Mom in Milwaukee

Thank God Mom came out to Milwaukee. It was the first visit I've had in over a year where I wasn't on massive amounts of pain pills pre and post back surgery. Needless-to-say, hanging out with Mom is a lot more fun when you are lucid.

We had a mission: find an age appropriate professional wardrobe. Remember I'm now in a job where the professed dress code policy is "business casual," but everyone wears suits or at least blazers on Fridays. The last time I really had to play dress-up for a job was years ago. I mean, perhaps a decade ago. When I first became a therapist, I was fortunate to have my parents support to purchase a suit. At age 22 I needed that adult costume while people sat on my couch and poured their hearts out to me all the while I'm thinking, "Man, this person needs a therapist...oh my God, I AM the therapist!!!." The costume gave me a bit of confidence to really believe in myself.

When I got into medical social work, I realized the emergency department was NOT the place for suits. Somehow "dry clean only" doesn't really work with body fluids from sick kids. All of a sudden my J Crew chinos were considered upscale. There were several shifts when I went to work in one outfit and came home in scrubs after an unfortunate patient encounter. I was also a bit of a rebel by wearing open toe shoes and skirts. In hind sight, while I may have looked fabulous running to medical codes, it was pretty stupid to be in a trauma room with my little piggies vulnerable. Thank God I never got a needle puncture or something like that falling from the suture tray.

As I ventured into administration I kept my wardrobe of chinos and flouncy skirts. Now I just looked hip. Anthropologie was my go-to for fun dress up clothes that were age appropriate. Besides, everyone at the hospital knew me. It wasn't like I had to prove myself or fit into an unknown culture. I could pull off Anthropologie in my late 20's. There are still some pieces I can pull off in my 30's, but it certainly doesn't fit my current professional culture.

So like I said, Mom's visit had a purpose and a true mission. She is the one who I trust going into the dressing room with me and being 100% honest. I think the hardest part of looking for professional clothes is to not look old ladyish or too dowdy. I can't believe it, but we started at Talbots. This was the store just mere years ago I would pass mumbling something about conservative ladies with white hair and ugly scarves as "accessories." The sales lady, who may have just passed legal drinking age was about as dumb and as engaging as a floor mop. "I brung you more pants to try." Brung? Yeah, perhaps she would have been better off at Forever 21 not Talbots. It seriously took my Mom to go outside the dressing room to break up the conversation about church service and inform them we were here to spend money for a new wardrobe. They sent a more senior sales person in to assist.

As we were putting things on hold, another shopper stopped me and asked if I was starting a new job. I told her I had and needed to fit into the culture. Turns out she also worked in hospital administration. She left us with some great parting words of advice, "Always dress better than is expected." She also inquired if I had a teenager because they could be handy in helping select things that were age appropriate. I had to stop for a moment. Oh my God, I guess I AM old enough to have a teenager and yet I don't even have a baby yet! Good Lord that was a shocker.

After guzzling some cider at Alterra we ventured into Ann Taylor. Holy Batman, the 80's are back! Slouchy ankle boots? Skinny belts cinching over sized cardigan sweaters? I have a mantra: if you've already lived through the trend, you are too old to repeat it. There were a couple of tops that literally looked cross between what Laura Ingalls wore on Little House on the Prairie and a blouse I wore in the 2nd grade for class photos. While I found some good staples like blazers on sale I passed on the neon jelly bracelets. Just kidding. There weren't any jelly bracelets, but maybe they will debut with the holiday dresses! Just the fashion accessory you need for your office Christmas party!!

After 3.5 hours of power shopping we were starving so lunch at some ubiquitous American restaurant chain seemed quite reasonable. We went back for some of the clothes at Talbots. I have to tell you, spending money is exhausting. It's emotionally draining. I was pretty catatonic by the time we got home.

Having Mom around for a week was a lot of fun. We got to play tourist in our own town by going to a Fish Fry, seeing a play downtown, moseying around the old German section of town, and going on a distillery tour. There were several things we couldn't fit in, but there is always next time.

And yes, for the record, I actually bought a scarf but completely drew the line at broaches. Hey, I still have my standards.

Explicating Illusions

I have to keep reminding myself that I'm only on my third week of exploring this new role. Most of the time it feels as though I've been in the system for at least three months. The learning curve is large, but not in the way I thought it would be. Thank God I have my org development skills to really observe and diagnose what is going on in the institution.

Organizational culture is a funny thing. It is defined by the behaviors and customs that are normal for that group. It also may not exactly match what is written down in policy and procedures. I have become a sponge and cryptographer. Things are not always what they appear to be. For example, although the dress policy states that it is "business casual" most of the successful leaders wear suits or at least a blazer on "casual Friday." Although chinos may be acceptable, they are the bare minimum for professional standards. I had one person complain to me that someone had the audacity to wear corduroy pants.

Another example of cultural norms is that everyone leaves their doors open. Shutting an office door is a huge no-no. It sends the message that you are unavailable and not a team player. So privacy is compromised and what should be confidential conversations are usually held in public, but in a whisper. That alone doesn't exactly build trust. In fact, in my opinion it pretty much destroys it. Seeing that this is the norm, it is also not a surprise to know that direct feedback is rare. A team mate could be flailing in his or her performance, but no one wants to be rude and tell them why. Instead I get the feeling that it is perceived to be the kinder and gentler approach to just let them drown and fail in silence. I find this to be a bit appalling. So as I have taken the helm, I rather violated my own code of "observation only for three months." I actually gave feedback to both the person who was drowning in oblivion and the hierarchy about my conversation. I'd like to think that by taking that risk I showed I was a pretty trustworthy person. Well, either that or I just shot myself in the foot politically.

The term, "silos," was first introduced to me when I worked at another hospital years ago. It was a buzz word in most management book best sellers at the time. It's a catchy term for really saying, "you guys aren't playing nicely in the sandbox together, " or, "you have no idea who is in the sandbox with you." Comparing what I knew then to what I know now, there never was a silo problem in that particular hospital. All of the departments worked well together, but it gave a burning platform for change and the new leader to look very important. I can honestly say I now know what a silo problem actually looks like: team members who have no idea why they are in the same department and do not know how to access each other's talents. I'm working on that.

Then there is the generational gap fun. Gen X'ers (1960 - 1977ish) are now a large part of the workforce who are still reporting or colleagues with the Baby Boomers (1945-1959). Baby Boomers are all about company loyalty, getting that gold watch at retirement, and putting in long hours. Gen X'ers are more about home/work balance. Their attitude is, "why should you care if I'm here from 9-5 or 7-3 as long as my work is getting done and my objectives are getting met?" Baby Boomers see putting in more than the expected hours as a badge of honor. They truly expect a warm body to be available consistently during prescribed work hours regardless of the output. It's a bit of a nightmare to manage and negotiate expectations when the culture appears to be all open-door, but is really managed in whispers.

There is a long way to go with this organization, but I'm energized by the challenges. Let's hope they are willing to take a breath of fresh air.

So Far...

Here's what I know after my first day of work:

1) I share my office with the person who used to hold my position and I now supervise. Uncomfortable? No! What would give you that idea?

2) Virtual New Employee Orientation is a lot quicker than going in person. You can just fast forward through the slides demonstrating what sexual harassment is and why it's bad. I used to teach this class so I think I've got the scoop.

3) My boss is awesome.

4) I'm exhausted.

5) My office needs some serious decorating.

6) This whole carpool thing with J is barely squeaking by. I waited an hour for him to finish that whole pesky thing we call "patient care."

7) High heels are overrated.

8) Did I mention I'm exhausted? With blisters from those stupid high heels.

9) Badge photos always look terrible.

10) Even though I'm not clinical, I still got a pager within 10 minutes of me walking through the door. And here I thought I was free from that PTSD beeper sounds.

Rebirth

Three years ago this month I started a new job in a new city with an old sinking feeling.

I knew the job wasn't a good fit for me and yet I was enamored by the flattery of pursuit and nice salary. I tried to convince myself that it would be a "learning opportunity" even before I set foot into the building. I would expand my skill set. I could influence change. These are the lies I told myself as I sat in the 1970's wood paneled executive boardroom complete with office furniture that were hand-me-downs from the public school system. Every morning I would attempt to psych myself up for another day of cheer leading the disenfranchised staff, policing those who were skimming by, and deciphering the mixed messages from a messed up dual reporting system of divas who fed off of drama.

Looking back, there were two bright spots to my role: the CEO (whom I never really got to interact with but highly respected) and the office staff (who were jovial and made me feel welcomed). It was the longest 7 months of my life. When I accidentally quit during a meeting with the divas by blurting out, "I can't do this anymore," it felt as though the weight of the world lifted off of my chest. This unhappy journey was never going to have a happy ending. Intuitively I knew it from day one and yet I never fully listened.

