams) at the citywide competition on Saturday, and as a result, had Nuggets tickets.  I took Mike with me, and we met Heidi and one of her friends.

And it was a genuinely, unexpectedly lovely evening. Mrs. Hosanna had noticed that I'd checked into the Pepsi Center on Foursquare (yet another application for the advanced stalking of our friends, but one that seems to do me good at times), so she sent me a text and I went down to see her and Aunt Judy and the rest of the family at halftime.

I'm glad Mike and I got to spend some quality time together. Lately we've been keeping very different schedules and it's been hard to schedule time.  Mike had a blast talking basketball with the guy sitting next to him, and I had a blast listening to him talk about betting. I am starting to get a basic idea of what it entails. He was exuberant after finding out that his parlay had gone through and he'd won $150. (Which is good because his betting  money comes from my bank account - I should start charging a fee every time.)

But we were talking on the ride home, having lapsed into one of our infrequent yet necessary "real talk" sessions and he goes, "We're not like other people...Do you know how much we're loved?" and proceeds to wax on about how wonderful our lives are.

And even though I fall into the melancholy thinking that life is kind of shitty sometimes, it is so much more than that.

I really am grateful that I'm not an only child. I love Mike because I know that he's going to grow up and be this great person. I admire him. He reads more than me (never thought you'd hear that, did you?). He explores things that interest him. He loves Ghandi and Nelson Mandela. He's this wise man crammed into the body of a 21 year old.

We are polar opposites. But we work really well together. He keeps me in line and I do the same, just at different times. I conceptualize and he does details. I socialize and he does the math. It works. However, no one does the grocery shopping.

I have a very full life that's overflowing with great things. And I really do love every single minute of it. Thanks for the reminder, Mike. You're the best.

South African Wine Article

Teenage Wasteland

This week was weird food week for me.
Jacob and I were grabbing coffee downtown on Tuesday night, and on the walk back to my car, we spotted a random assortment of vegetables laying on the sidewalk. Of course I stopped to take a picture. They lay there in the dark, an oddly phallic assortment of forgotten food.
I thought little of it.

I went home, parked on 17th and as I was walking back toward my house, I saw an entire bag of English muffins sitting there by the sidewalk.
So I took a picture.

I realized later that it was dumb to take two pictures of weird food coincidences, but then today, it finally hit me.
I was driving up Colorado Blvd to grab a salad from the grocery store when I saw tubs of Blue Bell (brand new to Colorado) ice cream melting all over the median. Thank god it's not summer and the tubs won't start to stink immediately, but someone is still going to have to come and clean them up.
And who leaves food like that?

I got back to the office and took the plastic off of my salad. And then took more plastic off of the toppings. And then unwrapped the plastic fork and removed the plastic off of the plastic carton of salad dressing included in the plastic package.
See where I'm going with this?

Plastic. Food.

Maybe now that I'm working in a confined space (read: an office), I find myself often eating perishables in disposable cartons. Or eating non-perishables in disposable cartons.
I have a set of lovely reusable food containers. (Ah, Costco, where would we be without you?) I bring yogurt in them. I have stained them orange with spaghetti sauce residue. I have microwaved them and washed them and refrigerated them, and they come home with me daily.
I'm satisfied to use them, because I know they are about as sustainable as plasticware gets. I'll reuse them until either I lose them (which is bound to happen at some point) or until they become broken and old. But they're sturdily made and chances are high that my $30 investment (that's a high estimate) will be well worth it for both me and the environment.

But waste.
Food gets wasted.
It happens.
But it happens too often.
Mike and I are constantly battling the fresh food problem. We want fresh food. We buy fresh food. We watch that fresh food become less and less fresh until it's no longer fresh food. We throw it out.
The cycle begins anew.

I remember being sixteen and having a seriously depressed thought about a spoon at Dairy Queen. (Oh god, that's embarrassing.) When you drop a spoon on the floor, it gets thrown away. It'll never touch anyone's lips. It's now been rendered useless. And that bothered me. It was created to be a spoon, to bring ice cream joy to the lips of greedy consumers. But now it never would. It will spend the rest of its days (weeks, months, years, centuries, millenia) languishing in a landfill, wrapped in plastic, surrounded by paper cups and napkins, and other plastic spoons, rotting slowly back into the Earth.

But they won't rot, really. Not within a decent timeframe.

This is why it is of the utmost importance that people start recognizing their own consumption and thinking about it. (Thoughts are where all real change starts.) Don't recycle because it's cool, recycle because of that poor red spoon. Recycle because you can and should. Recycle.

And stop wasting food.
I'm guilty of it, too. We all are.
Stop leaving half empty beer cans. Drink up.
Stop letting your spinach rot.
Stop buying the 5lb carton of strawberries at Costco (I'm so guilty of this...I do it every time) because it's cheaper than 2lbs at the grocery store.

I'm not going to the use the hungry-child-in-Africa excuse because it's not really that valid as far as your own personal food consumption goes. Sending someone your spinach isn't going to work. Eating something extra even though you don't want to will just make you fat. It's a no-win situation. They're still hungry and now you're dealing with the onset of adult diabetes.

So much for saving the world.

Only buy what you need. And sometimes, even though it may be laden with preservatives that might mummify your insides, it might be better to buy it canned, or frozen, or not at all if you know you're not going to use it right away.

Just a small public service announcement and personal reminder.

I get really upset when I hear the debate about public education in this country.

One day, I would really like to be able to send my kids to public schools. At the moment, I wouldn't. I know I'm biased based on my private school education, but the public school system needs an overhaul.

Class size? Salary? Supplies?
Screw it all. Our country doesn't do enough with what we've got. We spend so much time trying to cut necessary human services so we can waste money on bombs.

Let's have teachers who have enough support that they're not burning out after two years!
Let's have people who are passionate about what they do in charge of the public school system rather than having administrators run it all like a business (some of them have never set foot in a classroom in a teaching capacity!)

Let's get everyone involed. Screw state mandated test scores. Screw performance based funding.

