In the course of any given month, I play several different roles. I've been pondering this quite a bit today, as I realized that various titles append to my electronic correspondence. Perhaps the most obvious is "Mommy to Calyssa", which, not coincidentally, is my Twitter ID. But there's also "the Encore accounts person", "the choir librarian", "the Bible study snack coordinator", "the Daisy Scouts registrar", even "the Westwood PFC Box Tops coordinator". Half a dozen 8- and 9-year old girls know me as their "AWANA leader". Earlier today I enthusiastically accepted another; the precise title is to be determined, but it's coming.
But, as I was carrying on a text conversation with a new-ish friend today, he referred to me as a writer. I don't feel comfortable calling myself a writer. I can use any of the above titles freely because I can prove their suitability. But since writing is as yet strictly an avocation, in the words of the Smiths, "you just haven't earned it yet, baby".
Not to minimize the others in any way, but the only one that really matters (okay, besides "Mommy", which I wear proudly), that goes soul-deep, is "writer". Why is it that I feel so unworthy of a title I covet as much as this one? Must I have demonstrable evidence that I am justified in calling myself a "writer", and, if so, what would qualify as that evidence? A rejection letter, or better yet, a sale? Holding the first copy of my (book, magazine, tract, fill-in-the-blank) in my hands? I don't have any answers, but I'm going to change my profile here, right this minute, so that "writer" appears first, and I guess we'll see if I'll survive or if something shall smite me in my sleep...
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sunday, December 26, 2010
S.A.D., much?
The thing about January is, it's such an anticlimax. Seriously, way to kick off a newly minted year with a gigantic letdown. The past five weeks or so have been such an amazing whirl of gaiety, I could hardly catch my breath, let alone cadge a decent night's sleep. Now? Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nothing but merciless January, leaving me pondering my shortcomings, moping over what I did NOT accomplish in the year just completed. Did I lose the weight? A few pounds, perhaps, but not nearly enough to make a dent. Did I travel? Sure: all the way to Orange County. Did I write? Lamentably little.
January is what I imagine the next day feels like to a runner who has just completed their first marathon. Wow, I just did what I set out to do, and, I even have the t-shirt to prove it. Now what? Keep in shape for the next one? I already know I can do it, but I'll never really be a contender, so what's the point?
Don't get me wrong; I'm not normally a dismal person. "A Cockeyed Optimist" could've been written about me. But, faced with sodden January, I'd just as soon roll over and play dead. Winter has only just begun; spring, my favorite time of year, seems an age away. I'm grateful to whomever it was that introduced the mid-80s legislation that made MLK Day a national holiday; I think of it rather as a recovering heroin addict might look at a dose of methadone: an oasis in the desert of misery, whose sole purpose is to boost you from one place to the next.
January is so blah, even the Super Bowl abandoned it, in favor of the blessedly truncated February. (By the way, I'm convinced that February is so short because Pope Gregory knew that we'd all turn suicidal if we had to endure it for even one day more.) By the end of February, I've thrown my traditional Oscar-watching party. Spring seems mere moments from announcing its arrival. Why can't the New Year begin in March? Doesn't it seem more apropos to begin a New Year with the promise of renewed life that spring delivers, rather than the dreariness that is January?
So as this week, this month, this year draws to it close, I shall be dreading the miasma about to envelop me. See it? There it is, skulking in the background...
January is what I imagine the next day feels like to a runner who has just completed their first marathon. Wow, I just did what I set out to do, and, I even have the t-shirt to prove it. Now what? Keep in shape for the next one? I already know I can do it, but I'll never really be a contender, so what's the point?
Don't get me wrong; I'm not normally a dismal person. "A Cockeyed Optimist" could've been written about me. But, faced with sodden January, I'd just as soon roll over and play dead. Winter has only just begun; spring, my favorite time of year, seems an age away. I'm grateful to whomever it was that introduced the mid-80s legislation that made MLK Day a national holiday; I think of it rather as a recovering heroin addict might look at a dose of methadone: an oasis in the desert of misery, whose sole purpose is to boost you from one place to the next.