I did gain something from this chapter of my life. It proved to be an amazing learning opportunity, but in a way I didn't expect. It confirmed I belonged in healthcare. That is where my heart resides. I confirmed my identity that I was an unconventional social worker. I confirmed my skill set as a leader of systems change. These were all things I already knew in my soul, but sometimes a little reassurance isn't so bad. I also learned the valuable lesson of happiness - don't settle for anything less.

I've been wrestling the demons of my past and old scripts that were shaped by this one work nightmare. The intensity of self-examination has increased this past week as I gear up to start another new position. However, I do have something now I didn't have before: clarity.

Once I quit, I renewed. I renewed a vision for myself based on my preferences, my style, and my ideals. I knew I wanted to be an organizational development consultant in healthcare. There is something about walking into a hospital for me that energizes me. I love the culture. I love the challenges. I love the humanity. I also love solving systems problems, working with teams, coaching leaders, navigating complex political systems, and focusing on the patient.

Last year I was one of two finalists for what appeared to be my dream job. It was at a prestigious healthcare institution under the OD department. However, my job would have been focused mostly on training. I didn't mind training. I was good at curriculum development, but what I dread is the monotony and boredom of doing the same thing over and over again. This is what this job would have been. It consisted of overhauling new employee orientation and implementing it...then repeat over and over again. I convinced myself it was a step in the right direction. It was a foot in the door. I could prove myself and then show them what my true skill set was. Again, I was telling the same lies to myself to see what I wanted to see and not what truly existed. I knew I wouldn't be happy there with the role they were filling. They wanted a trainer, not an organizational consultant. I didn't get the job and was very angry for a long time. I displaced my anger, my disappointment, and my perception of failure. It was yet another opportunity for me to really look at what the Universe was telling me.

I began to refine my professional vision and looked for opportunities to advance my dream. Call it synchronicity, karma, or just plain luck, but I found a graduate school program that seemed to speak to my soul. Within days of the deadline for application for admission, I sent off my information and was accepted.

I remember first meeting my classmates and professors. When asked what I wanted to do with this degree I was confident in my response: I knew I wanted to be a healthcare organizational development consultant. There was no one like me in the small class of 12. Some were already Senior VP's of international businesses. Others worked in foreign fields of bioengineering or retail. Every textbook was like drinking from a well after eating sand. Every project I did for my second masters was focused on my dream. My intention was set and I thank God my professors and team mates accepted my unconventional approach.

After graduating, my husband and I moved to a city where we knew no one. There were no ties, leads, or networks for support. I was intimidated by this at first given that somewhere around 80% of all jobs are landed through networking, not blind resume submissions. Weeks into settling into our new city, we were invited to a Sunday brunch for J's department. There I had a connecting conversation with one of J's colleagues. Like me, he was unconventional in his chosen profession and shared a passion for change. As the dialogue progressed we both became quite animated. The conversation ended with a request for my CV. I emailed it off without a second thought. As the weeks progressed, I actually embraced the idea of being the domestic spouse for the first time in my life. It was literally one day after J and I had this conversation about our new relationship roles did my phone start ringing off the hook. Ironic that once I let go of my intensity, my intention manifested.

I believe that once you set your intention, the Universe will conspire to make it happen. Tomorrow is the manifestation of this case-in-point. Tomorrow I step back into the world of a 40+ hour work week. I have the leadership component, the healthcare component, the systems perspective component, and mentoring component. I am officially a healthcare organizational development program manager.

"Projects"

I'm finding that the more you look at a house, the more "projects" you begin to see. It's a little like falling down the rabbits hole, to be perfectly honest. Folks I can officially say with confidence that the honeymoon phase of home ownership is over.

During the past three weeks I've pretty much lived on Angie's List and the phone. Angie's List is a pretty big operation here in the Midwest and I've found it to be quite helpful. Of course I do my part and review the businesses I've used. I give a lot more credence to reports written in the past 6 months than those from 2 years ago. I will say it bugs me that I pay for the service. A pesky $9 gets automatically withdrawn every month. This being said it does work in my favor when I call a company and let them know I got their name off of the list.

The home problems began one morning when my husband neglected to tell me that the hot water handle on our tub fell off. I came home from an interview to find it sitting on the side of the tub. Here's the kicky part: it apparently has fallen off in the past because it was GLUE GUNNED back on. Yes, you can see the glue they used to get the handle back on the stem. You know a simple hex wrench would have worked to tighten it back on, but apparently - and this is hard to fathom - I am more adept in tools than the yahoos who owned the house when it happened.

So, apparently we needed a plumber. I began the search. One guy who came highly recommended passed the job off to a buddy of his who is a handy man. The handy man came within the hour but admitted that plumbing wasn't his strong suit. At least he acknowledged that before attempting anything. He said we just needed a replacement part and he could take care of it for about a buck seventy-five. Sounds good, right? Well, knowing my husband and his fondness for being thorough, I called another plumbing operation who sent out a master plumber for an estimate. He said the whole kit and caboodle needed to be replaced which would run me about $200-$300 just for the parts and an additional $850 for the labor. I'm no mathematician, but there is a LARGE difference between this guy and the handyman.

We mentioned this to some neighbors of ours who are both architects and hobbies include things like Habitat for Humanity. Right now they are in the process of building a garage. I mean, pouring the concrete themselves, framing, installing windows, electricity, roofing and siding the sucker. Ed, out of the kindness of his own heart, said he would come take a look.

In the meantime I also wanted to get the opinion of our gutters. It's rather generous for me to actually call them "gutters" because really they are more like waterfalls over the edge. Here I'm thinking we just need to adjust the slope and clean them out. Oh no, no, no, no, no. Two companies come by and give comparable bids both showing me how these are the original gutters made of steel, well beyond their lifespan, and the best thing we could do is replace the whole system in aluminum. And we're on a time deadline as winter is coming. The old owners disclosed there was some ice damming, but we didn't realize the extent of the problem. The good news is the roof is great, but we may have some apron issues (whatever that means) in a particular section. Now I have tried to sit down with J to go through the bids but he'd much rather do practically anything else than discuss expenses for home improvement issues. So this project is on hold for now.

In addition to the landscaping project mentioned in my previous post, we have an arborist coming to look at the giant silver maple. Who knows when he/she will show up. And, just to be completely thorough, we had the insulation guys come this morning for a bid. See, the ice damming is caused by heat getting trapped in this particular section of the roof and then compounded by the gutter issue.

Tom, the insulation guy, came and gave me a true education about insulation. Hell, I had no idea what a R19 vs a R38 rating was. I can honestly say I do now. I also learned that spiders will build their webs where drafts are because that's where the bugs are. Interesting, eh? Who knew? While getting up in the attic, we needed to pull down the medicine chest in the upstairs bathroom. (Don't ask, it's just an odd old house.) Getting it back on was another matter.

Have I mentioned my husband's love affair with molly bolts? All I can say is thank God he has this odd infatuation because we're going to need it. The previous dumb-asses used dinky plastic anchors which pull right out of the drywall. I'm surprised that the medicine chest hasn't fallen yet. Let's just say it is happy in it's safe resting place on the floor right now.

I'm truly impressed with J's fearlessness when it comes to home improvements. We also had a lovely leaking cold water handle in the downstairs bathroom sink. This Saturday he consulted the Big Orange Home Depot Bible of Repairs and went to down dismantling things. It was a little surprising for me when I turned on the water and nothing came out. That's how I learned he had turned off the water main. We also learned that we have iron pipes. IRON. With severe atherosclerosis (aka, deposits making the hole very narrow for water to travel through). Not much we can do about that but eventually replace all of the pipes in the house - God help us. J was highly successful in fixing the sink.

However it does make me very very scared about the other house we own. Here we are thousands of miles away and the 1922 bungalow is just sitting there with renters. What home improvement projects lie in wait for us there?

Naked Ladies Kiss Me Over The Garden Gate

I feel like a student in Professor Snape's Potions class.

This morning I had a landscape artist come out to evaluate our new back yard. I'm normally quite handy with a trowel and trusty weeder, but in this back yard I'm pretty stuck. The first thing the landscaper said was, "Oh my dear, you don't have a back yard with a tree. You have a tree for your back yard." She's not kidding. Apparently this Silver Maple of ours is very very old. The bad news is they also have a relatively short life span compared to say an Elm. We also have a wild Mulberry tree which I thought was a kind of Oak. See? Mulberry tree, not Mulberry bush. Goes to show you what I know about this yard and how ill informed those nursery rhymes are.

