tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75572947285577447052024-03-08T04:11:33.601-08:00Empty Nesters: Alone AgainTeresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-78477085130212875572010-09-12T20:04:00.000-07:002010-09-12T20:04:36.716-07:00The Search!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Our 22-year daughter hasn’t lived at home since the summer of her freshman year in college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four years worth of clothes, books and apartment life are now jammed packed in her small 15 by 10 foot bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can tell this transition will be much more challenging for her than it will be for us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With one week under the same roof together, we have not yet gotten into a rhythm. Routines seemingly so insignificant are noticed once again; sharing a drawer in the bathroom, making a full pot of coffee instead of a half, parking in the driveway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And more. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For us, it’s making small adjustments to space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For her it’s making large adjustments to her independence, or at this time, lack of it. The fulfillment of successfully completing college in four years with a double major has taken a backseat to “what will I be doing now?” and “when will my education begin to pay off?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s too young to know that it already has.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because she’s sensitive and considerate, there is an obvious effort to do extra chores and help out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I appreciate that, but I see a longing in her eyes for her own space, her own daily routine, her own financial independence, all the while trying to be grateful and appreciative of her opportunities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The daily search for a job has become her job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too bad that doesn’t pay. A rejection letter feels like a personal affront, yet there is an understanding of the competition and the general malaise of the economy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every positive response and interview is what keeps her going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Many years ago I too was searching, and not just for a job. What do I want to do? Where do I want to live? And, most importantly, who am I? These were the thoughts that would drift in and out of my head as I turned the to the Wanted Ads in the newspaper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So as she fires up her computer, clicks on Craigslist, Monster Jobs, and all the other clever job posting sites, I’m sure she’s thinking the same things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do we ever really know?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-13415883132648507712010-08-19T09:10:00.000-07:002010-08-19T09:10:38.261-07:00Noisy Neighbors!<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m tired today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a 4-hour lengthy hike in high altitudes, I was looking forward to a good night sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So was my husband. Not to sound like Debbie Downer, but sleep we did not get. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waa.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The air in Tahoe is wickedly thin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So thin in fact, that a whisper can carry down the trail, through the pines and land on someone’s ears miles away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re careful, so very careful to be aware of that. And anytime our voices reach a decibel that might be heard from more than 6 ft. away, one partner gives the other partner the signal to shush, too loud.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our neighbors up here do not employ the same set of rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last night for hours they sat on their deck visiting, loudly, late into the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We tried to ignore it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We put pillows over our heads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We put on the sound of soft music. We considered shutting the window, except it was warm up here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At one point around midnight, I could hear our neighbors talking about another couple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried not to listen, but admittedly was intrigued with the infidelities of our neighbors friends, thinking, wow do people really do that? Shame on me for listening. That was about the time when one of us, trying desperately to drift into a blissful, restful slumber, had enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guess who?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No, not me, but papa bear stormed to the window and loudly implored “WOULD YOU LOWER YOUR VOICES? PLEASE?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As incredibly tired and frustrated as I was, I just couldn’t take it any longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I buried my head in my pillow and laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fatigue will do that. The look on his face, the sound of his voice, the absurdity of it all was funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not sure if my husband thought I was laughing or crying while the bed was lightly shaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was so tired, he didn’t even ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bless him for that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What do most people do in situations like this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it socially acceptable to say something?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it more mature to ignore and hope it doesn’t happen again?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need advice here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anybody, please!<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The loud talking continued for about another hour, probably until the wine ran out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps they didn’t hear the request from 40 yards away?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, most likely decided to ignore it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m all for people having fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Partying and enjoying the company of others is fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, please, just a little civility and attention to the needs of others would be so very much appreciated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I walked by their deck this morning on my way to run the dog, there my neighbors sat, happily drinking coffee, smiling away, their little mutt barking at us through the deck posts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I considered saying something clever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought perhaps I should implore them to lower their voices in the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But after a pleasant good morning salutation from these chatty partiers, I just couldn’t do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I nodded, smiled and silently chuckled, as I knew more than I cared to about these people. Let’s see what happens tonight. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-79548769606589860152010-08-16T16:09:00.000-07:002010-08-16T16:09:28.532-07:00One Year!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I did it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took on the challenge of chronicling our first year alone without teens underfoot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The challenge was to explore this life stage and post one weekly blog for family, friends but mostly for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The questions considered for exploration, How is it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s different?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did the coeds do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, most importantly, how have I changed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The funny thing is, I found myself reading (more than writing) other blogs from women of all ages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young moms write a lot and sometimes I wonder where in the world they find the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Menopausal women, god bless them, write a lot and I wonder from where do they get the courage to expose the changes in themselves in such a public fashion? Single women write without contempt for the moms of the world. Men don’t seem as into it and I wonder, when do they share their stories?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or does it matter?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My own posts just touched the surface of our first year as empty nesters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To avoid getting too personal, I kept looking for the humor in the daily grind and laughed out loud frequently as I am so easily amused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally, I would attempt to chronicle the humorous and every chuckle was like balm for the soul. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It helps to have a husband with a funny sense of humor.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, I just couldn’t publically share my deepest, darkest, brightest revelations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those are tucked away in the privacy of my desktop folder for me and only me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, what’s it like?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first the magnitude of silence is deafening, but then the silence quiets too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is still chaos, life is messy after all, but that also takes up less space in the heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time is what really stands out, there’s more of it to become self-obsessed, hence the narcissistic blogs. Less cooking, less laundry, less conversation, less, less, less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s not so bad.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How did the coeds do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was the typical euphoria of something new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was the honeymoon period when all is well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was the moment of homesickness that all kids must work through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was the excitement for a future graduate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were lessons of all kinds, clean, messy, good, bad, shallow, thought provoking, easy, not so easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, they changed and matured and learned how to maneuver through the ups and downs of life independently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, mostly independently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How have I changed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My identity as a parent took a major shift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Parenting from a far requires an acute skill in listening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started listening for nuances that are subltle, a change in text or phone patterns, a shift in tone, what’s not being said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then there’s the temptation to give advice and the inner voice that screams STOP, they are not asking for it. They just want to be heard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such self-control and often I wasn’t very good at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I’m getting better, however.