January is so blah, even the Super Bowl abandoned it, in favor of the blessedly truncated February. (By the way, I'm convinced that February is so short because Pope Gregory knew that we'd all turn suicidal if we had to endure it for even one day more.) By the end of February, I've thrown my traditional Oscar-watching party. Spring seems mere moments from announcing its arrival. Why can't the New Year begin in March? Doesn't it seem more apropos to begin a New Year with the promise of renewed life that spring delivers, rather than the dreariness that is January?
So as this week, this month, this year draws to it close, I shall be dreading the miasma about to envelop me. See it? There it is, skulking in the background...
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Uniquely Me (Clean Version)
In each of us are myriad experiences, facts, opinions, issues, and countless other aspects that make us unique. We are thus an amalgam. Here, in no particular order (a stream of consciousness, perhaps), are several things that make me different from you:
I detest Brussels sprouts, but I love asparagus, spinach, and broccoli.
I can't imagine how this could ever happen, but, should I ever be on death row and ordering my final meal, two friends of mine will be receiving phone calls: Steve for his kale, and Lynette for her artichoke dip.
I can't get through the day without a dose of vitamins R.E.M.
My antidote to a lousy mood: listening to "Laid" by James. Works every time.
I consider shoes optional most of the time. It's a good thing I work at a place where bare feet are acceptable.
When I do have to wear shoes, I prefer Birkenstocks.
The only bones I've ever broken are my toes. How? I dropped a manhole cover on my foot when I was in 8th grade. (Don't ask. Suffice it to say that it's lucky for me that I did have shoes on that day.)
Despite my father's constant attempts to convert me to the "dark side", I am still a liberal Democrat.
I am militant about recycling.
When I was little, I wanted to be an oceanographer when I grew up.
When I got a bit older, I decided I wanted to be a teacher of the deaf, so I did an internship in a summer-school program for deaf kids. That experience showed me that I definitely did NOT have what it takes to teach deaf kids.
Isn't it funny how life turns out? Now I am the Mommy of a deaf kid...which definitely makes me a teacher of a deaf kid, by avocation if not by occupation.
I was contacted by a C.I.A. recruiter in my senior year of high school, and gave serious thought to it.
I entered university as a poli sci major, but switched to language when my first professor urged me to enter a competitive honors program through Johns Hopkins. (It was only my third week at UC, and I couldn't picture spending my entire life as an academic.)
I have studied eight spoken languages, in addition to sign. All are European.
Many students spend a year studying abroad. In my relentless quest to be unconventional, I spent my sophomore year in Spain, rather than the more typical junior year.
Upon my return to the States, I went goth, refusing to wear anything other than black for an entire year.
My favorite day of the year is the one on which I first spot a daffodil close to blooming, because it means spring is near.
Running a close second is Academy Awards Sunday, which is a national holiday as far as I'm concerned and ought to be celebrated accordingly.
Ranked third favorite is the fourth Sunday in Advent, which at WCPC is known as "Hallelujah Chorus Sunday".
I rarely bring my music folder into the chancel when choir sings, because I prefer to memorize my part. Ironic, because I am the choir librarian, that I am the choir member least likely to have their music handy on Sunday morning.
I can recite, in order, the names of all 66 books of the Bible, plus the Apocryphal/ Deuterocanonical books.
I have always wanted to learn to play drums. Should The Smiths ever reunite, I'd like to be prepared to volunteer as guest drummer.
I was a prospective contestant for College Jeopardy. I was eliminated in one of the final rounds; I had the opportunity to do a mock round on-stage. (It's a really tiny set, incidentally; at least, it was then!)
I want to try out for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
I had crushes on three different guys in three years spent at Northgate High School. As adults, every single one of those guys is gay.
Between mine and Calyssa's activities, we are so busy that I rarely get more than five hours' sleep per night. I am, therefore, chronically sleep-deprived.