The whole reason I had this person come out was to evaluate if they could till the soil for us to seed grass specific to shady areas. Not so much. Maples are also fastidious in their root structure by spreading out and only goes 2 - 3 feet deep. No tilling for us. Because the root structure is so close to the top it will leach all nutrients and water so this explains why our grass looks the way it does: clumps sparsely dispersed in clay dirt. Awesome. Her solution was to just put mulch down. This sounds like a terrible idea to me. A brown yard? Well, I guess that's what we have now so perhaps its not that bad of an alternative. The only prayer we have of doing grass is just putting top soil down - a lot of top soil - and seeding it with fescue, not rye. I learned more about grass root structure today than I thought I would ever learn. Rye is the main grass of all that sod people use. Fescue doesn't have a matrix root system. It's just one solitary blade per seed.

As I was getting more and more dejected about our options for the yard, the landscaper picked up on my mood and went to the truck to get her encyclopedias of botanical species. I was highly relieved to learn that my options were more than just hostas and ferns. Our conversation went something like this:

"So the horny toadalis is fantastic with it's feathery plumes, that is unless you want to get the limnanthus sacquaguia, otherwise known as Puffy Faces. As you can see it's broad leaf structure would be a nice contrast to the Mugwort with it's variegated leaf. I would steer clear of the hemlock, besides it's not indigenous to this area."

"What about this pretty purple flower?" I said pointing to the day lily looking bloom.

"Oh no, dear! Climaxius Epictus, or Man's Folly, will not grow in climate zone 5, which as you know we are right on the border of 4 and 5. But this lovely Witches Death would suit that corner nicely with fall blooms or the Snake Weed. I might consider planting the Japanese Blood Grass over there but it needs moist soil so perhaps the Viking Ship Heucharella. That one is a native plant. "

"What about hydrangeas? My husband loves the purple flowers."

The landscaper scrunches up her face to show her disgust. "If I see anymore of that Russian Sage and bourgeois yellow day lily I will just scream. Those hydrangeas were all the rage years ago. A burning bush might be a good alternative."

I'm guessing that is a solid "No" from her on the hydrangeas.

"But there's no accounting for taste, I suppose. Now these would be lovely by the rocks." She said pointing to a familiar plant on the page.

"Oh! You mean Lady in the Bathtubs!"

Double blink through her spectacles and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why would you call Bleeding Hearts, 'Lady in the Bathtubs?'"

"Because my grandmother grew them and if you pick off the blossom, turn it upside down and open it slightly it looks like a Victorian woman in a bathtub."

"Haven't tried that. And look at all these Rhododendrons in your yard! I'm surprised they've lasted this long with such an alkaline soil. Comes from the limestone. You must use quick lime once a year to keep them happy. My goodness, you can see these people had no idea about plants putting this peony in the shady corner. It is most certainly unhappy. And we must trim back these yews. Why on earth they would plant these here? I should also mention that we need to get a jump on this otherwise we'll have to wait until the last hard freeze of winter. That typically is May 15th."

Excuse me? May 15th? Did she really just say "hard frost" "typical" and "May 15th" in one sentence? Oh. My. God. How am I going to survive winter?

The conversation went on for 2 hours for a 20 x 20 space and I'm being generous with those measurements. Some of the names of these plants were absolutely ridiculous. Inky Fingers? Red Hot Poker? Scotch Broom? Love Lies Bleeding? Naked Ladies? Kiss Me Over The Garden Gate? Digitalis - otherwise known to me as the main ingredient for heart medication. Witch Hazel - which grows in the shade by the way. I vetoed the Hemlock for the record. Murphy, our second Scottie, ate some wild Hemlock and hallucinated. He landed in the doggy hospital overnight while his psychedelic trip wore off. One of my big requirements for the yard is nothing can be poisonous. I'm also against prickly plants.

In the middle of all this the movers show up to remove all of our boxes and packing material for a small fee, of course. They were exceptionally early. It took them about 10 minutes to remove the remnants of our two months of unpacking. As I drew up the check, the movers and landscape artist were in a battle about what to do with the mulberry tree.

"My wife makes jam with the mulberries."

"The berries also make a lovely wine, that is if you can get the berries before the birds. However, this one is a volunteer."

"Volunteer?" Man, am I glad the mover asked this question.

"Yes, it was a noxious weed that they let grow. However, it's not thriving and nor should it being in so much shade. Best to rid the yard of it before it becomes a larger problem."

"I'd rather have the wine than the jam, personally." Said the mover.

As for me and the rest of my morning, I've had 3 phone calls from the company for follow up and the landscaper came back for a second look at the Maple.

"They're notorious for dropping branches, these Silver Maples."

No kidding. I could have told you that looking at all of the limbs scattered across the yard from Sunday's storm. Rocket science.

"You need to call the tree people and point out the missing bark on the underside of that limb. Could be a bad sign that might call for the tree to come down which would be thousands upon thousands of dollars. Besides, it would alter my design plans then with more sun in the yard. Yes, yes, you need to call the tree people." And with that she handed me a sticky note with a name and phone number.

Inspired Completion

Last night my husband and I ventured away from our usual fanfare of animation movies and actually saw something with REAL people in it. We've been trying to see this particular movie for a couple of months now, but life gets in the way. Whether it's a good dining experience that takes 2 hours longer than anticipated or a family having to discuss treatment options for their loved ones, we just seem to miss all intended shows. Not yesterday. We actually made it to see "Julie and Julia."

I had particular interest in this movie as one of my dearest friends, "Martha," sent me the book a few years ago. I enjoyed the read while simultaneously thinking, "Good Lord this woman is mad trying to do 500+ FRENCH recipes in 365 days." But, she did it. On that level, it was quite inspirational for me. Like Julie Powell, I have a predisposition for starting things and not quite getting them completed. Take the quilt in my mother's basement for example. It's been resting there nicely for about 6ish years. Or my novel(s). Yes, potential plural on that, folks. I have somewhere around 3 novels on my computer. It was highly reassuring to hear from another dear friend that a lot of her set aside writing time was spent deleting what she already wrote. That is where I get in trouble with that project. Playing editor and author at the same time is highly unproductive. So at least Julie Powell succeeded in finishing something with a self-imposed deadline.

Don't get me wrong; I make deadlines, but typically these are deadlines that are externally imposed. I wouldn't have two advanced degrees without deadlines in place. But I play head games with myself (to my downfall) and see how I can rationalize skirting deadlines I make for myself. If you need any help in understanding how my brain works, just look for a post a few back about me with unstructured time.

I have to say I quite enjoyed the movie even if I left feeling quite hungry. All of a sudden I felt inspired to make boeuf bourguignon. I already know how to make it, but I've never done it the Julia Child way. Turns out I wasn't the only one inspired for French cuisine after seeing this movie. Mom told me that a few Sundays back they decided to embark on Julia's Duck with Cherry Sauce. Mind you the book in all of it's genius actually does teach you the art of French cooking in steps if you actually followed the steps in sequential order. However, Dad apparently decided to skip steps 1-4 where you first learn how to even roast a duck to making one with extravagant cherry reduction. He probably used the cherry pitter he inherited when his Mom died. I'm guessing here - we haven't talked in months so this is all extrapolated from my daily talks with Mom. She said it was amazing although they washed every pot and pan about 3x minimum during the 6 hours or whatever it took to make the dish.

J started thinking about making Coq au Vin this evening. Again, it's not complicated just time consuming. He also wanted to clean the house and plant somewhere close to 500+ bulbs in the backyard. I have a feeling we won't be dining on any pearl onions and succulent chicken this evening given the fact he's still in his pj's surfing the net. As for me, I'm going to go outside and find my trowel to lavish the last day of summer up here in the midwestern north. Getting those bulbs planted by sundown will be almost equivalent to making all those recipes within one year.

Reciprocity and Generosity

The whole concept of gifts is one where I personally struggle. There is a certain etiquette and decorum about a finely fashioned gift that begs the question: is it about the gifter or the receiver? It also makes me wonder where and how expectations get placed.

I know I've brought this subject up before in older posts, but background information is always key in understanding context. Growing up, my family culture had striking differences between my paternal and maternal sides. The maternal side usually had larger budgets for the daughters and grandchildren, but the spouses always appeared as an afterthought. I didn't recognize this when I was younger, but as a married woman I can now sympathize with what my Dad experienced. There is a striking message as your wife opens up gifts of expensive jewelry and you get socks. After awhile a request of socks and underwear as a present seems appropriate because at least you aren't going to be disappointed. So sad, but so true.

On my paternal side, the couple was recognized in a mutual joint gift and everyone got the same thing. On one of our last Christmases with my grandparents, my parents were absolutely ecstatic with a dolly. You know, the kind movers use to wheel around heavy boxes. Seriously. Ecstatic. I get it. But then again I love presents that are either completely practical or completely indulgent. The siblings on my paternal side also extended the small remembrances for everyone that didn't have to be elaborate, but made sure you were acknowledged and important. I still love the homemade chocolate dipped fortune cookies, The Dog calendars, and whatever glam fun I got from my cousin. Gifts for all of the dogs are also included, which makes my heart sing.