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At home as the quietness increased, the tension decreased, which is normal when there are fewer personalities afoot. I do like the energy though with a house full of young people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I still miss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I found joy in playing scrabble, dominoes, watching a ballgame with my mate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved the freedom of spur of the moment meals, an evening walk or bike ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned to quiet the chatter of my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where initially there was agitation in that stillness, now there is peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So just as I got use to this new way of living life in its typically fantastical fashion, changes again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Advice to family and friends who are transitioning the kids out of the house, it’s really fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enjoy it while it last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it is likely they’ll be back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next up, home again home again giggity gig!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cant’ wait.</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-80874587588618570322010-08-02T16:49:00.000-07:002010-08-02T16:49:08.700-07:00A GASTRONIMICAL DELIGHT OR DISASTER!<div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Although it places a near second, the weather is not the universal language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The subject of food, food and more food is the language we all speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least that’s how it is for our family and friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Weeks before their arrival, we began discussing what I would be preparing for a 9 day visit from our Italian friends, who by the way, own a restaurant below the lovely ancient city of Sermonetta.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know how to cook and they certainly know how to eat, hence my anxiety.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Beginning in June, I started thinking about the menu.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew I didn’t want to serve pasta and compete with their native cuisine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I thought it would be better for them to taste the local flavors of California, vegetables, fruit, nuts, herbs, fish, cheese, great bread and wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are so lucky here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Around middle June I noticed our garden would have an abundance of zucchini, squash, basil, lettuce, arugula, parsley, too early for tomatoes, however, with our cool summer weather. The thinking of food progressed to perusing cookbooks, recipes and web sites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">An obsession was beginning to take root.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I am 52 years old worrying about feeding two 20 something visitors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little did I know that I did in fact have something to worry about. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">End of June, I carefully tended to the garden, watered, picked, plucked, cooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still wasn’t sure what I was going to prepare for them, however. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I experimented with what was available locally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>California cuisine (thank you Alice Waters) would be the deciding factor based upon what was in the market and garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was available would be what got prepared for breakfast, lunch and dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shopped the day before they arrived and had my plan in place for the most part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the day of their arrival, I was informed that one of the visitors had recently developed severe allergies to most fruits, some vegetables and all nuts!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her allergies were so severe that her mate was afraid to taste the foods in fear of kissing her may spur on an attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much to my dismay, the dried fruit and almonds purchased were placed in the back of the cabinet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did, however, bake the fresh peaches in wine for a dinner party in their honor and served them vanilla ice cream instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There were two near disasters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first was in Virginia City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Italians love the romance of the “old west”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here we were clopping along the wooden walkway when we came across an old-fashioned ice cream parlor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friend with allergies wanted a scoop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mate was adamantly against this idea because of the possibility of fruit and nuts contaminated on the scoop would be transmitted to the ice cream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I implored the worker to scrub the spoon with hot water in the event she decided to risk it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mildly annoyed the worker obliged.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">An argument ensued in Italian that only native speakers can understand, but one can only imagine the exchange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Allergy girl trumped her boyfriend and vigorously attacked the cone like it was her last meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boyfriend in broken English looked at me and said, “the problem is now hers.” We all watched, tense and ready with epi-pen in hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently the scoop was in fact cleaned properly. Disaster averted but not without drama. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The second episode was during a visit to a local coffee shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In search of an innocent muffin without the problematic ingredients we spotted what looked like a decadent chocolate brownie sans nuts, perfect with strong coffee. Five times I asked the barista if there were nuts in the brownies and five times she answered NO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I emphasized how horrible it would be if this young Italian ingested nuts while the customers waiting in the ever increasing growing line were watching with mildly amused expressions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Like my husband reported to a waiter during dessert on another night, we cannot have nuts, look at nuts or even think about nuts.</b> The waiter laughed and I’m sure thought it was we who were nuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was 99.9% sure after the 5 emphatic No’s that the brownie was ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brownie purchased, our friend began walking out of the café and carefully placed a very small portion in her mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The barista, in the meantime, was having second thoughts and pulled out the book with the ingredients of all the pastries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last ingredient, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">WALNUTS!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>STOP EATING!</b> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I cannot describe my horror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently my faced blanched, one could see my heart thumping in my chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Italian friend quickly ran into the bathroom ingesting large quantities of water, finger down throat to regurgitate what was the equivalent of perhaps 1/8<sup>th</sup> a teaspoon of brownie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all sat nervously waiting for a reaction, praying that there would be none.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So upset was I, I could not eat my own brownie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh Dio! It took me hours to recover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the end, much to my delight, our visitors were furiously writing down the recipes of their favorite meals during their visits, all of course without nuts, dried or fresh fruit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Translating some of the ingredients proved a bit difficult with me gesticulating, miming and using sound effects to describe goat cheese, Dijon mustard and Herbs de Provence for a French lentil salad that was a big hit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love cooking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the watching those I serve enjoying every morsel eyed, sniffed, swallowed and digested.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our friends have returned to Italy, delighted in every aspect of their visit, including the food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I miss them already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I nuts?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-54108305930538103452010-07-25T10:02:00.000-07:002010-07-25T10:02:51.862-07:00“Sunny, with a slight chance of T-Storms” By Gary<div style="background-color: transparent; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.9106234451755881" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few weeks ago, my wife and I were enjoying a warm weekend at Lake Tahoe. I opened the paper to the weather section and saw the forecast: sunny and warm, with a slight chance of T-storms. I chuckled out loud as I reread the forecast to her. “Sounds like your personality sometimes!” The girls and I have jokingly described her very rare outbursts as “T-Storms”, short for Teresa Storms. We both laughed, easy to do when it’s summertime and the livin is easy. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I had to describe a place with a climate that represented my day to day life with Teresa, I’d look for the warmest, most tropical place on earth--Hawaii or Fiji, perhaps, and still declare it not temperate enough.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m the first to admit: In the Super Pick Six Lottery of Marriage, I had all six numbers and the bonus. I have friends who remind me of this all the time. Just earlier this year, after a sensitive faculty meeting in which a particularly stylish Teresa made a couple of incredibly apt and to-the-point suggestions benefiting the entire staff, a young charismatic Social Studies teacher leaned over to me and said, “DAMN, Oefinger, you really married UP!” He was right.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With that said, every once in a long while, amidst all the obligations, expectations, caring, counseling and doing for others, even Teresa reaches a breaking point where she proves she’s human after all. If pushed just a bit more at this time, she morphs into a character that my daughters know I refer to as her “Cruella De Ville” mode, the villain from “101 Dalmatians”. In the movie, Cruella acts harshly and in a state of frenzy. There is fire in her eyes as she grabs her steering wheel and zooms off looking for vengeance. Around here, on the rare occasion when Cruella arrives, Teresa is uncharacteristically short in compassion and long in directives. It’s not a time to look for sympathy (she once told one of our daughters to ‘get off the pity-pot’ during the T-Storm of ‘09). Asking what’s for dinner is practically a capital offense . These are treacherous times that try men’s souls. These are “T-Storms”.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> A Cruella-infused T-Storm lacks all of the usual patience, kindness or logic of the normal climate. A T-Storm can’t be reasoned with, coerced or lessened in intensity. A T-Storm must simply be </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">endured; </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">after all, it was deserved</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> T-Storms come when the unbelievable expectation we assume in this incredible person are momentarily unattainable as the giving well runs temporarily dry. One should be able to see a T-Storm coming, but in our self absorbed focus we don’t. If not recognized early, our only recourse is to allow it to pass, to stay safe and out of harm’s way and to know that eventually the sun will return. An enlightened person will learn about their own short comings and perhaps, minimize the chance of a similar T-Storm returning in the future.