Let's start over. Let's re-do the system. And let's make sure that our kids are getting the best education possible; it's the only way that the US has any sort of future.

The QR code for my Tumblr account.

If you have a barcode scanner on your smartphone, scan this link and my blog should pop up.
I downloaded and use Zxing - which is free on the Android market. There are also 50 free apps on iPhone.
Pretty cool, huh?

And so the gallbladder goes...

I've nearly caught my breath, but only momentarily, of course.

My mom has been in the hospital since Sunday morning, when she went to the ER with severe stomach pain. Turns out it was gallstones.

So there was a thing yesterday and then the surgery to remove the gallbladder today, and now she is resting comfortably and we can breathe again. I sat in the room with Grandma Mary today, away from work on my lunch break, jumping everytime I heard something that sounded like a bed rolling down the hall. It wasn't, and just as I was getting so anxious I thought I'd burst, she came back in, looking a million times better than she did on Sunday.

And I was so happy to have her back.

I'm so selfish, I know, but I'm not ready to lose her yet. (Not that I'll ever be, but, you know...) I wore her rings yesterday and today; it's odd that small comforts like that really do help.

When I first realized what it might feel like to not have her there anymore, I was younger, maybe still an emo-ish teenager, and I was reading some article in some magazine I would only buy once. It was about picking up the phone to call your mother and realizing that she'd never answer. Or deleting her number because it was stupid to have it in your phone becuase you'll never be able to call it again anyway. Upon reading that, a surge pulled through me and then away, leaving an empty sucking feeling at the pit of my stomach. And from then on I realized how precious our time is.

And so I gave her the "you're-running-out-of-spare-parts" lecture and I hope the heavens understood my true meaning.

But thank god, more than ever, for good health insurance, and for family.

Am I heartbroken or am I just weak?

Rough week, exhaustion, uutter despair. Calamity, apathy, angst-ridden.

Worst part about it all?

Nothing's wrong.

Except that overnight, plane tickets to Chicago went up $120 round trip. So that sucks.

But other than that, I guess I'm fine.

Wishing to run away again, as usual.

I am in the midst of a trepidatious Monday. I'm unnverved, unsettled, and somehow craving something firmly rooted.

It must be time for the next great adventure. We're thinking of road-tripping to that music festival and then flying to Boston/Provincetown to see Jacob in the summer. I want Chicago, too. I want to see the people I love, the city I crave.

All of that will quell those feelings momentarily, until I can't breathe anymore and I need to be moving. I always want to be moving. I love the thrill of nowhere, living from that suitcase, throwing things willy nilly into the backseat and speeding away, off to anywhere.

Maybe I need to learn to sandboard, to ski, to do those things that will give me motion without taking me too far. I'll get my damn iPod fixed and I'll run in the park every day, until the long forgotten muscles become taut and sinewy. I'll run and run toward freedom, only to find myself back at my door, fumbling for the right key, reminding myself that tomorrow I'll take off the key that doesn't work.

My spirit isn't dead, it's still very much alive, it's still here.
I want to go to Tibet.
I want to learn how to meditate. I want to sit with people wiser than me and let them show me how to find calm.
I want to dive in deep ocean. I want the waves to crash against me in the night. I want to stare up at the sun and stare out into the sea and realize I'm so small.

At least if I still want these things, my soul must be still stirring inside me. That's a positive sign, I believe.

500th Post

This is the 500th post.

The first sentence written here (back in January of 2007 - my freshman year of college) was, "Ah, solitude at last." or something like it.
And since then there have been many sentences and many posts, and in the coming days I'll repost a few of them - or something like it.

And because I know which post is my mom's favorite, I'm going to put it here, instead of writing something momentous.

http://angelfallenhere.blogspot.com/2007/12/dear-mom.html

Happy Friday, world.

The almighty Internet

This week has been especially professionally fulfilling for me.
I realize that it's weird to say, but there have been small accomplishments that really boost my confidence as far as potential goes.
You've been reading my blog long enough (maybe) to realize that I'm terrified of being stuck in that mediocrity that I feel I live in, but I'm also terrified to realize how capable I actually am. (I know what you're thinking. She's so melodramatic; not this again. But deal with it.)

That being said, today I updated the company website for the very first time. By myself (mostly, there was a bit of input from my colleague Heather). I added links to images on our Partners page. And then I put them up live on the website unaided.
That was the scariest part, I think; messing around with our actual, real website. Not just saving and testing HTML code internally.
But I did it. And now I'm comfortable enough that I could do it again.

And for me, that's a small step toward something.

My article in the Cape Chameleon

Here are the scans of the article which appeared in December in the Cape Chameleon, published in Cape Town. Feel free to click on the images. Once they're open in a new window, you can click on them again and they should magnify to a somewhat readable level.

enjoy!

The gleam, or somethin like it.

One of my dear friends is finding herself mired in the same existential crisis facing most of younger twenty-somethings. I guess if I had to title it, I'd call it "The Future Questions: A Beautiful Crisis by Katie Barry." We're here, but we're still not sure if we want to be. Visions of airplanes and different cities float through our minds, Chicago calls me daily, wishing I'd pick up my phone and beg it to take me back.
We're here, and we're happy, but we keep waiting for something else.

I find myself stumbling back to South Africa in my mind, at nights, or when I'm driving, or when I see anything that might remind me of the place I temporarily called home. It's a smell, a conversation, an NPR report. It's the jerk from behind my belly button pulling me back.

And yet I know there's nothing left there. We all spoke, in the last days, about going back, but the conclusion was that it could never be recreated, it could never be the same. And it won't be.

But I miss the cultural conversations, not just South African, but everything. I miss snippets of German flying between my ears (and most certainly out of them again, sans comprehension), I miss black tea (regular tea, don't call it black, they'll think you're being racist), I miss samoosas on Saturday nights and badly fried chips, I miss take aways and the miserable walk to the laundry and Long St by night. I miss stumbling home and fumbling with the gates (oh the gates!) and I miss the sun and the mountains and the city....but what is it that I'm really doing?

We bronze our memories, immortalizing them to gleam in the light, and we forget that they'll never be like that - that they never were like that to begin with.