I'm really good at undoing knots.
The American Red Cross loves me because I have, to date, donated in excess of twelve gallons of blood platelets.
I was born in a Minnesota snowstorm.
I slept through two tornadoes. My dad just carried me to our "safe room", AKA the downstairs shower. I'm still annoyed that I missed them, so I have a great desire to storm-chase in my dotage.
I can never stop thinking. Even when I want to, I can't seem to turn it off.
I once spent the night in a cell at Alcatraz Penitentiary...
...but I've never been arrested.
I detest Brussels sprouts, but I love asparagus, spinach, and broccoli.
I can't imagine how this could ever happen, but, should I ever be on death row and ordering my final meal, two friends of mine will be receiving phone calls: Steve for his kale, and Lynette for her artichoke dip.
I can't get through the day without a dose of vitamins R.E.M.
My antidote to a lousy mood: listening to "Laid" by James. Works every time.
I consider shoes optional most of the time. It's a good thing I work at a place where bare feet are acceptable.
When I do have to wear shoes, I prefer Birkenstocks.
The only bones I've ever broken are my toes. How? I dropped a manhole cover on my foot when I was in 8th grade. (Don't ask. Suffice it to say that it's lucky for me that I did have shoes on that day.)
Despite my father's constant attempts to convert me to the "dark side", I am still a liberal Democrat.
I am militant about recycling.
When I was little, I wanted to be an oceanographer when I grew up.
When I got a bit older, I decided I wanted to be a teacher of the deaf, so I did an internship in a summer-school program for deaf kids. That experience showed me that I definitely did NOT have what it takes to teach deaf kids.
Isn't it funny how life turns out? Now I am the Mommy of a deaf kid...which definitely makes me a teacher of a deaf kid, by avocation if not by occupation.
I was contacted by a C.I.A. recruiter in my senior year of high school, and gave serious thought to it.
I entered university as a poli sci major, but switched to language when my first professor urged me to enter a competitive honors program through Johns Hopkins. (It was only my third week at UC, and I couldn't picture spending my entire life as an academic.)
I have studied eight spoken languages, in addition to sign. All are European.
Many students spend a year studying abroad. In my relentless quest to be unconventional, I spent my sophomore year in Spain, rather than the more typical junior year.
Upon my return to the States, I went goth, refusing to wear anything other than black for an entire year.
My favorite day of the year is the one on which I first spot a daffodil close to blooming, because it means spring is near.
Running a close second is Academy Awards Sunday, which is a national holiday as far as I'm concerned and ought to be celebrated accordingly.
Ranked third favorite is the fourth Sunday in Advent, which at WCPC is known as "Hallelujah Chorus Sunday".
I rarely bring my music folder into the chancel when choir sings, because I prefer to memorize my part. Ironic, because I am the choir librarian, that I am the choir member least likely to have their music handy on Sunday morning.
I can recite, in order, the names of all 66 books of the Bible, plus the Apocryphal/ Deuterocanonical books.
I have always wanted to learn to play drums. Should The Smiths ever reunite, I'd like to be prepared to volunteer as guest drummer.
I was a prospective contestant for College Jeopardy. I was eliminated in one of the final rounds; I had the opportunity to do a mock round on-stage. (It's a really tiny set, incidentally; at least, it was then!)
I want to try out for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
I had crushes on three different guys in three years spent at Northgate High School. As adults, every single one of those guys is gay.
Between mine and Calyssa's activities, we are so busy that I rarely get more than five hours' sleep per night. I am, therefore, chronically sleep-deprived.
I'm really good at undoing knots.
The American Red Cross loves me because I have, to date, donated in excess of twelve gallons of blood platelets.
I was born in a Minnesota snowstorm.
I slept through two tornadoes. My dad just carried me to our "safe room", AKA the downstairs shower. I'm still annoyed that I missed them, so I have a great desire to storm-chase in my dotage.
I can never stop thinking. Even when I want to, I can't seem to turn it off.