I realize I am not the most consistent gifter, which is difficult to acknowledge. Honestly it depends upon my wealth status as to what I can do, which I realize is a universal truth for everyone. One year I was able to bring everyone bottles of wine. That felt great. I also realize how important it is for nieces and nephews to be remembered. It always meant a lot to me when I got something from my aunts and uncles. I have to say that J and I aren't really great about this since we've been out of SLC with our own niece and nephew. Birthdays come and go in the time warp continuum and I typically beat myself up about forgetting them. So when I receive something in the mail for my birthday from my sister-in-law I feel pretty rotten about accepting it.

On the other hand, what do you do with friends who are also as flaky as you are in the gifting department? One year you get an amazing package and then years go by without birthday or Christmas remembrances even though you send things to them. Do you stop giving them gifts? Or other friends who are so consistent and you are the flaky one? Or what do you do with gifts that are so extravagant there is nothing you can do that would seem fair (a cookbook can't compare to diamond earrings)? Another dilemma is the gift that says, "I don't know who you are," or, "This is really all about me," or "You are an afterthought"? I've experienced all of these scenarios and I'm still at a loss of what to do about them.

I'm all about fairness when it comes to gifts. I'm also all about making sure the other person feels recognized for their uniqueness. When I give gifts, they are 100% from the heart and typically very well thought out. My one exception was last Christmas when I was in my fuzzy haze and sent family notecards to a girlfriend of mine who didn't take her husband's last name. That was a big faux pas. I know I made other mistakes last year in gifting and cards albeit with the greatest of intentions.

The last hurdle is giving things to your spouse. Is it really a gift when you are essentially using "our" money? Hard to surprise them with a luxurious gift and always wonder in the back of your mind if they will question the cost rationale. Or do you really believe them when they say, "Don't get me anything"? Anniversaries and Valentines are especially tough. One person gives something from the heart and the other comes up empty handed.

Gifts should equally reflect the giver and receiver in my idealistic view. It should say something about the relationship like a common interest or acknowledging that you really heard them when they mentioned they liked something specific. Although this seems simple, it is really quite difficult upon execution. If it wasn't, there wouldn't be a need for a post like this one. But, that is, I suppose, my gift to you.

Utah Man Am I

When I was younger my feminist side was rather pissed off that the Utah Ute fight song didn't use the gender neutral term of "person" rather than "man." I got over it. The song is catchy and it is part of my childhood inner jukebox. The season tickets was a tradition my paternal side of the family embraced. Grandpa would sit there in the stadium with his "special juice" and radio. I never did understand why he brought the radio as it echoed the live crowd and calling of the plays, but now I understand he was just needing the commentary.

In college I attended most of the games after "pre-partying" at one of the local fraternities. Because the family season tickets were near the student section Mom was often worried she'd see me passed down while crowd-surfing. For the record, that only happened once. Well, only once at a Utah football game. One other time at a concert in Reno, but that is another story.

The passion for the Utes and their recent switch to a the more politically correct hawk named Swoop, still runs in my veins. I do miss the guy riding the horse dressed as a Ute Indian riding around the stadium with a bit U flag, but I understand why they changed. As I've moved around the Nation I've tried to watch various games on television which is difficult when Utah is not a Big 10 school.

In 1998 I watched the NCAA tournament where Utah's basketball team seemed unstoppable. There I was in my tiny cement dorm room screaming at my tiny television set for the Utes much to the dismay of my other roommates. My boyfriend at the time thought it was amusing that I actually yelled and cheered.

Coming off of a Sugar Bowl upset and triumph last year, I was determined to find the Utes football season on our cable selection here in Milwaukee. That's when I discovered we actually had the BYU cable TV channel. Are you freaking kidding me? BYU? This tells me exactly what our community is comprised of...enough Mormons to command BYU television to be a staple on our cable selection.

I was raised in a family who cheered on the Utes and anyone who played BYU. It wasn't a far stretch for me to move to Boston and adopt a similar stance about cheering for the Red Sox and anyone who played the Yankees. In Boston there was a substantial Mormon community in Belmont, seriously just the next town over from us. The Temple rose along route 2 like it does along the Washington DC beltway: a shining imitation silhouette of Sleeping Beauty's castle. However, we never got BYU cable TV in Boston.

When I searched the official Utah athletic web page I noted that most of the games were being broadcast on some Mountain West cable channel and gave subsequent directions about how you too could call your cable company who would be happy to supply access for a modest fee. I decided it wasn't worth it. Besides, I'm the only one in the family who enjoys football. Somehow I married a guy who is not sports oriented. He understands the rules, but if given a choice of watching sports or doing something else, he'd take the latter. The only reason why he will watch sports is to be amused how much I engage and yell at the television.

Last night was another clear example of why I love this man of mine. He searched out the broadcast of the Utes playing San Jose State and set the DVR for me. There we sat with our ice cream: me yelling through most of the first quarter, J laughing at me, and Edgar cowering at his mother now turned wild screaming woman at the light box. I realize I have quite the potty mouth when it comes to my team and bad plays.

And then, there it was, a shining moment of connection with my family flashing across the screen: the Utah Pig Bus. One of my brother's fraternity buds created this tailgating icon that was even honored in the victory parade after the Sugar Bowl win. This is the same fraternity brother who convinced my own flesh and blood how it was a *good idea* to do a skit and jump into the San Francisco Bay from an oversize Styrofoam toilet (supposed to look like a helicopter) called "Snowy, the Hellaskier," for Red Bull. The same Utah Pig Bus where my parents trekked out to hang with the guys and meet their future daughter-in-law. The same Utah Pig Bus that I now see Facebook photos of children of the guys I used to pre-party with. Just seeing the Pig Bus on ESPN U made me miss my crazy brother.

On a sad note my other Alma Mater, Tulane, was absolutely humiliated by BYU yesterday, but at least the Utes remain undefeated even if they didn't bring their best game forward. How do I know it wasn't their best game? My sore vocal chords prove it.

Isn't It Rich? Aren't We a Pair?

I hate this song and yet whenever we end up ill, J strikes up the band. It's all I can do to cover my ears before he mentions anything about clowns.

I'm on day 4 of being bed-bound. Let me just say that this whole sick thing is beginning to wear thin. I've rescheduled somewhere around 6 interviews so I do not infect others. By mode of default, J and I have begun to think we have the dreaded swine flu. Fever? Check. Sore throat? Check. Wishing your head wasn't attached to your body? Check. Wondering if your swollen glands are going to burst through your skin like Aliens? Check. Debating about eating because the thought of chewing is exhausting and painful? Check. "Sexyish" flu bed head from all of the sweats and chills? Check. The oh so attractive look of pasty white death warmed over? Check. On the positive, both of us have the cluster of symptoms so at least we aren't alone in our misery but that does leave us at a lack of a caregiver when we're both moaning about how it hurts to lie still.

I think one of the worst parts is that guilt of duty thing. Unprecedented, J has been out of work for 3 days straight. This takes a lot and tells me exactly how terrible he feels. But every morning he pulls himself out of bed looking quite pasty and debates if he feels well enough to go in and take care of his patients. It usually takes a few calls to his boss and hospital ward under his care before he decides he really would be better off at home.

We are going stir crazy. What I wouldn't give for a nice trip to the grocery store. I hate going to the grocery store, but truly it sounds like a great exotic break from the mundane.

Last night I woke up from a dream that my head was being used as a dodge ball. I kept thinking I really needed Tylenol, but the thought of getting out of bed was more painful than just lying there in agony. Finally when my husband roused from sleep an hour or two later I mustered my request for the two magical pills that might stop the chills and ease the pain. He was woken up by a dream of having died in a car accident. I have no idea what time it was so suffice it to say I was highly cautious about dosing myself with more when I finally got out of bed this morning. I have to say my fingers hurt from typing. I guess the writing is on the wall: time for me to get back in bed.

Shape Shifting

After several esteemed colleagues told me that while they love to follow my blog, "for the love of all that is holy, please change the font," I did. I suppose embracing the inability to write HTML and translate that into Mac-speak, is a part of self-awareness and growth. I do have limitations and boy oh boy, computer speak is one of them. One follower told me that my "improved" font looked like tiny old English and another had to copy and paste my entries into Word so they could reformat it into something legible. So sorry for the strife!

I have been conspicuously absent from posting lately. Let's just say that the stars aligned and I've been in interview after interview. It's been a much needed change of pace. I actually get to dress up in my real-adult-costume of suits and heels to head out and get a feel for what is out there in the professional world. I must say that my former graduate school colleagues have been a huge support for me during this challenge. It's so nice to know you have people you can count on for support, ideas, and brainstorming.

Who knows what will come of these forays into professional life, but I certainly am enjoying the process.