I've been struggling with that lately. The gleam. I've bronzed a lot of memories, made them comfortable and safe, glossed over rough edges. But to return to those nights, to those infinite moments, would be miserable, I think. I watch everyone around me strive for their pasts, stretched equally in their search for their futures, and they're forgetting that none of those things are so imporant as these quiet moments in which we listen to the hum of the central air, in which we roll down the windows in January for a glimpse of promised spring, in which we fully absorb what we are, who we are...currently.

We can gloss these moments over later. But for now, I want them to saturate my skin and make me whole; I want them to chase me and engulf me and I want to come up gasping for air as though I've jumped off that bridge again and forgotten how to breathe.

We're poor and we're happy and we just don't know it yet, because we're so worried about the rest of it all. It's coming, we can't stop it, might as well dance around while we can. Your miserable future self will someday look back at your miserable present self and wish for this again. Fight the gleam, you're in it.

Fear and chicken salad.

We're 5 posts away from 500 - which is pretty exciting. "A Mile High and Then Some..." is celebrating it's fourth year on this planet and I'm celebrating the fact that I still have topics of conversation.

But today, it's chicken salad. And fear. But the fear part comes in a little bit later.

I love chicken salad. The only problem is that when it's bad, it's horrible. While there have been instances of mediocre chicken salad in the history of the product, it usually tends to fall on opposite ends of the spectrum. I'm currently fork-deep in some from King Soopers, and it's mediocre. It needs more lemon juice, more pepper, more salt, less red onion. Good balance of celery and grape, perhaps a pinch more tarragon.
I'm currently salivating at the thought of Costco's chicken salad. They have the best rotisserie chicken, hands down, and their chicken noodle soup (made from that chicken) is divine. And super cheap. One of these days, I'm going to have to get some.
I worry that people are forgetting how to cook home cooked things. Not fine dining, that will exist forever in some form or another. But things like baked goods, meatloaf, casseroles - all the hallmarks of suburbia, of the housewife, the busy mother who manages to get dinner on the table every night by 6. I want to learn how to cook. I want to be able to bring flavor into dishes without having to get the ingredients from a box.
But I guess lots of people my age can cook.
And I guess it won't be that hard.

But on to fear. Suddenly, I don't have much to say about it.

I've moved my desk back into the conference room so I can shut the door when I'm on the phone. Which is supposed to be pretty consistently. It's not as easy as it sounds. I do enjoy the cave-like atmosphere.

Grumbling, as usual

Another wild weekend leads to another busy week.

However, I have purchased bookshelves.
Two of them.

And hopefully tonight I will have them in my room and I will feel like I live there.

Also, I have some bones to pick with both Google (Blogger) and Tumblr.
Google won't accept the fact that I want to make my Gmail address my primary on this account. They refuse to let the two merge together although I no longer actively use my Loyola e-mail address. Actually, it might not even be mine forever.
And then what?
What happens when the next kbarry3@luc.edu wants to get her own blog?
What happens when I've completely forgotten that I was kbarry3@luc.edu?

And Tumblr. I adore my new layout but it's impossible for people to comment. Ironically, that's the blog where I'd like to have comments. My family reads this blog but doesn't comment (even though it's super easy to do) but my friends are unable to do so on my Tumblr.

Ugh, technology does have its limits.
How about making it all a little bit more intuitive?
(I'm talking to you too Constant Contact!)

Food Inc.

I'm not good with food.
It's not that I don't like it - I like most everything except fish and spicy things, and even that is starting to change. I now crave shrimp sometimes, and I'll happily eat mussels in pasta. I ate half a scallop on a date once. South Africa really got me into spicy. I can eat medium salsa without complaint and now put jalepenos on things.

Everyone makes fun of me. I don't eat meals (often). I much prefer to just eat throughout the day. If I had my way, I'd be constantly eating but not that much. And not that much variety.

Today, I was nearly late for work because at 8:25 this morning I decided to make a pan of spinach. Why? I don't know. Why not?
But it has made for a delicious lunch. I put some olives on it at first and then decided to make a wrap. Lacking some sort of sauce, I put cream cheese in the wrap (it's one of those health ones that tastes like sawdust and hell but you're still going to eat it anyway) and then put in warm spinach, olives, cheddar cheese and turkey. Cover that in pepper and you've got a meal.

But that's weird. The other night, I realized that salt and vinegar chips can be dipped into mustard potato salad with great success. (I'm serious, try it.)

That and my one entree, mustard chicken. Oh man, delicious. Spicy mustard (the deli kind) and then honey on the chiekn and you do some baking and some stabbing and some dipping- it tastes like the best memory of chicken nuggets from childhood minus all the fried bits.

I can also make a mean chicken salad.
Or spinach bacon salad.
Or BLTs.
Or bacon oatmeal.
Or bacon mac-and-cheese.

Starting to see the theme?

I'm a much better baker than I am a cook, although I don't know that that's saying too much about my baking skills. Or my cooking skills.

Ryan made me dinner last night: lamb things, proscuitto wrapped vegetables, and asparagus, yum! He kept saying he was worried he'd have too many leftovers becuase I wouldn't eat it anyway, but I think he was surprised when I asked for seconds.
But all of that was to his severe detriment becuase now he's going to have provide meals on that level at least twice a month.

Some stuff I threw into a text box

Not having an internet connection at home is really starting to stunt my creativity - well, sort of. I spend my 8 hours a day at work thinking about what I want to write, but once I get in front of a computer, it's all gone. This week, though, internet! Yay!

I've been limping through a cold this week. I'm not sick enough to miss work or stay home, but I'm coughing and miserable. The cat is quite bothered when I interrupt his sleep with my coughing; he lifts his head up and looks at me, bending his ears back in annoyance. Then he'll turn, knead my blankets (or sometimes me) with his claws, and then settle back in, tucking his paws under him.

Carlos has settled in really well. He hardly leaves me alone. I wake up with him next to me, or on me, or at my feet. He's adorable, furry, perfect.