I once spent the night in a cell at Alcatraz Penitentiary...
...but I've never been arrested.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Papa Shoes
Not far from Calyssa's school, along the route we take on the return trip, lies Gesinee's Bridal Shop. (CoCoCounty residents: ANYONE know how that is supposed to be pronounced?) As we left the Westwood Parent-Faculty Club meeting the other night, we passed it. As per usual, Calyssa craned her neck to admire the bridal and bridesmaids' gowns in the showcase windows as we waited at the traffic light. This sparked an interesting conversation.
"Mommy, I want to have a dress like that someday," she said. (While I'm not quite sure which dress she meant, this was not exactly a huge surprise, coming from the girliest tomboy ever born.) "What was yours like, Mommy?"
"You've seen it, it's in my closet. Remember? I told you I never got to wear it," I replied. Sad, but true: Calyssa's daddy and I ended up running off to Vegas to wed at a drive-up window, in tank tops and shorts. No joke. But I digress...
"I saw a picture at Papa's house. Auntie Jodi looked beautiful," she told me. I knew she must've been referring to the portrait of my sister, the bride, and her husband, with our parents, taken right after their gorgeous Placerville winery ceremony about 12 years ago. My dad keeps it on the bookcase.
Calyssa went on to describe the photo at length, finishing with, "Papa had on a funny suit [tuxedo]. He looked 'zactly like Papa, 'cept he had more hair and didn't have his Papa shoes on."
That got my attention. "What are Papa shoes?" I inquired, confused.
"The ones by the door. He puts them on when we water the plants. You know, his Papa shoes," she insisted.
I rang my dad up later to relate this little story to him; as expected, he cracked up. We agreed that, henceforth, cheap slip-on deck shoes are to be known as Papa shoes.
"Mommy, I want to have a dress like that someday," she said. (While I'm not quite sure which dress she meant, this was not exactly a huge surprise, coming from the girliest tomboy ever born.) "What was yours like, Mommy?"
"You've seen it, it's in my closet. Remember? I told you I never got to wear it," I replied. Sad, but true: Calyssa's daddy and I ended up running off to Vegas to wed at a drive-up window, in tank tops and shorts. No joke. But I digress...
"I saw a picture at Papa's house. Auntie Jodi looked beautiful," she told me. I knew she must've been referring to the portrait of my sister, the bride, and her husband, with our parents, taken right after their gorgeous Placerville winery ceremony about 12 years ago. My dad keeps it on the bookcase.
Calyssa went on to describe the photo at length, finishing with, "Papa had on a funny suit [tuxedo]. He looked 'zactly like Papa, 'cept he had more hair and didn't have his Papa shoes on."
That got my attention. "What are Papa shoes?" I inquired, confused.
"The ones by the door. He puts them on when we water the plants. You know, his Papa shoes," she insisted.
I rang my dad up later to relate this little story to him; as expected, he cracked up. We agreed that, henceforth, cheap slip-on deck shoes are to be known as Papa shoes.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Lame-O-Ween
Yesterday was Halloween...to most of the kids in this corner of the world, anyway. To my daughter, 10/31 is the eve of the eve of her birthday. Besides, Halloween is becoming much like Christmas: by the time the actual holiDAY rolls around, it's been celebrated to death. Calyssa attended a Halloween sleepover on Saturday the 23rd, at gymnastics, where she was also able to wear a costume all week if she wished. Friday was the costume parade at school, where the kids were trading "ghost pops" throughout the week. She even was given some candy at church on Sunday morning!
This was our Halloween: following a little after-lunch nap, I woke her and told her that it was time to get her costume on so that we could go trick-or-treating at Broadway Plaza. "I don't want to go, Mommy," she whined. It took some cajoling on my part (!?!?!) to get her to dressed to go. She only relented after I permitted her to replace the bridal veil of her princess bride costume with the pink Geoffrey's Birthday Club crown she received at Toys 'R" Us earlier in the day. After one pass up one side on Broadway and down the other, which took maybe 15 minutes, she proclaimed, "I'm done." Bizarre! Walking in the door less than an hour after we'd left, she ate one piece of candy and immediately proceeded to shed her costume in favor of her pj's. "You don't want to go trick-or-treating in the neighborhood?" I asked. "No, I want to watch Aladdin," she replied.