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last Friday, after a day of golfing with my buddy while Teresa was home with a myriad of chores, I averted a T-Storm.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After golf and post-round libations, Teresa drove down and joined us at our friends for dinner and card playing. The night was quite enjoyable, as it always is with these very dear friends. By midnight, though, I was quite tired from a day that had been full of fun. My fatigue probably showed. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we were leaving, Teresa announced that she’d be driving home. I didn’t have a problem with that. In the car, she questioned my ‘sportsmanship’ during the card games. I explained that the long, full day may have contributed to my less-than-chipper demeanor near the end of the evening (not to mention the thrashing we absorbed at the hands of our competitive friends). I thought I heard the rumble of a distant cloud. Teresa then announced that we would be leaving the top down on the little miata. Hmmmm, quite chilly.... My request to put the top up was immediately vetoed....very unusual. I’m pretty sure I caught a glimpse of Cruella, nearby, in the shadows, and definitely noted the flash of lightening in the distance. It was only then that I realized the possibility of a storm. I hadn’t really given much thought to what my wife’s day may have been like. But lately they’ve been long on caring for her mom, commiserating and listening to others, short on the supposedly carefree days of summer. While I was out seeking pars and birdies, she had been doing laundry, baking a pie, gardening, preparing for our incoming Italian guests all while giving her sister some relief by entertaining her mom for the afternoon. She never complains, but I sensed an impending gully-washer. I quickly calculated the approximate time it would take to get home and inventoried the clothing I had with me. Suddenly it seemed like a right fine night for a convertible ride home. Resolutely, I sighed, put on my golf jacket, entwined my arms around my midsection for warmth, closed my eyes, and nestled in for the chilly ride home. Back at home, my reward was knowing that I had, at least this time, circumvented an impending storm....a T-storm. I hope I’m enlightened enough to learn from it.</span><br />
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</div>Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-35610432173293576392010-07-14T18:37:00.000-07:002010-07-14T18:37:40.456-07:00Easy Living Yellow!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Uh oh! Oops!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think I may have blown it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a huge deal, but kind of a lot of work for what might be a mistake not likely to be corrected for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the paint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the color, bright, cheerful, and fresh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But…. the room might just be a tad too bright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope our guest will be able to sleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we moved my youngest daughter into her apartment, the only furniture left in her bedroom was a pine cabinet and small end table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Italian guests visiting for 9 days this summer, and to inspire our daughter to come home from time to time, we bought a new bed, sheets, and bed cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m refinishing a very old, but cool end table that’s been sitting in my garage since my dad died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The walls were definitely in need of painting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took me a total of 3 minutes at the hardware store to choose the paint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The color “called” me to it. Paint sample on wall, I made sure my husband, who is actually quite good at decorating, liked it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giving me the thumbs up, we zeroed in on getting the job done one week before they are to arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Day 1. Being the good painters that we are, we first primed the god awful purple walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(We did let our kids pick out their own paint colors as they got older.) We carefully covered any floor space with old sheets and moved the new bed to the center of the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walls primed, the excitement to open the beautiful new color was palatable, but the primer needed to dry.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Day 2. What a team we were, music blasting, fan buzzing, husband meticulously feathered in the corners, and borders, careful not to get paint on ceiling and blue taped covered baseboards. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rolled, loving every sunny stroke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One wall down, pour more paint, two walls, pour more paint, the odd corner by the window, three and finally four walls complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stepping back and admiring our work, it looked lovely.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Perhaps it was the time of day, but later on as I walked by the room, I stopped in my tracts and actually had to squint from the blinding brightness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Into the room I went, examining the color and lighting from every angle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps if we strategically place the bed over there away from the window, the color will be subtler. On the bed I plopped, pretending to nap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No can do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too bright. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, when the window covering gets back on, maybe that will reduce the intensity?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what about the sky light? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tomorrow, Day 3, we will apply coat number two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No turning back now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ll make a point of checking it out at different times of the day and pray for the late afternoon and early morning cloud cover during their visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hay, their from Italy, they’re use to intense brightness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-53114503856786971792010-07-08T20:54:00.000-07:002010-07-08T20:54:42.489-07:00A 4 Day Visit From Two!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">My children.</div><div class="MsoNormal">They come home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">How much I love them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">How they drain me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As how it should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">How they energize me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always a miracle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">How I can still after all these years vividly see their sweet, cherubic faces in my minds forever imprinted memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I inhale these babies, even now, it’s hard to resist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">My hand reaches for the back of their necks, soft, holding up a head that needs me no longer to support it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I instinctively reach for them, in sleep, in wakefulness, in an insatiable need to nurture these young adult women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">They leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Back to a place without me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I bless them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Pray for them. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Know I am with them. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Always. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Be safe.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Go.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Come back.</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-62331157133178398102010-06-25T14:04:00.000-07:002010-06-25T14:04:19.473-07:00BROADWAY CRITICS!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I love ballroom dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twyla Tharp is amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Frank Sinatra is very cool too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, the three of them together?????????</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were not disappointed in our dinner at Carmines the night before we went to our last show. We should have listened to James though, our effeminate waiter with an attitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>James was rather aloof until we started talking with him about theater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had just seen MILLION DOLLAR QUARTET, enjoyed it and over a garlicky, pasta con vongole began planning what production we should see next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On a hunch, I thought James just might be the guy to give us the inside scoop and sure enough, we find out he never misses an On Broadway or Off for that matter, show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In between bites, our conversation was peppered with plays we loved, those we weren’t too impressed with and those we haven’t yet seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our next choice for our New York stay was to see COME FLY AWAY, but James emphatically suggested that we skip it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a flick of the wrist, he said, “don’t be bothered”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since we seemed to have similar taste, his advice was very much appreciated, until, he suggested we see AVENUE Q, the Muppet play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oops, all credibility instantly evaporated, even as he enthusiastically tried to pitch the artistry and humor of this show not unlike a Broadway critic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon leaving the restaurant, we decided to wait and see which productions would be available at the half price window.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My husband is not your average jock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He speaks Italian fluently, is well read, invests wisely, possesses an uncultivated musical aptitude and is an adept conversationalist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dance wise, he’s better than the average joe (translation, I don’t have to lead when we dance together).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also appreciates a good show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, when the half price tickets for COME FLY AWAY came available the next day at the ticket booth, we bought them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not 3 minutes into the show, my husband was wriggling like a first time, bridled colt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He kept looking at me with a pathetic frown, appalled that we just spent our money and last night in New York to watch what was essentially a ballroom dance production with not a word spoken from the cast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> What was Twyla thinking? </span>I had a sinking feeling this was not going to be enjoyed by all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Throughout the first “act” on and on he went, voice just a tad too loud, “this reeks, this is NOT what I paid for, or give me a break”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughter was amused by his antics not bothered in the least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Sinking lower and lower in my seat, </span>I was not amused, but put up with his venting, shushing him only when it seemed to disturb our seatmates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept reminding him every time he wanted to boo instead of clap that we were not at a ballgame.