Practicing Motherhood

I'm convinced that there is nothing worse than a gloomy, chilly Saturday without a plan. Well, unless you are ill or just want an excuse to sit in your pj's and eat peanut butter out of the jar because you are too lazy to actually make the peanut butter cookies. But, I suppose that IS a plan so nix that last sentence. There is nothing worse than a gloomy, chilly Saturday without a plan.

I like plans. But mostly I like plans because I can either choose to follow them or deviate from them. It's a power thing I suppose. I can feel uber accomplished and look at my to-do list all checked off while inhaling the Lysol vapors or fabulous peanut butter cookies I actually made. Or, on the other hand, I could feel semi-criminal by slacking off and actually getting away with it. What's funny about this whole thing is that I am the criminal and the police to myself simultaneously. Hard to "get away with it" when you have to be the enforcer.

Yesterday we didn't have a plan. Sometimes my plan is really not to have a plan. This "plan" works when I know one of us has experienced a really tough week and unstructured downtime is needed. Not the kind of unstructured downtime that includes something like, "1:00 PM - 3:00 PM Unstructured downtime." So, see that would be too structured. In order for it to be truly unstructured it can't even be premeditated. *sigh* Then again, by planning to not premeditate the unstructured day would be a plan.

Have you come with me through the looking glass? Yes, this is what it is like to be me. It's exhausting, isn't it?

Ok, now really, back to my story: yesterday. We decided to finally attend the 6th Harry Potter movie matinee. Because it's a matinee and it's so late from the debut, we practically have a semi-private showing of the movie all to ourselves. I realize that we could have gone to see something more, oh, I dunno...grown-up, perhaps? Like the newest Quentin movie where Brad looks like he's wearing a caterpillar above his lip and everyone keeps wondering if it tickles his nostrils, or the cooking movie where Amy is once again trying to be Meryl for the Oscars only this time without a nun's habit. Yeah, we thought of going to see one of those movies, but it just wouldn't be faithful to our penchant for kid's movies. The escape factor really sets in when you temporarily believe that your house will float with a gazillion balloons or memories can be stored in tiny vials. But here's the ironic part: I needed escape from myself (see paragraphs 2-4 if you need further explanation). But I needed escape from myself because I've been focusing way too much on the whole kid issue. So really, how wise was it for us to attend a KIDS movie where your only semi-companions are KIDS to try and escape the KID issue? Don't even dignify that with an answer...it's pretty obvious.

Again, I'm all about the planning. Specifically for the past two years the question has remained the elusive: when? It doesn't take a leap of faith to realize that I was highly unsuccessful in my quest to escape myself. Damn. So now I'm actually forced to DEAL with the issue which means talking. Talking. Processing. You know, all the things I'm specifically trained to do. I look like I have alphabet soup behind my name showing all the credentials of my specialty of processing issues.

The issue has come to more of a head for me these past few months as I've now graduated...again...and have tried to launch myself into the job market. I guess I wonder where I should be placing my energies with the timing of potential plans. I also have to say that I feel like a mooch. Here I am sending my husband out the door to make a living while I make plans with my domestic art skills. (Numchuck skills, dungeons and dragon skills, Sims 3 skills.) I wouldn't feel so guilty about it if there was a little one who was my one and only responsibility for those 8-10 hours of the day. Edgar almost counts. Well, he did this week. He had a 48 hour tummy virus which gave me a taste of motherhood by being woken up in the middle of the night retching and bed-changing, wandering around cleaning up vomit, doing laundry, petting him while the poor guy didn't understand what was happening as he puked, and washing his beard/brushing his teeth only to have him toss his cookies once again. I also dabbled in the arts of playing amateur dry-cleaner with our velvet slipcovers on the couch. By the way, I can tell everyone with confidence this is NOT a skill of mine. But like I said, Edgar almost counts. And you know what? I was pretty damn successful playing Mom!

Edgar is like a kid in several respects. We take him pretty much everywhere. My husband mentioned it was almost apple picking season and pumpkin patch season to which we thought about bringing the dog. Yes, I get he's a dog. I also realize these are activities normal people would bring their children. I'm not normal. He has favorite toys like a kid, scheduled meal times, a regular doctor, play groups, etc.. See? Kind of like a kid. He even has phobias. He doesn't mind lightening and thunder. Fireworks are a little more troubling. But his real challenge is that obnoxious beeping from smoke alarms with low batteries.

We discovered this phobia when my Mom was visiting last year. His ears could hear the faint beep timed 90 seconds apart from the alarm in the basement. He would settle down to sleep, hear it, then pace the bed and tremble. Not exactly restful and it took us 2 days and nights to figure out what was going on. It was that faint and he has super-hearing power with his Scottie ears.

Fast forward to June when another alarm in our apartment was doing the same thing. As my husband fiddled with it and replaced the battery I got in the shower. The loud beep was enough to drive Edgar mad. So much so that he banged his head through the bathroom door, leaped through the shower curtain and over the high claw foot tub to find safety with me. The last time I had a dog jump in the bathtub with me I was maybe 5 or 6. Henry, my first Scottie, was afraid of thunder and arguments. The bathtub was his refuge.

As we returned from our date of Harry Potter and City Market, we noticed Edgar had expressed his frustration by strewing the bathroom garbage about the house from, a) being left behind, and b) being blocked off from the living room where the great velvet comfy couch sits in a prime location to see out the front window. As I was picking up the Kleenex I heard J laugh, "Hey Mr. Roo!" Edgar was trembling in the bathtub. Traumatized Edgar practically jumped into my arms when I bent down to pet him. And then we heard the beep.

Shiver Me Timbers

I don't know what happened. It was like I blinked my eyes and - poof - summer was gone. Just when I got the shorts and tank tops unpacked, I realize that the need for sweatshirts and layers came earlier than anticipated.

For the first time since I can remember I'm actually going to have an Autumn birthday on September 5th. Being so close to labor day and the beginning of school, I typically received some sort of back to school fashion gift. When I was younger it involved some sort of itchy wool skirt and sweater with saddle shoes my Mom thought was adorable, but I couldn't wear my new outfit until it got colder. In Utah that was usually around the end of October. This year it's not even the end of August and I'm contemplating turning on the heat to adjust to the mid-50 degree weather outside. As one friend put it: Welcome to the north!

I have it on good authority that Milwaukee is not as cold as Minneapolis in the winter. That makes sense seeing that it is a bit closer to the north pole. I also heard a rumor/wives tale that because it was a mild summer we should expect a mild winter. However this knowledge does not protect me from the mild chiding from my husband that I will freeze this winter. I keep telling him I'll adapt. I will. But, he finds it humorous when I say this given that I can be cold on an 80 degree summer day.

The Right Fit

Looking for jobs has got to be one of the most painful things to do. I'm getting the most polite "you suck" emails from corporations. I'm either too qualified, not specialized enough, don't have international conglomerate business experience, or my personal favorite: I'm not the right fit, but they wish me well with future endeavors. How can you tell if I'm the right fit if you haven't even talked with me and yet I have all the desired qualifications? Seriously?

Today I got blocked from a job I really wanted because my email thought the invitation to complete step two of the online process was junk mail and I missed the opportunity. It's leaving me clutching my heart in one hand and throwing my fist up to the sky dramatically asking, "Why? Why?!" while Edgar is simultaneously licking my toes to show he loves me and yes, I am in fact a good human being. I find the formula is something like this: the more you want the job = the less likely you will get it = the more the pain will crush you. Truly, it's a good time.

I remember being on the other side of the hiring desk. Sorting people based on obscure resume data is challenging. Are they "seasoned" or "green"? Are they too new of a grad or is their education even relevant to the position? Hell, does their education or experience make me think this person would get bored with the job? Nine times out of ten, it's usually an HR generalist who is doing the first screening and they aren't exactly sure what to look for. As a hiring person I dreaded when employees came into my office with a letter in hand and "need to tell you something." While they are telling me all about their impending move/wedding/baby/inheritance/life revelation for their two week notice, I'm thinking about the HR hell.

There are rules of engagement when hiring and I'm surprised by how many hiring people don't understand them. Granted, you kind of learn about them as you go. There are specific things you cannot ask. I've been asked the most insulting and lawsuit inviting questions by people like the directors of human resources. Do you have kids? Are you planning on having kids? Are you married? Which church do you attend? Good hell!

Behavioral interviewing is typically the way to go, as in, "tell me about a time when..." I made sure my panels were briefed on what you could and could not ask before the candidate even walked through the door. My favorites were the ones who looked flawless on paper thanks to a resume professional, but would reveal something odd in the interview. Something like how they were abducted by aliens and ever since then knew they needed to be on this professional path. Others who would ask if I'd be willing to talk to their probation officer or would I have leniency for missing work due to an upcoming trial.

For now, I suppose I need to have patience, believe in the Universe, karma, intention, and pray. I also need to limit my time on the computer just to cushion my self-esteem!