We're really loving the new apartment - it's so big! I can hear the traffic on 17th constantly; it rocks me to sleep, reminds me of Chicago. The neighborhood is great. It's crazy and wonderful - this morning I saw a woman with a mullet walking across the street while talking on her bluetooth ear piece. Love this. Love my life.

Cape Town Down

I'm slowly losing South Africa.
Today, I got an e-mail telling me that I'm no longer the mayor of Wynberg Train Station.
I loved sitting there, waiting for the train, sticking my pale legs out so they might catch some afternoon sun, watching, always watching.
And the train going toward Cape Town would come and suddenly the train station would become a blur of activity and when the train pulled away, the platform was empty except the thick line of people streaming out into Wynberg.
Minutes later, my train would come. I'd stand, deciding whether or not I should move one way or the other to get a better spot on the train. You always had to stand toward Cape Town when you were riding the MetroRail - that's the first class spot - that's where you're less likely to get robbed.
Clutching my backpack (with computer in it), I'd stand, holding onto the warm metal pole, lurching as the train started moving, trying not to make too much eye contact with anyone. You sit, and you watch, and you wait.
Steurhof slid by. Priscilla worked at a hospital off that stop.
Heathfield, Retreat.
I always got up too fast after the train left Retreat station. Then everyone would stare at me because I was the white girl standing. I think it made me look lost.
In the beginning, before I had affected the causal swing the locals did, I would stand straight, stiff, staring ahead. Later, I'd wait until the train had nearly pulled into the station before standing, shouldering my bag and stepping off the train to go jump off the tracks.
I always loved the shocked way they'd look - especially days when I was in something like my business dress. I'd daintily put my hand on the concrete, bending my knees slightly, and then I'd jump, gingergly step across the tracks and continue home. I don't think they ever got over that one.

I miss the bricks, I miss the train, I miss the graffiti.
South Africa, don't ever leave me.

New to you, but not really

Oh, my college friends are lovely people, but their blogging platforms are just so inconvenient.

They've all started blogging on Tumblr, and to make things easy, I decided to start using mine again as well. My one loyal Tumblr fan, Grandma Mary, will be excited by this news, as the Tumblr has just been overhauled to include a new layout and some fancy poetry (but I think it's poetry I already posted here a long time ago).

Anyway, since you have a bunch of iPads and some spare time (hubris forced me to make that comment, I swear...I'm not assuming you have spare time at all, really, because no one does), save this address http://katiebarry.tumblr.com/ and then go to it periodically.

I'm hoping to integrate a more personal look at my life here and then thoughts, links, my rantings about feminist news there.
Or whatever.

In theory, there will be a link to this post over there so you'll be able to tell when I've been updating.

Blah blah blah, anyway, I'm just super jazzed on the layout. It's not something I'd normally pick.

Slutty doesn't equal Feminist!

No, no, no, no, NO!
Duke student makes PowerPoint and then the world goes wild and some people hail her as a feminist, which is utter bullshit.
If you've got some time today, read those two articles.

Perhaps you've seen the longer article on my Facebook page; Madeline posted it there earlier this week. It's about how a female student at Duke made a PowerPoint presentation about her sexual encounters throughout college and is now being hailed as some sort of feminist.
In actuality, there was nothing inherently feminist about her behavior.
Yes, she had a lot of casual sex. That in itself does not define feminism at all. She was used by these men, none of whom seemed to have any respect for her.

Respect is the key to this sexual equality idea. Without respect, there can be no sexual equality. Even if someone is under the impression that they've somehow been sexually liberated by their attempts to chronicle their college days and rate the men they've had sex with, they're not equal. This was a sad attempt at taking back power, power that Karen Owen never had. Why no power? No respect.

Karen Owen, the girl who made the PowerPoint, was not engaged in equal sexual activity. She was used by men and then tossed aside. One guy wouldn't even open the door for her to give her back her earrings, instead telling her that he'd leave them outside his door. Instead of being wildly offended, hurt, disappoined, even, she just gave him a lower score on her list.

And self-respect?
None, apparently, as evidenced by her PowerPoint presentation. She might be blind, but it's so obvious. Her own words have sold her as nothing more than a drunk girl desperate for love but looking in all the wrong places. I don't go to bars so that I can stand in corners and take shots and wait for men to prey on me. I go to enjoy myself, regardless of whether or not there are going to be men there.

There are a ton of definitions for "feminist," but Karen Owen fits none of them and I'm ashamed that women everywhere are proud of her, praising her actions. One woman quoted in the first article says that she wishes she could have been as brave as Karen when she was younger.

Brave?
I hesitated to use this word earlier, but I'm so annoyed that I'm just going to have to call her "slutty." No part of her experiences could have been positive for women. One nights stands with thirteen men? It's not the number that bothers me, it's the fact that she seems so okay with the way that she was treated. It's one thing to be actively engaged in a female-positive sex life (which can include multiple partners) so long as proper consideration and consent are given.

And the article goes on to blame alcohol for the way that women are acting. Ha, women? Alcohol? Maybe we are abusing alcohol at 4 times the rate we used to (men's abuse has remained stagnant) but that's all part of equality and we've got to accept it. I don't think that our drinking is making us more sexually pliable by any means.
We're trying to level with men. But we're not succeeding, certainly not if we continue to let ourselves be used the way that Karen Owen was.

I'm out of time and will have to edit this later, but here's what I put on Facebook:


Wow - read the article and the PowerPoint. I'm incredibly annoyed by both.


No part of me thinks that her sexual behavior should be linked in any way with feminism or equality. She's no Tucker Max (don't get me started on him). She's just som...e dumb girl looking for love in all the places.

She's no feminist, no poster child for sexual liberation. No one should be championing her cause, putting her up on a pedestal of bravery. There's nothing wrong with being half sex kitten, half soccer mom, but there is a problem when there's no respect behind all that and Karen Owen obviously doesn't have a strong-willed bone in her body.

It should be noted that when you are intoxicated, you can't legally consent to sex.