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At intermission, he stormed out with daughter in tow to see if they could “sneak” into the play across the street, THE ADAMS FAMILY.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again I reminded him we were not at a ballgame. I was secretly hoping he could get in though as I was embarrassed of his gesticulations, mutterings and cursings. He came back at the end of intermission.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ADAMS FAMILY SOLD OUT until September. Shoot!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That explains why it was not available at the half price window downtown.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Second “act” begins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The eternal optimist, I was hopeful for a stronger finish. By the end of the first number I had to acknowledge that my husband really did have a point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dancers were very skilled; the orchestra was fantastic, who doesn’t love Frank’s crooning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the choreography, it was like watching the same dance over and over and over again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For two hours!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very disappointing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the end, some people actually stood up to applaud, reminding us of the varied audience and what some people hate, others love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For us however, we should have listened to James.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next time, Muppets!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-30023999479925503232010-06-13T20:29:00.000-07:002010-06-13T20:29:51.054-07:00The Graduate!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I did not cry at my daughter’s college graduation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People told me I would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought that I would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just sat through 3 hours of pageantry anxiously awaiting a 5 second announcement of her name as she walked across the stage, shaking hands with dignitaries, a radiant smile across her face.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The pavilion was lovely with banners, beautiful plants strategically placed to conceal the risers leading to the stage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The symphonic band played a piece from Carmen as well as the traditional Pomp and Circumstance March while graduates filed in, all with black tassels, some with black and gold, the distinguished gold representing some outrageous cumulative GPA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All 1250 grads bounced in, lightness in their steps, tassels swaying side to side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I scanned the faces of the diverse audience, people from all backgrounds, all colors, all proud of their own children, with their own unique stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the 90 degree heat while waiting to enter the pavilion, my husband ever the competitor, would quietly whisper in my ear as grads in their gowns walked past, black, black, black, black and gold, black, black, black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bit of comedy, a relief as we anxiously awaited our entrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our daughter wore black and gold.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wish I weren’t so critical of speakers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to find some degree of inspiration in the welcome and keynote address.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, these are well-respected individuals, accomplished and worthy of being selected to speak to the masses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat there frustrated hoping that any of them might say something that we don’t already know. Honorable in their intentions, I kept searching for something, anything subtle that might inspire these graduates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather, the message in part, was bleak with global economic concerns peppered throughout.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Attention all family, friends and anyone who happens to interact with a recent college graduate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please do not mention how bad the economy is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These kids know this all too well. This does not motivate or inspire them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They should be basking in the glory of their accomplishments, hopeful for their futures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ready to put their knowledge to task, eager for financial independence and to make their way in a world that is ever changing. Not be reminded how difficult it will be. At least not on the day they graduate college.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the ceremony, she told us about the blue stole she wore over her gown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the stole of gratitude to be given to someone who has inspired and supported her throughout her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gave it to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our family celebration was memorable, good food, tasty drink, laughter, toasts to our daughter and her roommates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many a memory passed through my mind as the night wore on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt myself drift back at different stages of her life, of my life and of how I’ve loved every moment of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then came the letter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She handed us a hand written letter she wrote back in September 2009, on the first day of her last year of college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The contents are too intimate to share, but just imagine what you’d want a child you’ve raised to say to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My daughter has had a blessed life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she recognizes that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are partly responsible for that. But mostly, she is, with the options she’s considered, the choices she’s made and the lessons she’s learned. I am profoundly proud of her and not because of her accomplishments. I am proud of her curiosity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m proud of her kindness and compassion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In all that she does, there is evidence of excellence and grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am proud of the young woman she has become.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The stole drapes our mirror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The letter sits on the dresser to be read and reread over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I looked at it before I shut my eyes after a very long day, on the day that I did not shed a tear, that’s when I cried. I cried my own river, tears of love and gratitude.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On our refrigerator is a well worn poem from The Prophet by Khalil Gibran.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have it’s essence memorized. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>with His might that His arrow goes swift and far.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness:<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For even as He loves the arrow that flies so He loves also the bow that is <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stable.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-69012403724587816912010-06-09T06:16:00.000-07:002010-06-09T06:16:21.168-07:00Putting Digits In Places They Shouldn't Be!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Had a student today who got his finger stuck inside a test tube.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was really quite stuck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew something was up when I saw about 12 different shoulders around the room shaking as they heroically tried to conceal their laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This young man’s finger continued to get whiter and whiter right before my eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Remaining calm, I tried to dislodge the tube.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suggested he carefully rotate it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wouldn’t budge. He tried soap and cold water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still stuck. Meanwhile chaos is breaking out in my class, as my lesson becomes completely derailed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, I sent this wily young man to the office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our secretaries are miracle workers raising six kids between the two of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With them in charge, I was completely confident all would be ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Forgetting about the lesson du jour, I masterfully got the students back in some degree of order by sharing my own story of getting my knee stuck between the rails of a balcony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Same kind of curiosity, I remembered wondering at the time how far I could thrust my knee between the rails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inch by inch, I kept pushing and before I knew it, my knee was stuck and swelling right before my eyes and in front of lots of strangers at a popular Las Vegas hotel! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Many of the students listening to my story of humiliation shot up their hands eager to tell their own stories of heads, arms, fingers stuck in places they shouldn’t be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The laughter was refreshing while we waited for finger tube boy to return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We returned to the science lesson on "total internal reflection" careful now to use the equipment properly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shortly after he left, the young man reemerges grinning ear to ear, test tube in tack and finger returning to a lovely shade of pink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I just couldn’t get mad at this kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s only twelve after all. I too got my knee unstuck, but not without a tremendous amount of embarrassment. The excuse for me however, was not youth but sheer stupidity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was after all 51 years old when this happened. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-50913946679031565832010-05-28T21:54:00.000-07:002010-05-28T21:54:24.343-07:00Move In Day!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Last weekend we moved our daughter into an apartment in her college town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s 19!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have this sinking feeling that she will never live at home again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I was at that age, she is fiercely independent. This makes me happy for her, sad for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I took such care into setting up her new bedroom. I lovingly made up her bed with clean sheets, a new comforter, bed positioned against a wall in a room that some stranger had occupied just days before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I resisted the urge to crawl in with her beside me, stroking her hair as I did when she was little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept these thoughts to myself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her dad hung shelves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tended to the cable hook up for the TV as Giant games are a must for her. He was quiet with an occasional reference to the Giant’s hitting slump and possible preferred line-ups that might remedy the problem. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He kept his thoughts private busying himself with what dads do. We were not novices at this, having gone through it with our older daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet it didn’t make it any easier.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t want to leave, but couldn’t stay. We left her with her older sister helping her plan her first dinner at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was comforting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re very different, personalities worlds apart, yet close as only sisters can be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a town away, they will enjoy spending time together as summer approaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am so very grateful for their relationship.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Daughter #1 cooked for daughter #2 that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They continued to unpack, visited and laughed a lot, probably at our parental faux pas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She survived her first year without us, not without drama, many ups and many downs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The learning continues for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it continues for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the last 10 months, we’ve adjusted to the rhythms of a home without children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got reacquainted with free time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We became pleasantly accustomed to a clean house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, oh do I miss my girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Year one as empty nesters is coming to a rapid close as I write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giants game in the background, I hear my husband talking on the phone about Matt Cain’s one hit game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s talking to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-12119541101862091732010-05-19T16:37:00.000-07:002010-05-19T16:38:45.790-07:00Suzie Smart, Timmy and Willie!I wasn’t the kind of young girl who played with dolls. One would find me more likely playing with worms. I was never impressed with the collections my friends had, and I once traumatized my poor sister when I beheaded her Barbie. The only doll I remember from my childhood wore a plaid school uniform, glasses and had a string on the back of her neck so when pulled she could say something smart. Weird!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So imagine my utter surprise when my 52 year old husband informs me we have to leave the house FOUR hours early to go to the Giants game! Why? To stand in line for a Bobble head doll. He claims he’s saving them for our grandchildren. Grandchildren! Our daughter’s don’t even have boyfriends at this time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first time I agreed, I not so tactfully bailed out when the line stretched to parts of San Francisco I had never seen before. See ya. Into the stadium I went, book in hand, butt in seat while I happily waited for the game to begin, sensa doll.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That same game by some fluke in the ticket line, my husband got redirected and ended up with the much-coveted Tim Lincecum doll. As he joined me in our seats, I made him hide it as I just couldn’t bear the look on all the little guys faces who didn’t get one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This last Sunday, it was Willie Mays Bobble head day commemorating his famous back to the plate, over the head 54 World Series "catch"! My husband bribed me with breakfast out, a massage and any other “favor” he could think of. Because he’s a nice guy and does a lot for our family, I agreed. But for the life of me can’t understand the appeal of these dolls.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The morning went something like this:</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Leave house at 9am</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Drop me off to get in line by 10 am</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Stand in line.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Do New York Times crossword puzzle (easy version)</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Shiver, blow on hands</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Give dirty look to the bald guy who tries to cut in front of us</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Glare at husband to not confront big bad bald guy</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Shiver, and blow on hands</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Begin walking to gate with other fans 11am (sweet relief)</div><div class="MsoNormal"> 11:15 not one doll but two in hand</div><div class="MsoNormal"> 11:16 hide dolls in bag </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Avoided all eye contact with children who didn’t get coveted doll</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The rest of the day was lovely. Breakfast followed by quite an exciting game. Gave away extra doll on way home to a good friend who also likes bobbles. That was nice. We certainly don’t need two.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That night while reading in bed, I glanced over and who do I see perched on the cabinet staring at me, head moving like it has tremors from Parkinson’s disease, Willie! Creepy, but the image made me laugh. Still don’t get it though.</div>Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-45444331982466144672010-05-11T18:32:00.000-07:002010-05-11T18:32:59.057-07:00Mercury In Retrograde!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can laugh at it now.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mercury and I are not on good terms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, this planet has been in “retrograde” for the last month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, when it’s in “retrograde”, it appears to move backwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it appears to move backward, all hell breaks loose here on earth. I didn’t know that, but I’ll take any explanation for the spate of challenges these last few weeks, even if it means compromising my scientific reasoning.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The list of annoyances went something like this: daughter 1 drama, daughter 2 drama, husband drama, mother drama, drama, drama, drama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that means teacher, mother, wife, woman (me) running out of steam to “fix” anything and everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More drama. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was really very pathetic as I tried to negotiate my way through the maze of issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled out all of my self-help stops, visualizing, praying, laughing at the absurdity of it all coming at once and then trying to convince myself that lessons were to be learned and personal growth was right around the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still waiting on that front.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s when out of the blue, I heard about this lovely hot planet wreaking havoc on our wholesome water planet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Oh, that explains it! This little tidbit of information came to me from an unlikely source whose identity I will not divulge. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The good news, starting today, Mercury is back on its orbital path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m on my way to a problem free couple of months. Finally!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-87062948173283402682010-05-03T20:57:00.000-07:002010-05-03T20:57:12.740-07:00Home For Dinner!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Be home in time for dinner!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what parents of the boomers said on warm summer days, prior to the 1970’s. And that’s what many of us did. We’d leave early and emerge late at age 11, 12, 13!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What parent in their right minds would say at 10 am, “be home for dinner at 6 pm”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many. There was less worry about safety then, or perhaps ignorance about it. We rode bikes without helmets. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d play in abandoned barns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or play pick-up games in the street, making up the rules of the game whenever we could stage an advantage, ignoring bloody knees and grass stained jeans.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As an awkward 13 year-old teenager, the freedom was intoxicating.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dee-Dee, Linda, and Michelle, were all friends with horses who generously shared their steeds with me. I would ride side by side with them through the apple orchards, along the long country roads, in the middle of the railroad tracks, clip clopping along, fantasizing that it was my horse I was riding, wishing that the day would not end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And we took incredibly stupid risks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one still makes me cringe.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Horse galloping at full speed across the corral at Linda’s was a thrill I remember vividly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hanging on for dear life, completely out of control, there was a fleeting moment when I thought about how this may not have been a good idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t stop the enormous beast. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not a skilled rider. There was no choice but to surrender to the horse, the goal being not to fall off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll never know what possessed this animal to finally stop running at full speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could it sense my paralysis?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did the impending fence do the trick?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hung on and lived to tell my mom years later.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were all reckless, risk takers, oblivious to the potential irreparable damage from our careless decisions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the grace of some higher power, there were no serious accidents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we all reminisce about the freedom, how lovely it was. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We laugh at our idiocy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">None of my peers grew up to be parents who trusted their kids with complete abandon, including me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were all in varying degrees protective, demanding to know where our kids were at all times when they were 11, 12 and 13.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We made them wear helmets, play within the boundaries, check in with us constantly, even before the days of cell phones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that is how it should be. I wonder, however, if we deprived our kids of the same kind of freedoms that we enjoyed during our youth just to keep them safe?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My guess, that particular deprivation left no lasting deleterious effects.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> Now that my girls are 19 and 22, would I parent differently? Would I extend the boundaries beyond my neighborhood for my kids in retrospect?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I can live with my decisions, just as my parents are living with theirs.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even though times dictated that we kept a closer eye on our children, my kids have their own stories to tell, their own secrets to confess to me when the time is right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adventures and childhood fantasies to which I am not yet privy will one day emerge and take me by surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-14995022814653620042010-04-24T09:19:00.000-07:002010-04-24T09:19:27.476-07:00CHAINS!