Arts and Crafty

You would think a girl coming from Utah would be inherently crafty. I mean, this is the land of scrap booking and Martha Stewart is practically a saint. (Although Mom once told me she spoke at a Junior League convention and referred to the Temple as that "cute little church" down the street.) We never had wreaths on our front door with the exception of Christmas. No strange Easter twig trees or hydrangea bloom wreaths heralding spring were found at our house, but we did color our own Easter eggs. We never flew the flag for the 4th of July. There were never any photos of us in the living areas. "It's just one more thing to dust," Mom would say. Instead of putting her creative juices into dust collecting items, Mom would can the hell out of our raspberries and apricots every year and make homemade cookies until the cows came home. Our house looked the same virtually every season.

The one exception of decor was Halloween: Mom's favorite holiday. Every year we pulled the cardboard cut outs of witches and pumpkins and placed them in the windows. Other moms would get actual bales of hay and stuff their own scarecrows for their front porch. We even did the fake spider webs for a while until it coincided with the biannual house painting which just got plain messy. We did once have a fake hand we buried in the ground as if a corpse was climbing out of its grave, but the neighbor's dog (named Satan, literally) dug it up and carried it around the streets like a chew toy. We found it extremely funny. When I was younger Dad did a hell of a job carving pumpkins. Mom also was awesome when it came to sewing and making costumes. You dreamed it; she would make it happen.

When I went to college and joined a sorority I was actually expected to do things like create a fabric wraparound cork board and puffy quilted scrapbook for my little sister of the house. It was like asking me to do calculus. The room practically stopped breathing when I told them I didn't own a glue gun or even know how to use one. Embarrassed, Mom did tell me we in fact owned a glue gun from the 1980's or so, but it was messy and hot and never really worked. I had no recollection of this gadget what-so-ever. Two of my sisters took me to the craft store to initiate me into the world of crafting. As I wandered around the fake flowers and whole aisles dedicated to ribbon, I felt a little like I was in a foreign country. There I bought my first glue gun.

Somewhere circa 1996 I also began to scrapbook with a little help from my friends. My first one was primitive to say the least. My skills progressed as I kept developing, but once I saw the creative instinct of my sister in law's best friend, I literally came to a stand still. This woman was beyond creative. She made pop-out folding lanterns for God's sake on one of the pages. I haven't picked up my scrap booking habit (an expensive one, by the way) since 2003. Good intentions, but those pop up lanterns still haunt me. Perhaps I really should find a class or something to foray my way back into the creative world.

My husband comes from a family where his Mom has ironed embroidered hand towels that change with the month. She artistically places glitter dusted autumn leaves and rattan among the pumpkin and gourd shaped candles. Her crafty prowess showed up at our rehearsal dinner, which the photographer loved getting all of the decorative details from every angle. I have secret envy of women and men who are inherently crafty, including my mother in law.

I'm still trying to learn the artful placement of items. I have two girlfriends in particular who have the gift of style. Seriously, both of their homes look like they came out of magazines. Placement of baskets, interesting wooden signs, window treatments look effortless. Honestly, that so so far out of my league I can't even stand it. Since I've been married I've picked up cues from catalogues and other media to begin to decorate with the seasons. Sands capes in hurricanes with tea lights, mixed leaves for the fall, and cranberries for winter will grace my coffee table at times.

My newest challenge in Wisconsin is doing basket liners. I noticed that the previous owners had used twine to artistically tack the liners into the baskets for clothes storage. It was a pretty good idea, minus the orange thread. Being the clean freak, I decided to wash all of the liners. That's when I learned they had only done the decorative thread on the outside liner. The inside fabric was glued down. Still, we took out the liners and washed them. I later ironed them as well.

J and I ventured to Michael's where I thought embroidery thread would be lovely. I am not the color specialist; I defer to my husband on that. He chose a pretty slate blue gray and I went hunting for needles since our sewing kit was still lost in one of the cardboard boxes. The only needles I found were quilting needles. No problem! A needle's a needle a needle, right? Not so much.

I spent a good 30 minutes trying to thread the sucker. Tiny eye holes and twisted strands do not mix. After getting stuck 3x I let my husband have a go. He did it and I began the artistic stitching. It looked terrible. I abandoned the project and started to search for my glue gun.

Here's the problem: I haven't really located my glue gun when I really needed it since the move in 2006. I'd find the glue sticks, but not the gun. Then when I would somehow stumble across the gun I'd say to myself, "See? That's a logical placement. Just remember where it is when you need it next time." A more logical person would have just reunited the damn gun and sticks to save this need of a mental note and high frustration for the future. Not me.

Throw in 2 other moves in the past 3 years and the repeated mental note, and let me tell you how frustrated I am. I've found the glue sticks, but in every box that I have semi-unpacked I have yet to find the stupid gun. On a positive, I did find the sewing kit with better needles. I suppose I'll have to go back to my original plan of the embroidery thread and once again stumble across the glue gun when I'm not looking for it.

Yokel Local

Believe it or not, that's the name of a New Glarus beer. We picked up a six pack of the local microbrew last week to celebrate becoming official Wisconsinites....or is it Sconies? Either way, we have the license plates and drivers licenses to prove that we are officially residents of America's Dairyland. So far it's my 4th State where I'm an official resident. I can't count Louisiana because I never did make that trip to the DMV.

This trip to the DMV wasn't as eventful as my others. The only thing worth blogging about is that the clerk kept trying to remember which town in Massachusetts she visited back in the 1980's. "You know, the one with the historical college that's been around for a long time?" Um, yeah, that TOTALLY narrows it down. Boston, and for that matter, Massachusetts, is known for it's universities, hospitals, bars, and cemeteries. Sure, I know exactly which town you visited.

There are a few things I've noticed about being in Wisconsin so far.

1) There are 3 dedicated polka radio stations in the Milwaukee area.

2) One of the polka music stations is right next to the Mexican radio station.

3) I never noticed how much polka and Mexican music sound the same. They both love the accordion.

4) There is a strong cajun influence here; go figure we're near where the French Canadians originated before migrating down to the bayou in Louisiana.

5) Zydeco, predominantly cajun music, also has a love affair for the accordion.

6) The State Fair is huge, although they are still years behind Minnesota's State Fair in the deep-fry-food-on-a-stick. Deep fried Snickers was sooo 2003.

7) Organic, buying local, supporting your own, and sustainable living are rooted strong here. Go farmers markets, local bistros, small bookstores, and Alterra coffee.

8) Restaurants are still not smoke-free. I'm just waiting for July 2010 for that celebration!!!

9) Dairies still do home delivery! Didn't think I'd see that again until we moved back to Utah.

10) The Green Bay Packers are named after meat packers. Blech. They are the only community owned sports franchise.

11) It's beautiful here. People are friendly. Neighbors look out for one another. The clouds are amazing.

12) Milwaukee is known for it's diversity and festivals. After Summerfest - the worlds largest music festival (yes, it even beats out Jazz Fest) - every weekend hosts a different cultural festival. Irish fest was last weekend. I believe Indian Summer festival is coming up soon.

13) My grandmother was born in Rhinelander, Wisconsin...a mere 3+ hours away up north. My husband works for the same medical school that graduated my great grandfather in dentistry (back then, medical and dental students spent 2 years together and then "specialized" their last 2 years of medical school.)

14) They have fireflies, bunnies, chipmunks, and squirrels on cool summer nights. Really? Can it get better?

I'll let you know how I feel about it once winter hits. My perception might shift a bit as the earth tilts away from the sun.

Consumer Warnings

Moving to Wisconsin meant that I could finally get my Utah storage unit shipped. There were many things that I was looking forward to reuniting with. My Pottery Barn couch, the rug, my coffee table, and of course my beloved high efficiency washer and dryer. I'm one of those who get excited about energy star appliances. When I bought my first house I was thrilled to head down to Sears and explore the washers that only used 13 gallons of water per load vs. the typical 30 gallons. Not only that, but it didn't have an agitator so my delicates really would be better preserved. I'm telling you, this was exciting for me. My enthusiasm spread through the family and every so often I would end up washing Ginny's sofa slip covers or old quilts.

In anticipation of my shipment arriving I scheduled a Sears maintenance guy to come to the house and do the once over of my beloved appliances. I figured I wanted someone to look at the gaskets, hoses, and seals after they had been in storage for 3 years. Sears thought it was a bit overkill, but they were happy to take our money. I did some light reading of installation of the appliances from my file of manuals and warranties I keep handy. They offer special hints like suggesting to not reach into the washer while parts are moving and don't mix bleach with toilet cleaners in the washer. I'm not certain why anyone would put toilet cleaner in the washer to begin with, but I figure that someone did this at one point in time and filed a lawsuit that caused enough ruckus to actually have them now make it a specific warning in the use and care guide.