And the whole rough sex bit - everyone has rough sex. Rough sex done right won't leave marks. Yeah, dominance has its place but that place is not in public. It's not at a college bar and it's most definitely not in the bedrooms of these athletes. Clumsy attempts at masculinity should not be allowed to give rough sex/dominance-submission play a bad name.

If I engaged in sexual activity (I was going to write "fucked" but my grandma will read it) with a man who wouldn't even open the door to let me have my earrings back, I'd be beyond furious and I'd reevaluate who I was banging. But Karen Owen doesn't even seem to think that's a huge problem. Yeah, it results in a lower score, but it should have resulted in a swift kick to the nuts as well. (Yeah, I just advocated for violence, whatever. You can send Tucker Max after me if you want.)

She's obviously intelligent enough to go to Duke (I wouldn't go to Duke if they paid me) so she should have been intelligent enough to make better decisions - that being said, better decisions are sometimes not fucking everything that moves and demanding respect from dudes you bang. The whole home-from-the-bar-and-straight-into-bed move is done, it's played out.

Grow up, Karen Owen, and keep you sexual exploits to yourself. It's one thing to be sexually liberated with a pinch of slutty, but it's downright embarrassing to have no self-respect. Maybe discretion comes with maturity.

Parenting: Strictly Speaking

I was browsing the New York Times over lunch today when I came across a debate about parenting styles. Amy Chua, a Yale professor, published an article talking about a very strict, regimented parenting style that was effective, which has spurred debate.

I know that I come from a generation that is constantly needing hand-holding and guidance, because we were raised in a very everything-you-do-is-wonderful-and-so-are-you sort of environment. We're incapable of self motivation and are nervous and shy about approaching authority figures. We have a sick sense of entitlement, but that entitlement isn't deserved.

But at the same time, some of us flourish in that free-space. My creativity and self-awareness stems from having the opportunitites to grow on my own and being given the space to test and define limits and boundaries.
I may have tattoos (read the text below), but they weren't gotten because of the need to be rebellious or the need to expose myself as an individual. Thanks to my parents (Mom, mostly), I already knew who I was as an individual and I already knew how to get myself in enough trouble without having to go too far.
In high school, during those few rough years where boundaries blurred with angst and self-esteem was below low, my mom was consistent with her actions, supportive when she needed to be and mean when that was required, but she was never unfair.
She never took away something necessary (like a ride to school) because of something I'd done to upset her (like talk back or fail to clean my room). She did take away my car when I snuck out, but even then, I was allowed to drive it to work. I was able to keep work and school away from punishments, something Dad never figured out how to do.
You can take away earning power and expect your children to grow up as successful, independent adults capable of entering the work force.
It was up to me to flex my independence within the set boundaries, and in doing so, I was able to "live dangerously" (every teenager's real desire) without actually putting myself in harm's way.
That, my friends, is expert parenting.
I graduated from a private college in four years and have entered the moderately corporate world with no arrests on my record and no major slip-ups to report.


When Parents Feel Out of Control


Updated January 14, 2011, 02:01 PM



Karen Karbo, a novelist and memoirist, is the author of "The Gospel According to Coco Chanel: Life Lessons from the World’s Most Elegant Woman."



When my daughter was born in 1992, the late great Portland cartoonist John Callahan made her birth announcement. It was a drawing of her father and me peering into her carriage and exclaiming, “Maybe she’ll be a doctor, a lawyer, or Japanese!” We liked how it poked fun of our parental expectations, which were so ridiculously high they included our kid's possible transformation into a different (stereotypically driven and successful) nationality.



It's true that we, as parents, have erred in downplaying how competitive life is, and how difficult it is to truly excel..It’s hard to accept that by bringing a child into the world we’re creating a hostage to fortune. We live in impossibly difficult times. I don’t think I need to make a list. Amy Chua’s child-rearing manifesto speaks directly to this fear. It claims, in essence, that if we follow her draconian regimen -- refuse sleepovers, enforce hours of violin practice that makes elite Romanian gymnasts look like nose-picking slackers -- we, too, will manufacture happy, secure summa cum laudes who never rebel, suffer an existential crisis, or spend their allowance on an unfortunate tattoo. It presumes that we can prevent our kids from hurt, harm and disappointment. It’s a fantasy of control and protection in times that seem out of control and scary.



That said, a pragmatic philosophy offers some much-needed correctives to a culture of parenting where our children’s every random scribble and shoe box diorama is lauded as pure genius, where trophies are awarded simply for showing up. We have erred in downplaying how competitive life is, and how difficult it is to truly excel. One of the toughest lessons I tried to impart to my daughter is that you need to work as hard as you possibly can to achieve excellence, and sometimes even then you fall short.



Our daughter has not shown any interest in becoming a doctor or a lawyer, but she’s attending a college she loves where she gets good grades and has made good friends. Recently, she said, “I’m so happy. Even the worst day is the best day.” That’s about as good as it gets in my book. But then again, since I was the mom who hosted the aforementioned ruinous sleepovers, my standards are pretty low.

No clotting here

Pharmacist Refuses to Fill Anti-Bleeding Drug

This article discusses an incident in Idaho where a pharmacist denied a woman her prescription because it wasn't clear if she'd had an abortion or not. (The drug in question stops bleeding after childbirth or medical abortions.) The pharmacist apparently called to specifically asked if the drug was need for post-abortion care and due to privacy laws, wasn't able to find out the answer. Apparently, the pharmacist refused to fill the prescription and then refusecd to direct the prescription elsewhere.
Disciplinary action has been taken, but I sincerely hope that they fired that pharmacist.

Seriously?
Anti-bleeding? Becuase bleeding, no matter the cause, is usually a bad sign. Sometimes it leads to death. Whatever the motive behind the denial, I think it's irresponsible. Don't become a pharmacist if you can't dish out what's prescribed, be it anti-bleeding, antivirals, whatever.

I'd also be curious to find out the gender of the pharmacist.

Home

Apartment hunting is hard.
Basically, we need: a two bedroom that allows cats.
What we want, however, is a different story: two bathrooms, dishwasher, washer/dryer, parking.
But, living in that very first apartment taught me a lot about "necessities." You can actually live without most of them. In fact, sometimes it's easier. Although, I will say that having a washer/dryer would really make my life a lot better.