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I felt wrapped in a blanket of fatigue this week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite my efforts just couldn’t shake it off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I am at an age where things are a changin, I’m usually pretty stable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this week, it was ugly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went into quiet mode, don’t talk to me mode, I hid to protect my love ones and other human encounters from the gloom.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The bike revived me last night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally! I took off by myself out the country road, just about 2 blocks from my house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About 1 minute down the road, the chains came off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must have looked silly, helmet askew, bent over grimacing to get the darned things back on. Got it done and off I continued through the hills of Sonoma County, breathing periodically labored at each new steep grade.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">About 10 minutes into my ride, chains came off again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back off the bike, I proceeded with the now familiar tug of war, my oil stained hands evidence of the struggle to get the chains back on the spikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I pedaled on. The hills challenged, but the beauty of the fresh green grasses, inspired me to keep going, to complete the loop from start to finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Passing several dairies along the way, I ignored the stench of manure from the cows. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Further along there was a spot in the road where my dad many years ago was sure there was a dead body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We actually believed him and went on a hunt to find it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our search fortunately encountered an unidentifiable decomposing animal, a squirrel perhaps?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Five miles into the ride, I passed the stable where my daughter took riding lessons when she was in her “American Girl” phase. It made my heart ache with a longing to be that young mother watching her innocently posting, riding high on the huge animal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remembered the joy and trust in her seven- year old face as she rode the horse around and around the covered stable, never tiring of the repetitiveness. I remember trying to hide the anxiety in mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a sweet memory. I biked on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The route we take every day to work, the blackberry patch we raid every year to make jam, the hills we hike to enjoy the spring wild flowers softly passed in and out of focus with every revolution of the wheel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The cool air, the setting sun, the almost painful beauty of the countryside began slowly to replace my blanket of fatigue with some kind of unidentifiable peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A kind of lightness that my spirit was craving, a blessed relief, until the chains came off a 3<sup>rd</sup> time! The metaphor of the chains did not escape me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The laughter ensued and rang for only my ears to hear.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I try to be happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have every reason to be happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And most of the time, I’m incredibly happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last night, I found that hour of relief that lifted the veil of gloom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-80298834256916722382010-04-14T08:35:00.000-07:002010-04-14T08:35:45.465-07:00Shortcuts!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">My husband absolutely, visibly, without a doubt cringed today when I suggested we clean the snow off the car with a dustpan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also could not hide his disgust when I used a knife to open the tough plastic on a container. It also bugs him when I turn the ladder the “wrong” way to climb onto the rafters in the garage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like the way the ladder closes this way and could instruct the manufacturer on what, in my opinion is a better design.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it annoys him that I want to get into the rafters in the first place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He sees these actions as careless mishaps, blunders, or taking “short-cuts”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see them as resourceful, making due with what’s available, or not wasting steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why go for a pair of scissors in the bedroom when there is a knife in the kitchen, even if it does come a little close to my nose on the upswing? Perhaps that’s the difference between males and females.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That extra X chromosome women have carries more genes on it than that wimpy Y, thus giving females an advantage on things that the guys think they have the upper hand in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His motto, “anything worth doing is worth doing well” My motto, “get the dang thing done”.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love my husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if the truth were known, sometimes I do take those “short-cuts” just to amuse myself with his reaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can be very immature, that’s for sure. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, today, as he was hanging some new draperies, I couldn’t resist instructing him on how to use his eye to hang the draperies straight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who needs a level when the eye sees the truth?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three hours and many a patched hole later, the drapes look fantastic! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-64097765464873763192010-04-10T17:15:00.000-07:002010-04-10T17:16:26.552-07:00Worm Food: Liver For Planaria! By Gary<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The early morning empty nester routine at our house has evolved into a graceful dance in which each partner knows the moves and timing of the other. What was once a chaotic, unstructured series of events that included coffee brewing, showering, dog feeding and lunch making has settled into a comfortable pattern with all expectations fully known. I pre-program the coffee the night before and deal with the morning 'open'. This includes feeding the dog, getting the paper and making lunches. I also produce Teresa's perfect cup of coffee (<i>three</i> sugars, heated in micro for an extra 16 seconds). She waits for this in bed before tackling the day and hopping in the shower. My payoff for this is 15 minutes of quiet time with CNBC, two newspapers and an adoring Fox Terrier gazing at me less than 24 inches from my face. It's a good trade, though.</span></div><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">By the time I'm done with lunches, (of which I shamelessly ask for reviews every day on the ride home) the bed is made, the shower is completely free, the sink area all mine, and the fear of fighting for space, hairdryers or something similar, completely removed. Teresa moves on to tidying up the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, doing some laundry or some other task outside my area of expertise.</span></div><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This waltz continues for days, if not weeks, without a hitch, until unexpectedly, and shockingly, I will walk out of the shower to find Cruella De Ville waiting on the other side of the door shouting something like, "HURRY UP, WE HAVE TO GET LIVER FOR THE PLANARIA!!!" This is normally voiced with obvious displeasure and frustration, and incredulously to me, a tone of accusation. Apparently I should have realized this or at least anticipated the possibility that our morning routine was going to be disrupted a microscopic creature's thirst for organ meat.</span></div><br />
The ensuing scene at the grocery story would be pretty humorous if it didn't involve me. It normally finds Teresa race-walking up and down the meat and fish counter in search of the liver 'department'. Invariably, liver is never prominently displayed. I am normally 2 or 3 paces behind, and still 'in trouble'. On a recent search she employed the services of a willing shelf stocker whose accent indicated English was not his first language. I cringed as she took the time to explain what she wanted, and incredulously, WHY. Apparently, 'planaria' is not a common word in the Spanish language, and as Teresa started to gesticulate on how minute these worms are (and how small a portion was really needed--perhaps the size of a dime) I could see that somehow, the time take was going to be added on to my morning transgressions. Eventually she was presented with a three piece, cross sectional one pound frozen package of Safeway's finest. I was going to ask if perhaps the planaria would like some onions frizzled up with that, but thought better of it.<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">After hustling through checkout, we made it to school with minutes to spare. The planaria would have their liver, would regenerate again and again after being sliced and diced (as they do) and our routine would return to normal tomorrow. The morning dance would again be graceful, until the next call for elodea, perch (incidentally, there is a direct correlation between the stench a fish emits and it's usefulness in middle school dissections) or my all time favorite, an entire cow eyeball. At least these specimens all require an advance order....and I'll be fine if I can just keep track of what Science unit the 7th graders are studying.</div></span>Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-69850856181841843822010-04-04T21:03:00.000-07:002010-04-04T21:03:44.405-07:00Lent's Over!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Lent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not my favorite time of year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The weather is dreary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The branches are bare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, darned if I hate giving up stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t mind prayer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I find it soothing and meditative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alms Giving is fine too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Making a conscious effort to do for others is something that should be emphasized beyond the 40 days in the desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m all for that. But I just can’t seem to take the fasting seriously.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Year after year I trick myself into thinking that what I give up is difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last year for example, it was candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Candy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not at all obsessed with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The year before that I gave up desserts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also not hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There have been years that I would sacrifice breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please, I never eat breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So this year I thought long and hard about my “sacrifice”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then it came to me like manna from heaven.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Every day between 4 and 5 pm I’m ravenous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I raid the cabinets for anything to satisfy the pleasure centers in my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The part that releases those oh so satisfying chemicals that tell me I’m content.