I spent Halloween night on the floor in front of the television, sorting and packaging Box Tops for Education for submission. Final score: Giants=4, Texas Rangers=0, Box Tops=2770, Trick-or-Treaters=1.
This was our Halloween: following a little after-lunch nap, I woke her and told her that it was time to get her costume on so that we could go trick-or-treating at Broadway Plaza. "I don't want to go, Mommy," she whined. It took some cajoling on my part (!?!?!) to get her to dressed to go. She only relented after I permitted her to replace the bridal veil of her princess bride costume with the pink Geoffrey's Birthday Club crown she received at Toys 'R" Us earlier in the day. After one pass up one side on Broadway and down the other, which took maybe 15 minutes, she proclaimed, "I'm done." Bizarre! Walking in the door less than an hour after we'd left, she ate one piece of candy and immediately proceeded to shed her costume in favor of her pj's. "You don't want to go trick-or-treating in the neighborhood?" I asked. "No, I want to watch Aladdin," she replied.
I spent Halloween night on the floor in front of the television, sorting and packaging Box Tops for Education for submission. Final score: Giants=4, Texas Rangers=0, Box Tops=2770, Trick-or-Treaters=1.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Just Call Me "Pavlov's Dog"
My lovely co-worker Elke keeps a stopwatch at her desk in the office. Every day, shortly after 2pm, its alarm goes off; attempts to deactivate it have been thus far unsuccessful. Beep, beep, beep...for a full minute. Over time, it has become customary for someone to call out "It's time!" when the alarm begins to go off. Everyone present then lies on the floor to do stomach crunches until the beeping stops. It's always funny to see the reactions of the uninitiated as we all leap from our desks and begin feverishly doing sit-ups.
So, last evening I visited the local Red Cross chapter to make my semi-monthly donation of blood platelets. After I completed the mini-physical and screening, I was walking to my donation chaise when suddenly I heard an identical series of high-pitched beeps. The phlebotomist escorting me to the chair was startled to see me drop to the floor as I very nearly began a round of crunches. Let's just say it was difficult to explain why I was about to prostrate myself on the floor of the blood bank!
See how easily trained I am?
So, last evening I visited the local Red Cross chapter to make my semi-monthly donation of blood platelets. After I completed the mini-physical and screening, I was walking to my donation chaise when suddenly I heard an identical series of high-pitched beeps. The phlebotomist escorting me to the chair was startled to see me drop to the floor as I very nearly began a round of crunches. Let's just say it was difficult to explain why I was about to prostrate myself on the floor of the blood bank!
See how easily trained I am?
Friday, July 30, 2010
Can!
What my deaf kid CAN do:
think
learn
love
talk
sign
sing
play
pray
dream
create art
write
read
enjoy TV
use a computer
make a phone call
eat like a horse
bathe herself
dress herself
give her opinion when shopping
dance
splits, cartwheels, pullovers, handstands...
memorize Bible verses
make friends with anyone
fall asleep in an instant
load the dishwasher
feed the kitties
water the plants
make a mess
drive her mommy crazy
hug her mommy till she can barely breathe
What my deaf kid CAN'T do:
hear very well
Any questions?
think
learn
love
talk
sign
sing
play
pray
dream
create art
write
read
enjoy TV
use a computer
make a phone call
eat like a horse
bathe herself
dress herself
give her opinion when shopping
dance
splits, cartwheels, pullovers, handstands...
memorize Bible verses
make friends with anyone
fall asleep in an instant
load the dishwasher
feed the kitties
water the plants
make a mess
drive her mommy crazy
hug her mommy till she can barely breathe
What my deaf kid CAN'T do:
hear very well
Any questions?
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