We have our first showing today.
Located at First and Logan, this 550 square foot (yes, I did say 550) charmer is two bedrooms and comes with everything (EVERYTHING - cable, internet, heat, trash...etc.) included except electricity for $950 per month. It has parking, though.
But seriously? 550 sq feet?

Tomorrow, I have a noon appointment to view a Capital Hill 2 bedroom that's 800 square feet (more my size) and $965 for two people with gas/electricity/cable/internet extra. And no parking.

I'm also looking at a place off of 11th in Lowry - SPACIOUS (double the size of the first one) 2 bed/2 bath (a bathtub, oh my) with walk-in closets, a patio, washer/dryer, and parking. But, this place is kind of far away from everything and is $950 per month with nothing included.

So....we'll see how this goes.

The options have begun to lay themselves out and I think it'll be interesting to see where we end up. Right now, I'm very excited about the 10th Ave Cap Hill apt. But we'll see.

Stitches, or why I have an ugly middle finger

Pineapple can, late evening, end of December. It was one of those no-can-opener-necessary sort of deals, and I am obviously way too much of a moron to open cans without a can opener, and so I spent a night gushing blood and then the next day getting lectured and then being sewn back together.

I've never had stitches before, I hope I don't ever have to have them again. They hurt. A lot. They're inconvenient and messy, but super cool to look at.

So now, I have three of the four out of my finger. One has to stay because if it was removed, there would have been more blood, which is not the intended outcome. So it will live in me until it can come out. I imagine that in the next few days I'll be able to pop it right out.

Ew.

But I took this picture on my cell phone. Great resolution, right??

Work and a working marriage.

I'm going to address two things today, the first being occupation-related and the second being women related.
Of course.

I've been put to work, officially. I'm now sitting in my office (a converted conference room with a clear view of the front whole bit of the office) making quality assurance calls to existing customers. But I have my own computer, my own email address, my own phone with a direct line, and my own space. I'm quite pleased with it all.
I got gas station coffee on the way to work this morning. It's been a constant reminder all day that perhaps the nightlife doesn't mix as well as might be anticipated with the working life. That alarm is a harsh reminder of the real world.
My first few calls were a bit rough, but I was practicing on all of the people in the office. They were making up ridiculous problems and laughing as I verbally stumbled around them, but in the end, all has gone smoothly.

But on to real things, really.

Yesterday, I came across this article and thought it well worth commenting on.

 Women Really Want to Marry a Rich Man
Wow.
I had a discussion with a few people about it yesterday, but I'm under the impression personally that the reason many successful women might want to marry a rich man is because of the implications of intelligence and motivation, desirable qualities in a partner. If a woman sees herself as intelligent and successful, she will obviously want to find herself an intellectual equal. Generally, you have to smart to get rich. (This is not to say that there aren't smart people who aren't rich, it's just that few people can maintain a successful career trajectory without some semblance of intelligence.)
I want to marry a rich man, that's not a lie. I don't want to struggle financially as we navigate our lives, but if he's only rich in monetary value and not in character, then the marriage would never survive.
However, I see that there are possible advantages to having one person working in the house, be it the male or the female. Marriage often results in children, and if one parent's salary seems to only cover external household labor expenses (childcare, cleaning, general upkeep, etc), then it might make sense that that parent would stay home to do those things rather than contracting them out to other people.
Conversely, I believe that if one parent is constantly at home doing family labor and the other is out in the corporate world (or some other type of business setting), the marriage might also suffer as a lack of commonality between the two. With less to talk about and less in common, the two people might begin to pursue other interests or activities separately rather than being able to maintain a working dialogue stemming from a single experience set.

I guess in the long run, what I really want is to marry a smart man.
Idiocy is such a dealbreaker.

Employment

This is my first blog from work!
(I don't know if there will be many to come, but perhaps, so we'll mark the occasion just in case.)

I've been getting settled in the past couple of days, and so while things are still new, I've got some time on my hands. It does remind me of African time, though.
My capacity as telemarketer will lead me into unknown territory but I do believe I shall manage. There are a bunch of trade shows coming up, so after those, I'll be busy attempting to manage the prospective clients.
But for now, I am content to be employed.

Soon will come the apartment; the hunt has already started.
And after that will come the second job, to make all those loose ends meet.

One day, I'll be salaried somewhere, reminiscing about those days post-college, when I was dirt poor and loving my life. I often wonder if that nostalgia will happen, although I certainly hope that my life only increases in wonder as I age.

But it begins slowly, without fear, and for that, I am also grateful. It will blend into a routine and soon enough, it will be the daily grind. The commute, the coffee, the dry-clean only clothing piling up somewhere. All of that, and hopefully a lot more.
I hope to learn a lot while I'm here about office structure, information systems, law software, and everything else I can take. It's going to be a grand adventure.

Sometimes there's just too much to say. 

I'll attempt to do a moderately sane recap of the past few weeks and then we can progress smoothly into the new year. 

Tonight is my last night of cat-and-apartment sitting. I have really enjoyed both being downtown and also being with Carlos. He slips into bed with me at night and curls up next to my shoulders, usually wrapping his paws around my arms or nestling his head against my hand. We've resumed our routine, and for that I am glad. 

I was furious at John one night after he insinuated that Carlos missed Jacob, but he's since recanted enough to appease me and agreed that Carlos is a different cat for Jacob than he is for me. Alas, one major difference is the counter-jumping. In Chicago, there was never a kitchen issue for me. He didn't jump on the counters, or walk across the stove, and I most certainly never found him atop the refrigerator. 

However, John was telling me that one night, he saw Carlos on the counter at Jacobs, licking a stick of butter. When he heard about it, Jacob's reaction was, "Wow, I wondered why that stick of butter was going so quickly." No wonder my cat is so fat - he's sharing butter. 

Also, he snores. 