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I noticed a pattern that had to be addressed. Chips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Salty, deep-fried not baked good old-fashioned chips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what I decided to give up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Boy has it been a long, wet, cold winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I plunged into the challenge with such high expectations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I strategized on my shopping list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I avoided treat day at work. I hoped for divine intervention or some kind of sign that God was watching over me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here’s what happened.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I did great with prayer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daily and nightly I prayed for healing, said prayers of thanks, prayers of petition and intervention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite frequently I prayed for guidance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I got it. I was good to go with prayer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alms giving came easy to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m pretty much tapped out with the financial output to various charities and fund-raisers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, I try to spend as much time as possible doing for others.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fasting on the other hand continued to be difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several times I tricked myself into thinking that those “baked crackers” didn’t count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hit the nuts like they were going out of style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I began adding salt to everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No divine intervention here. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I failed, faltered, and berated myself for my lack of self-control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it that hard?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it that bad to not really buy into it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do I have to be so hard on myself?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does it really matter? Just couldn’t succeed on any level with fasting.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So today I celebrated Easter with wonderful friends and a loving family and I let it go. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll think about it again next year.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-24362597144947767622010-03-12T08:04:00.000-08:002010-03-12T08:05:08.094-08:00Remembering SyPay Attention. One never knows how a seemingly common event can leave a lasting impression.<br />
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I was 26 years old when I began working at Del Mar. Sy was nearing the end of his teaching career while I was in the early stages of mine. As the youngest staff member, I was lucky to be surrounded by seasoned veterans who to this day have no idea how they helped influence my career, and Sy was one of them.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is not a recipe for outstanding teachers, but if there were, it would be bottled and sold under the Sy Feldman brand. This was a teacher who had it all; patience, kindness, talent, creativity, intelligence and an uncanny ability to make science meaningful and real. Sy challenged his students to think. And he challenged me to think as well.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While observing Sy teach one day, a young man shot up his hand eager to ask a question during a lesson on mass. “How much does the earth weigh?” Quite an impressive concept for a 12 year old I remembered thinking at the time. Without missing a beat, Sy responds, "the mass of the earth is 6 sextillion, 588 quintillion tons.<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"> </span>And it’s getting heavier he added." He then proceeded to engage the kids on why they thought the earth was getting heavier. The dialogue was intriguing as he continued to pepper his students with questions. At 26, I was becoming more and more keenly aware of what I didn’t know. Like a 12 year old, I leaned forward in the desk, mouth agape, curious to know the answer. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After class, I walked over to Sy and mentioned how impressed I was with his knowledge and the way he engaged the students. He blushed, thanked me ever so humbly as he prepared himself for the next group of students to enter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">26 years later, I still remember vividly that one lesson of that one day. I remember him writing the number 6 sextillion on the board, trying to squeeze in all the zeros in such a small space. I remember how effortless it was for him to impart his knowledge. I remember the excitement in his voice as he talked with the kids. I remember his sense of awe. He inspired me to be a better teacher. Sy passed away this week. I’m so very grateful I got to witness a master at work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The answer by the way is meteorites!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-39955608284508674272010-02-28T20:28:00.000-08:002010-02-28T20:28:00.043-08:00The Moon!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">“What is that up in the sky?” asked my mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was driving her home from an evening visit that we’ve come to enjoy on Fridays. I looked through the window silently acknowledging the tightness in my chest as I answered as casually as possible, “that’s the moon.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> These kind of questions are becoming more and more frequent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wasn’t clear if she forgot the word for moon or forgot what the moon is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would I ask that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom, do remember what the moon is? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom, did you forget the word for the moon?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or perhaps more discretely, what do you think about the stages of the moon?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any of these inquiries sound so condescending to ask a 71-year-old woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I just couldn't ask. </span>I simply said, isn’t it beautiful tonight in all of its full, luminous glory?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gazed and shook her head up and down all the while not taking her eyes off of it, a silent yes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I then unbuckled her seatbelt waited and watched as she walked to the elevator, emerged onto the third floor balcony and let herself into her apartment, relieved as she crossed the threshold into her cozy sanctuary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I drove away thinking.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The moon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The forgetfulness of this beautiful, orbiting rock has taken the memory issue to an entire new level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its significance in our history is grand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were the first generation to watch rockets orbit it, men walk on it, people dream of what’s on the other side of it and then to find out. The moon is memorable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My mom watched these historical events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember her sense of awe and wonder while she gathered us around the TV to take vicarious part in the experience. She read us stories about the moon and how it lit the path for Hansel and Gretle to find their way back home only to be lost in the woods as the birds ate the crumbs that marked the path. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved the stories she read to us. My mom’s story telling voice, rich with inflection mesmerized me. And that’s what upsets me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is unable to retrieve the words for these significant memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Will she one day ask,"who are you"?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It took me about 3 minutes to drive home as these thoughts were racing through my mind, praying that it was the word moon and not the concept that was forgotten. And then, I thought about her reaction when she saw it hanging low in the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She found the words to ask me about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was a good thing. She was curious enough to inquire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m happy about that. And she was again awed by it like it was the first time she had witnessed something so outrageously beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, two nights ago, I saw the moon in a different light. I saw it from the eyes of innocence, from the eyes of experiences long forgotten and from the eyes of someone who continues to acknowledge beauty in everything.</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-83370359734463146712010-02-21T18:55:00.000-08:002010-02-21T18:55:21.057-08:0052 going on 13!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I had the opportunity to chaperone a trip with 33 thirteen year olds to Washington DC and New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My non-teacher friends thought I was nuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My teacher friends wished me well with a wink and a nod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My family blessed me and asked if my Living Trust was finalized!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the first day with a 3:50 AM departure I had my doubts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We met the kids and took a bus to the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We weren’t out of town 2 minutes before the first teen reached in his pants for a handful of candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gross. You’d think the early morning flight would find kids tired, not so, they were bouncing off the narrow walls of the plane, talking, laughing, and being silly as only 13 year olds can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the bus from the airport to the sights of the first Memorials of the trip, I couldn’t conceal my annoyance at the kids who were singing 99 bottles of beer on the wall while others were burping to the beat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the Memorials, the kids were more interested in playing in the snow than paying tribute to the men and women who have served our country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mantra was “they’re only 13, they’re only 13, they’re only 13”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My challenge: Keep my own mercurial hormones in check and not go head to ever-pounding head with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mantra helped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Day 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 were better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, sometimes I was downright impressed with their insights.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I enjoyed the trip immensely and felt privileged to receive such individual attention from our tour guide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every “attraction” from the Capitol to the Holocaust Museum to the Broadway production will never be forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite my duties of herding teens from place to place, I learned a lot, which was my original intent for going in the first place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But the learning for me that I did not expect came from being around the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an exercise in patience that hadn’t been tested to that extent, ever. I tried to remember the angst at wondering what others thought of me when I was a gangly, not too pretty 13 year old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I forced the memories of this age to come flooding back to me. It was uncomfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was I kind to others, including the “have-nots” of the world?