Over breakfast, my husband was perusing the light literature and noticed something. It was under the "Washing Procedures" heading.
I don't know about you, but I can understand not wanting to wash a crayon, keys, coins, or paperclip, but a FROG? Seriously, who keeps frogs in their pockets? Little boys, perhaps? I don't know of any little boys who wear suspenders or for that matter have their elbows bend like the way its depicted in the illustration. A frog. Now you know this booklet has gone through several proofs before it got published and yet no one seriously questioned the frog.

Note to self: remove all amphibians from pockets in the future.

Up to Speed

For all you Mac users I must first apologize. The website must look like I took out the old typewriter font for my oh so fabulous makeover - and not achieving it. Akin to showing up to my prom in my brothers stinky tennis shoes. I assure you that if you actually borrowed a PC and found the website you would be a bit more pleasantly surprised. I spent all day yesterday playing with the template, fonts, colors, and other nuances in HTML. This is big because I do not speak HTML. For all I know it stands for Hippopotamuses Together Must Languish! It was only until the end of the day that I proudly showed my husband on the Mac to realize the incompatibility of the two. When looking at the screen I realized a third grader could have done better. At least they might be fluent in HTML. Makes me want to pull out my walker and mumble, "Those kids these days!" I might even pull out a shall for a grand effect of showing how old I am.

Now I knew these two systems are not compatible, but really? Fonts? How hard is it to get fonts across these two giant corporations? I've known PC doesn't play well with Apple. I've gone back and forth between these two systems all my life. In the 8th grade my newspaper adviser brought in his own Mac so I could layout the student paper. However, when I got into high school we were still using the light board with exact-o knives to literally cut and paste the pages together. In college we re-entered the renaissance and I remember I got my own email account that I could access only from the library PC's. The "sophisticated" program was akin to the stupid C prompt. I didn't use it much. My Mom always had PC's for her business even though there was a subtle rivalry even within the family as her oldest sister only worked on Macs. I can't believe it's now 2009 and the rivalry continues. Even within my own home we have a semi-working PC (it's the laptop with the shattered screen hooked up to the monitor that once belonged to the dead desk hard drive), and the sleek new sophisticated beautiful Mac Book Pro. Can you tell which one I'm working on primarily? I'll give you a hint: I have a ton of cords. *sigh* Well, that and I probably wouldn't have spent 5 hours working on fonts on a computer that wouldn't show the glories of my efforts!

Now several of you are probably wondering what the Hell happened to me. It's been like a month since I posted! Last time I checked the site she was going on and on about New England and then, poof! she's gone! It's called moving, folks. Come on, say it with me: "C-r-a-z-y."

So here is a brief summary of what I've been doing in the past month: Canoe down the Charles River to watch the fireworks for the 4th of July, insanely decide to make a last minute trip to Utah to see the family, have a great dinner with my brother and his wife, hang out with my husbands grandparents, play up in the canyons, make dinner for my in-laws, come back from 4 days behind the Zion curtain to find Edgar's paws to be a bit tender because the dog sitters played fetch on hot asphalt, proceed to carry Edgar "Skittle Toes" around the house for 2 days because he's too tender to walk, lick my emotional wounds, let college students pack our belongings in one day (a.k.a. sure it makes sense to put the pantry items like flour in with the scented candles!), pay 3 burly men to drag/carry our belongings onto a truck, spend a lot of money in buying every moving crew lunch plus tipping them, clean the empty apartment like mad men while trying to assure J that perfection is not needed, go stay with Boston Mom, take a side trip to Kennibunkport, Maine where the secret service guys like to hang to guard George Sr. and Barb, proceed to travel West staying in such glamorous spots like Cleveland and Lake Geneva, send postcards to nieces and nephews along the way so they can track your journey across the USA and learn little history lessons to boot, lament you don't have enough time this trip to do such diversions like Niagara Falls (something you promised you'd do on the trip West when you ran out of time going East), wish Wegman's Supermarket was national, learn our new mortgage person is not a detail oriented person (not good, folks), close on the house, have an awesome dinner with our Realtor, have the Boston shipment arrive the next morning, have the Utah shipment arrive a few days later, play "guess what's in this box?" game, play the "why in the world did I pay to store this crap for 3 years in Utah?" game, wrestle with self-examination and life purpose (you know, a light diversion), realize that queen bed box mattresses do not fit up the steep stairs, put 2 queen box springs in the dining room while you ponder what to do next, realize that you accidentally gave the Pottery Barn sofa slipcovers to Goodwill instead of the 2 bags of clothes that haven't fit since 2005, lament and grieve stupidity of having a naked couch and hope that a bargan hunter is enjoying the slipcovers, search for jobs, bake cookies for neighbors, learn you didn't make enough cookies for people 4 houses down who heard the new neighbors were giving out cookies, rejoice that you have your beloved high efficiency washer/dryer back, hear from niece and nephew's mom that while they enjoyed the postcards the kids keep asking for a lobster dinner now, take Edgar for walks so he can chase bunnies/squirrels/chipmunks and enjoy the fireflies, try to coordinate with Mom about coming for a visit, have a vegan picnic with work people at the lake front, go into a cooking frenzy, learn you've been eliminated in a job search you really wanted, do more self-examination, watch chipmunk steal new budding lemons off of "Lucinda the Lemon Tree" and curse them, bring Lucinda inside, watch husband obsess about CAT cable vs. Ethernet or whatever sprawling all over the house when considering ISP service, discover the stupidity of previous home owners in their "quick fixes" and random holes in walls/floors, make multiple trips to local hardware store and Home Depot, read mindless novels, obsess about how to fix the wool rug smell, do more self-examination, worry about things you can't control, and finally get tired of living in the maze of boxes, oddly prioritize organizing the guest room first (looks great, by the way), do more extreme gourmet cooking, work on blog, and finally decide that you will get one more room organized before the end of the day.

So there you have it. I have had a lot of experiences that do warrant more explicit blog entries. Believe me, there have been a lot of instances in the past few weeks that I have commented to my husband that it was blog-worthy, but alas no time. Well, no time and we just got internet 2 days ago.

Yankee Doodle Dandy

When I was younger I never understood the odd fascination Ginny had with magazines. One in particular caught my eye: Yankee Magazine. Why in the world would a woman who lived on a ranch in Oakley, Utah keep a subscription dedicated to New England living? It made sense to me that she kept Sunset; after all, it was dedicated to living in the West. But really, Yankee?

Yesterday my adopted Boston mom took J and I up to one of her favorite places in the world: Rockport, Massachusetts. Her story is one of both independent marriage migration from New Jersey to New Hampshire, Boston to Chicago, and San Diego back to Boston. She had to leave home to find it. Her love affair with New England is palpable and when I was ruled by my back pain, she kept me entertained with stories of her journeys and places to which she felt a natural affinity. There she was taking my blood pressure and chirping away about kayaking on Spy Pond or taking the train to the New Jersey shore. Ever since we learned our time in Boston was limited, Judy's urgency and drive to play tour guide grew stronger. We specifically blocked out yesterday just for her, which was no small feat but something so worth while.

As J's and my time dwindles in Boston, our bucket list seems to grow longer. We've played tourist this past week by eating at the Nation's oldest restaurant The Union Oyster House, taking the T down to the common and catching a movie, and renting a canoe to take Edgar down the Charles River with a picnic to hear the Boston Pops and watch the fireworks explode over our heads. There we moored with a couple who had made this a ritual for 6 years and knew the ropes, so to speak. The current of the river is strong and they brought their own anchor as well as a small motor to get back upstream after the show. Thank God we met Rachelle and Peter otherwise we would have been paddling aimlessly around the river during the whole show. The Coast Guard isn't exactly friendly and strictly enforces the rule that all watercraft must be either in transit or at least 100 feet away from the shore. They don't tell you where you can go, but they make it very clear you can't stay where you are. By the end of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" there were 5 canoes and kayaks tied to Rachelle and Peter's boat. You could almost feel the small anchor groaning. Although we couldn't hear the music, the drunken choirs on all the yachts surrounding us would catch small chords of the song and keep echoing the embellished chorus of "so good, so good, so good" over and over again. Oddly enough, Peter is from Wisconsin. While J and Peter discussed the merits of taking a ferry from Michigan to Wisconsin on our upcoming cross country adventure, I learned all about Rachelle's masters in children's theater and her recent discovery of the Twilight series. Not bad for someone who is 62 and just bought her first house to claim she is now finally "settled and grown up." Rachelle, originally from California, talked about how she never thought she'd end up in Boston and how hard it was to start friendships here 14 years ago. We talked about how it can be hard to find friends here as they are a little slow to trust, but once you are let into their lives it's forever. My friendship with Judy was much like that only oddly enough I was the one who was slow to let down my guard. So much for the stereotype of the East Coast natives being the ones with so many boundaries.