I've really enjoyed being so very close to the heart of Denver - if it was warmer, I'd be able to walk to anything. New Year's Eve, I had dinner with Emily and Madeline here and then we walked down to the bars and then walked back at the close of the evening. 

It was much like last year. We were at the Ginn Mill for awhile then declared it boring, but were unfortunate enough to end up at the Sports Column, where I realized that classy is all relative. Madeline and I spent a good hour trying to evade a horrible, close-talker of a man with horrible close-talking hair who claimed to be both Nordic and then Puerto Rican. I dissed his Spanish and then told him I was South African. That got into the whole "what makes an African American" argument, which we promptly won. 

Then the Nordic invasion of Britain started. Oh dear god, never cross Madeline Hosanna in a bar with history. Also, thank god for the first set of Irish the summer before our senior year of college. The Battle of Hastings. 1066. I'll never forget the date. 

Post midnight we ended up back at the Ginn Mill. Happily, we all found interesting men to talk to and the night progressed amicably. After the bars closed, we found another of our friends and took the whole party back. Coffee and bagels rounded out the morning. 

A delightful evening. 

Carlos

Waking up with cat wrapped around my arms is really lovely.
I've figured out that his allegiance lies with whoever is feeding him - so of course, I gave him exactly what he wanted.  I think perhaps he's figured out that I'm his adopted mother, although I'm not entirely sure. We're working on it.

This, and that. Among other things.

(What follow is purely emotional venting - you know I'm big on feelings and on that whole experience, so forgive me for detailing it all so intensely. If you're not familiar with this particular family dynamic, there's no point in attempting to further your knowledge with this post - so look elsewhere for your daily entertainment. You certainly won't find it here, at least not today.)

It's about to get a little heavy, though. Don't say you weren't warned.

I'm not big on Christmas.
I used to like it, I think, but as the years have passed, I've become more and more of a Scrooge about the whole ordeal.
Because it really is an ordeal to me.

I love Christmas lights, Christmas trees, the flutter you feel when you've found the exact right gift for someone you love. I love driving in the dark on those bitterly cold nights looking at lights. I love seeing our Christmas tree weighted down under the ornaments; I love remembering how much they all mean to me.

There's the sparkling ice cream cone to commemorate my years of Dairy Queen servitude, the pink car I got when I was 16, the mugs tilted on their sides showing a family of mice baking cookies (my personal favorite ornament), Mike's fishing stuff, the Broncos ones, the crystal ones, the doves, the homemade ones, the glass ones...everything. Some are dated, some aren't, some get more love than others, but each year my Mom wraps them all individually and puts them back in the boxes they came from and then we haul them down the stairs where they'll wait patiently for the next year.

I don't like remembering. I don't like Christmas.
It brings back really bad memories.

I automatically tense up when the holidays approach - I feel them coming as the weight gradually settles around my shoulders and I prepare to grit my teeth and get on with it. I know I'm old enough to have grown out of these stupid little moods, but there are times when I can't quite manage to keep it all together. I try, really, but somehow, something always slips through my defenses and nags at me until it has all come undone.

This year was no exception. It was all going well enough. For the second year in a row, I was watching Danny's dog Emma, who comes with a free house to stay in for a few days. I was taking advantage of a quiet bathtub and an adorable dog and an empty house.
We'd made plans to go to one Grandma's house on Christmas Eve (as usual) and then more plans to see the other side of the family the next day.
I felt that something was off, so when I finished Christmas Eve dinner and checked the text messages, I immediately knew something was wrong.

"Merry Christmas!! hey we now have plans tomorrow, but would love to cu guys soon. What's tom's #?"
6:13 pm.

My heart sank. I'd even spoken with Mom about this exact scenario. I'd seen it coming, but foolishly believed it wouldn't happen.
How foolish I was. You can't trust anyone, of course. There's no point in convincing yourself it's possible.
I spent the rest of the night holding in tears. Mom saw this, the eventual breakdown was sliding toward us, and ushered me home to go look after the dog. She saw the pain shooting through me, the hurt feelings. I rarely get my feelings hurt. I try to be tough enough, but every now and then....Christmas, and I was off-guard.

I love the family elements of Christmas - and I was beginning to think that pulling off family time wasn't going to be so difficult. It never is with Mom's family. I've come to realize over the years that they are the most family I have, really. They're never to busy to see us, they go out of their way to do things together, they help each other.

Like this:

Uncle Mike, my mom's brother-in-law, took a few days off to drive me to college my freshman year. Even though all the boys claimed they were just in it for the Cubs tickets (which I'm sure wasn't a huge lie), they were sweet enough to make the drive and then leave me. They still tease me about how much of a mess I was when they left. I can see Uncle Mike now, imitating my voice, crying, as they left. "Don't leave me, I'll go to DU, I swear! Take me with you!" I'm eternally grateful for their help, and I sincerely hope they weren't too scarred by my hysteria.
I'm the only girl grandchild on that side - you can imagine how they react to me. They understand more than they let on - they all had sisters - but that doesn't mean they don't take every opportunity to tease me. Christmas Eve, Uncle Mike was sitting telling me that my shoes made my ankles look skinny. Implicit in that remark was that they were fat enough to need to look skinny. He paused, then said, "What are they called? Cankles?" A lightning fast surge of fury shot through me, followed by a comfortable warmth and then a smile.
It was well-played, I have to admit. All the boys were laughing to themselves while I protested mildly about cankles.
That's the kind of family that you want around you.

Christmas Eve, my brother Mike came home with me. I was on the verge of tears and furious. We walked the dog and he let me vent at him. Then he sat with me and we watched tv for a couple of hours late into the night - long enough that a calm had come over me. I'm grateful that he did that for me - he knew exactly what I needed without even asking.

Christmas Day was fine. We saw Dad's new apartment. He cried, but that wasn't unexpected. We dug through his garage and found retro Broncos sweaters from the '80s, which we immediately claimed.
I rocked one of them for the game yesterday. Not a bad look, I must say.

It was Boxing Day when the phone rang and Dad's mom was on the other line. I could hear the guilt creeping through her voice, I know that's why she called me. I wasn't in the mood to play nice, so I told her exactly what I was (am) feeling.