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I was. Was I thoughtful?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Probably to adults, but not to my mom and stepfather. Was I interested in anything other than my own social status?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good God, no.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I vaguely remember the trip to our own State Capitol in 1971.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t recall much of the details about the trip, just that I wanted to sit on the bus by the cutest 8<sup>th</sup> grade boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So shallow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s not easy being 13.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not easy being around 13 year olds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it is certainly not easy to admit our own narcissistic behaviors past or present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I discovered, through this trip that I had my own memories to attend to and my own self-absorbed sins to atone for. Perhaps it’s karma that I find myself working with this age group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can live with that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Glad I’m no longer 13 though. Pass the aspirin.</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-90369152268248134362010-01-31T10:21:00.000-08:002010-01-31T10:21:11.715-08:00IS ANYBODY LISTENING?<div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>I have been dreading listening to this recording for over a month and finally did today. In December I was asked to participate in a radio interview on a rather sensitive subject, sex education in the schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, sex education, a controversially charged topic that can bring out the conservative side of even the most card-carrying, born and raised bleeding-heart liberal. Before agreeing, I made sure I had the support of my administrators.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much to my dismay, they gave it, freely and with their blessings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much for that excuse.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At first I was excited by the challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I am a long time listener and fan of talk radio, never have I been compelled to call in on a show to engage in a conversation broadcast for thousands of people to hear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thought paralyzed me with fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I sound stupid?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I don’t know what I’m talking about? Which is possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if, what if, what if?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I realize there is an entire culture out there of folks who listen to talk radio and call in regularly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I have been very critical of some of these caller, and guest experts for that matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been known to criticize, scold, boo, yell, curse idiot callers, even if I’m the only one present in the car while listening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am the person who I would not want to hear me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I prepared well for the call, reviewing the science standards and State health standards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about how over the years I’ve developed lessons that would both educate and interest teens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always consider the parents and put myself in their shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What truths do I want my 12 and 13 year olds to hear? The truth, this is the one topic that gets 100% of the attention of 100% of the students 100% of the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t get more relevant than testicles and breasts.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was an expert on the call as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wonderful Sociologist Professor from a nearby University who has conducted studies and written a book on the topic of sex education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was smart, articulate and after all, a published author.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thing is, not sure if she’s actually ever worked with teens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I don’t know if she has kids of her own. She was gentle with me, however and supported what I had to share.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The host was also very comforting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A professional, well educated woman with a private practice and a radio show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With teens of her own she’s living the ups of downs of parenting. Her voice was rich and she exuded intelligence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I give her high marks for asking some very pointed, direct questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nary a subject within the subject did she skirt. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then there was me, hence, the waiting over a month to listen to the show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the call, which was recorded for a later broadcast, I was sure it did not go well, even after the host emailed me telling me otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boy, did my self-doubts get the best of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So today, a month later, was the day I listened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cringed with my frequent use of “ums” towards the beginning of the show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, to do over!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I answered the questions as honestly as I could, which pleased me. I even cracked a joke during the process. Quite spontaneous! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I would be disappointed by my faux pas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I do not have multiple letters in my professional title, I know what I’m talking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, overall challenging as it was, I felt satisfied that I had stepped out of my proverbial comfort zone and tried something new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was anyone listening?</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-81000401731540743902010-01-23T14:30:00.000-08:002010-01-23T14:30:04.519-08:00Colliding Worlds! Gary<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Don't do it, you're not going to like the answer" said my wiser, more patient Better Half. I didn't see the harm in asking, and although I was privately hoping for a different result, I knew she was probably right. I promised her I wouldn't take it personally.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I was contemplating 'friend requesting' my younger, iconoclastic daughter on my new "Facebook" account. New to this online world of sharing thoughts, salutations, congratulations, and in some cases, almost "play by play" accounts of one's daily life, I had to admit I was, surprisingly, enjoying it. Any communication from our older daughter at school is always a ray of sunshine, even if her most recent addition had been informing me that my attempt to add to someone's page was off the mark and on my own page. I also had to admit it was fun to see something that a friend had written on my 'wall', especially all the Italian friends I hadn't seen in years. (Apparently Facebook is very popular in the Old Country. I laughed at the irony of an amico's malaprop welcoming me to "faceboob".)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So with the miniscule number of just 34 friends in my stable, I cautiously sent out the request to daughter number two to become my facebook 'friend' and allow mutual windows into our semi-private worlds. I waited....and waited...</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">A day later, I received a text sandwiched around friendly and innocuous mini-conversations about what time the NFL playoffs were on. Out of nowhere came a short reply that read...."By the way Dad, I will not be accepting your friendship on facebook. Like in the old Seinfeld episode, some worlds are not meant to collide. Hope you'll understand". </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So my wife was right....like she almost always is, although I really didn't mind the answer. While I may have enjoyed the privilege of my own window into my 18 year old's world, perhaps it's not one that she chooses to share, or one that I should be a part of. I can live with that. I've finally begun understanding more about family solar systems and the necessity, in some cases of space and time. Some planets have orbits that stay very consistently close to the sun while others venture out and seem far away, only to return back, over time if you're patient. It's the order of things, unless something big gets in the way and collides.</div><div><br />
</div></span>Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-27405680443524127072010-01-16T08:56:00.000-08:002010-01-16T08:56:13.484-08:00Hot and Cold!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I am my own compact and complete cooling and heating system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It works better than the antiquated thermostat in our house. My body has this amazing ability to heat up and cool down randomly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it is a skill that only came on recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the middle of the night it hits, temperature escalates to well over 98.6 degrees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Toasty warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the temp continues to rise, blankets get tangled up in a twisted mess below my lower legs. Pajama bottoms come off. Husband and dog sleeps peacefully near by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Miraculously, as beads of sweat collect on my exposed skin, air conditioning begins to cool this temple of mine, just a little too well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I begin to shiver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where did I throw those pajama bottoms?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind, untangle blankets and cover up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Husband and dog sleep peacefully near by.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Heat up, sweat, cool down, repeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s the cycle until the break of dawn when the alarm annoyingly threatens to go off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I now understand what my comrades have been whining about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Teresa and Garyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16675630183833566777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7557294728557744705.post-83885292090279093842010-01-10T09:56:00.000-08:002010-01-10T09:56:22.013-08:00COFFEE KARMA!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Who says 18 year olds are callow, shallow, self-absorbed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On her way to work a few days ago, our daughter pulled in line at a Starbucks drive-thru for a cup of coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much to her surprise and delight the barista handed the steaming “cup o Joe“ and proclaimed, “no charge”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently the car in front of her paid for her treat!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Touched with the sweet gesture she glanced in the mirror at the car behind her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yep, kindness paid backwards, that’s exactly what she did, treated for the coffee of the person next in line without them knowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">With a warmth that penetrated deep within her, it wasn’t the coffee that produced that sensation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I imagine the smile on the baristas face on that chilly morning and wonder how far the chain of kindness continued.<br />
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