That it's bullshit to call and cancel on us at 7 pm on Christmas Eve, that we're not stupid enough to think that "other plans" aren't just the regular plan minus us.
"Maybe they'll make it up to you," she said softly. I snorted into the phone. "Not likely," I told her. "They never do."

And so it was. I stated my case, told her how this always happens just because her side of the family doesn't want to see Dad, told her that Mike and I are independent adults who are capable of father-free actions, that we're sick of feeling left out like that.

(If it's not because they don't want to see Dad, then I have no idea what it could possibly be. I've spent so much time trying to be the niece and granddaughter they want me to be and I've finally given that up. I've tried to show them that I'm not off doing drugs - as Dad used to tell them - and that my life is on track. Hello, does my Bachelor's degree from a Catholic university mean nothing to them?
I can only think of once, maybe. We were little - I was fifteen. They found a lighter in their house and assumed it was mine. [It wasn't.] I never explained that to them, but if that's what it is, it's been way overblown. That was 8 years ago. I babysat their kids a week ago, so it can hardly be the lighter thing, right? I'm responsible, respectful, polite. I answer the kids' questions in a very PC way that no one should be able to find fault with. I'm a pro-babysitter, remember? It's my job to assist in child raising, not de-rail it.)

"You always have Christmas Eve with your Mom's family," she said. That fact has nothing to do with it. I wasn't invited to any Christmas Eve thing on Dad's side, so how can that be played as a card?
She was crying, and soon, so was I.
"It's really shitty to cry on Christmas Eve," I told her. "It's shitty to feel left out by your own family. Rejected like that."
"My hands are tied," she said. I disagree.
"Do you want to see them?" she asked.
"Why would I want to see people who have no interest in seeing me?" I asked, before I had to hang up because I was crying so much.

The divorce didn't have to put us in the middle like that. It's stupid that ten years later, we're still paying for the mistakes of our parents. It didn't have to come down to one side of the family against the other, but it's looking like we've got a clear winner.
And no, Dad, this one's not about money. It's about family and yours obviously doesn't think that we belong.

Again, that Christmas refrain: Bad memories and a sour taste.

The "Hamventure"

We were sitting in Starbucks, sipping coffee and catching when, out of nowhere, I shouted, "Oh my god! It's Monday! We have to get a ham!"

I pushed back my seat, tossed my coffee cup in the trash, and barreled out the front door with a very confused Madeline trailing behind me.
We put the address into the GPS and somehow ended up at 29th and Havana, which is in the middle of the Stapleton development in Aurora.

"Turn left on Beeler," the GPS announced.

"Is there a Beeler?" Maddie asked.

"Beeler?....Beeler?"

We found it and turned and ended up having to make a long drive back to Havana and Yale. It included a desperate phone call to the Honey Baked Ham people asking them their cross streets.

As it turns out, the GPS had decided to remove the "South" direction and instead had routed us north.
It turned out to be a delicious adventure indeed, with free smoked turkey samples and a ham sandwich along the way.

Grandma was quite pleased with the outcome, although I was sure she was worried that I'd entirely neglected my duties. (I hadn't, obviously.)


However, this whole "hamventure" leads me to believe that I'm still not entirely confident in my re-adoption of my mental Denver map. I have been getting lost in dumb places for dumb reasons. The other night, I was trying to get on 6th heading west from Santa Fe, and for some reason, completely missed 8th and ended up having to do the Kalamath loop. It was a mess. I was a mess.
Those little things really throw me.

But alas, given enough time, the city will be mine again.

The hunt has begun

I love my family.

Today, we fought about Michael Vick (who should not be allowed to play professional sports), the Eagles, and the Giants (which Manning is the hot one - Eli, obviously). We ate chicken (which I made to Mike's dismay yet which later became moderate approval. "It wasn't so bad," he said. "I thought it was going to kill me."), Mike made a Starbucks run (sweetly bringing back a latte for Mom and I), and things were generally copacetic.

We are currently in the middle of a heated (yet hilarious) non-argument about our future housing.

The situation is thus:

It all comes back to that damned cat. Seriously, single mothers have it rough.

I'm desperate for my own place.
Having lived alone, having loved that apartment in Chicago so intensely, and having tasted the sweet freedom of "my apartment," I'm loathe to linger here longer than I must.
However, the financial situation remains dire to say the least.
Complicating the whole situation is Cat/Carlos, who remains in the capable hands of my friend Jacob, yet who cannot live there forever.

My deadline is February 1.
The other day I found a too-good-to-be-true apartment downtown and emailed the guy out of curiosity only to find out that it was indeed too-good-to-be-true. Credit check prior to viewing? Ha, I think not, internet scam man.

I'm itching. I think it's the cat. (That was a cute little allergy pun just for Mom.)
I love that Jacob loves Cat, but he's mine, and I want him. I'm jealous that Jacob gets to live with him and I seriously think that five months of cat-care is long enough. Jacob wants his life back and I want my cat.

Mom is pestering us with questions about how we'll sort out things like food and blah, blah, blah, and Mike is silent. We've lived together for years, we'll sort it out.
He only pipes up whenever I say I wouldn't mind sharing a bathroom with him. He complains of girly products and clothes, I complain equally of sweaty gym socks and eau-de-man.

And thus nothing is settled and as usual, I'm the only one remotely agitated (not seriously, but a smidgeon). Mom's smirking that very pleased smirk while she crochets and Mike might be comatose on the couch.

And thus, the family dynamic remains strong: the evil matriarch, the quiet, reserved son, and the headstrong, stubborn, resilient (and might I add stunning) daughter.

It (which Mom has termed "our fireside chats") goes a little something like this:

"On some issues, I stand as evil mother and it doesn't bother me a bit. I notice that no one on the couch is agreeing with you..."

The couch stirs. "I'm staying out of it."

"See, that means he agrees with me."

"Mike, do you agree with her?"

"No. I don't agree with anyone."

It's never boring here, but I have the sneaking suspicion that none of us would have it any other way.