We arrived at Judy's house late yesterday afternoon, which wasn't an issue. She nurtured our lateness and said we deserved to take it easy after such a demanding year. There I saw the photograph of J and I at my graduation framed on her mantle next to photos of her daughter and soon to be son-in-law. Not even my own family has photos of us on the mantle, but they aren't exactly the family photos on display kind of people. Judy shuffled us into her car and we began our trek up to Rockport, Massachusetts. The small Cape Ann town is home of such films like "The Witches of Eastwick" and "The Proposal." We wandered around Bearskin Neck to her favorite art gallery where she promptly bought an oil painting of two girls on the beach. We had lunch at a very elegant restaurant on the point complete with harbor views, sailcloth curtains, whitewash clapboard, and fresh fish sandwiches. As we talked about her daughter's upcoming wedding and the pondering of grandchildren she said, "You can't make wine before it's time." I realized it was a very Ginny thing to say. I also wondered if this was a town Ginny and Pop visited on their RV adventures through New England during retirement. Was it a town highlighted in Yankee Magazine she felt drawn towards?

We wandered around the little shops drawn into places that made "witches balls" - colorful hand blown glass balls with spider web strands inside to attract and capture evil spirits before they enter your home. We found local pottery, adorable crocheted baby sun hats and homemade fudge before finding the new age store. There crystals, tarot, and books on numerology ruled the shelves. J could only take so much of the chanting cd, but Judy and I perused the books on body-mind connections and various essential oils. She bought a book about mediums and inquired the Gaia inspired women about the meaning of the number 7 in her life. She was born on 7/7, one of 7 children, several 7's in her license and phone numbers. They were more than happy to oblige and I once again realized another connection to Judy. 7 is the number of the mystic and who would have thought new age would be yet another connecting point for us.

By the end of the day we took our Arnold Palmer's back to the car and discussed medicine, given the common connection between Judy and J's careers. We got caught in the 4th of July weekender traffic coming from Maine, but it gave us an excuse to take the scenic route through the Mystic Valley and Arlington. Before we departed from her home, she insisted upon lending us her recent copy of Yankee Magazine. She thought it would be good for us as there were some articles about lighthouses and Maine - places we may want to visit before we left.

This morning, for the first time in my life, I sat with a cup of coffee and read the whole magazine. I was captured by the photographs of Adirondack chairs, suggestions of bed and breakfasts around Maine, and the preservation of small towns in New Hampshire. I finally "got it" about life in New England. The juxtaposition of busy city life to small town heritage and small town preservation movements over simple things like colonial rock walls appealed to my soul the same way I fell in love with Ginny's herb garden.

Perhaps I'm over-romanticizing it or perhaps I'm just a little nostalgic, but I believe that people are sent into your life for a reason. Last year I lost Ginny, but within months I was given the gift of Judy. Who knows, I just might get a subscription to Yankee Magazine sent to my Wisconsin home.

They Come in Three's...

I don't know about you, but I'm on "Breaking News" overload. But it's also hard to turn it off. Here's my prediction: death due to poly-drug addiction, custody battle over kids which will probably result in them being split up, and more exposure about child abuse (either his own as a kid or the lawsuits against him). Shocker, right? Not really. This is what the news has been like for the past week for Ed, Farrah, and Michael:

I have to give credit where credit is due.

The Role of Families, Villages, and Possibilities

I have to say that one of my personal heroes is my cousin. She has gone through amazing personal battles and let the world into her history as her own nuclear family develops. It takes true courage to be that raw and honest. It's a battle our whole family faces, genetically and socially: addiction.

When I began this project of blogging, Joey and I would email one another pretty consistently. I first used this forum as a way of making sense of the world from the gifts and baggage everyone inherits from their family. I just found mine to be particularly humorous. She struggled with how much personal stuff does one release into the world? A couple of years after we wrestled with this topic via email to find personal balance, she was published in a major Eastern newspaper. The story was intensely intimate about her struggle with addiction and debating if you explain it to your child. I was in awe of her bravery.

Don't get me wrong; my blog has caused its own share of problems within my family. I figure you have to laugh at times otherwise it just becomes too painful. I don't think that my family is all that different from others; I just choose to put it "out there." No one is really supposed to put it "out there," and yet there is a slew of people who relate to it. Why? Because it's familiar, duh. Like it or not, addiction touches everyone in some way or fashion.

I find I cannot write about myself in isolation. I wasn't raised all by myself. Families play a huge part. They shape how you view the world and give a baseline for what is normal. Stories about my family of origin waxes and wanes through my entries. I'm still trying to find what is a comfortable balance. When I share it is typically a humorous story. The painful ones typically live in my head as third party dialogues which might make a suitable screenplay one day. In fact, one of the signs I'm not coping well is when I begin to write scripts in my head. I never intend to hurt my loved ones with my shared stories. I do intend to make people laugh a little and feel a little less isolated in their own experiences. I find I do that pretty well. One scene I particularly relate to is in the trailer of Spanglish between Cloris Leachman and Tea Leone. There can be humor.

As my husband and I begin our process of departing Boston, we realize we're entering a new chapter of our lives. One that may or may not involve children of our own. Nothing like a good family of origin trigger than considering birthing your own. Well, that and having my Mom deal with her knee surgery with painkillers and wine. It makes me consider my boundaries once again with my family. It also causes one to take serious self-inventory of potentially scary patterns. Example of inner dialogue: "Do I have addictive personality traits? How are they triggered? How are they controlled? Am I using all or nothing / black and white thinking? Oh my God, THAT ALONE is a trait of addictive thinking!" I've been reassured a number of times that I'm nowhere near addiction, and yet a certain unsubstantiated anxiety exists. I'm certain I'm driving J and my therapist nuts.

One of the big considerations of starting a family for J and I is the proximity to our families for support. Most of my girlfriends live near family - to which all rely on quite a bit for support. There are others who have family relatively close, but for one reason or another they are not as active in their lives. I realize it's possible to have children near or far away from family and still get the support you need from other sources.

It's been almost a year since I've seen my Dad and brother. It wasn't a happy visit due to Ginny's death. And yes, there was a lot of alcohol involved. I remember at that time talking to my parents and letting them know that if they choose to keep their lifestyle the same, they should be aware they will not see their grandchildren after 5:00 P.M.. My mother immediately said that she would change. My father simply said that I need to do what I need to do, which was fine by him. It was heartbreaking.

I grew up in a family where literally we were raised by the village. Cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even elderly neighbors played a HUGE role. There were sleepovers and family dinners, all of which will not happen for my children with their maternal side. It makes visiting family even more difficult when you are out of state. The 5:00 rule appears unenforceable when you are staying at each other's respective houses. At least if we lived in the same city, J and I could take our children home when cocktail hour begins to spin. I'm beyond trying to control their consumption. I did that in junior high by pouring $40 worth of gin down the drain purposefully on a Saturday night, knowing the liquor stores would be closed on Sunday. All I can control now is what I choose to expose my own personal family to and by giving my parents informed decision making power. (Some would say this is rationalization, but the purpose is strikingly different.)

This upcoming move has caused a lot to come into focus which also yields a lot of grief. I don't grieve what I have in my family relationships. I grieve what I wish I could have had. How would things be different if the bottle wasn't involved? I love my family dearly. I just wish I could have more of them.

Getting Ahead of Myself

As we move closer and closer to the date of the move, I'm finding that the thin lacquer of denial is cracking and crumbling. Even if I can actively and willfully procrastinate packing by watching the last DVD of John Adams, the inevitable shows up in my unconscious. Last night I was fraught with dreams of repainting fascia and eves on our new house only to realize that the old owners hadn't moved out yet. Buying a house means there are a lot of projects - several of them I am well aware of thanks to the inspection. I realize I am aware of them while my husband has been blissfully unaware by busy finishing up his year of fellowship. I have pretty much handled this whole transaction single handedly much like my first purchase 5 years ago back in SLC. J is blissfully unaware of what a sister joint is, what premiums we're considering for homeowners insurance, the billions of copies of bank statements / taxes / IRAs / W2's / promise of our first born I've overnighted to corporate, what our monthly average energy bill will be, and what is involved in solving the ice damming problem from the inside of the house.

Instead he is more concerned about aesthetics. For example, one of the previous owners of our 1927 gem actually (gasp) cut the french doors off at the base to clear the carpet (most likely shag) they installed leading from the foyer into the living room. Since the house has been restored to the hardwood floors, the original french doors are a bit short. He's been scheming on how to restore the doors. I'm more concerned with practical things like buying a dehumidifier for the basement; apparently, it's a must for Milwaukee. I'm waiting for him to begin to perseverate on how to patch the awful hole in the wall the current owners drilled to install a flat screen TV with cable access. Honestly, he doesn't have time to really think about these things has he should be studying for boards. But, alas, those books remain on the shelves while he attempts to figure out how to merge iTunes accounts on our MacBook Pro and dream of how to stream it to our stereo.

If you have followed my blog for awhile you know that I have a secret love affair with Home Depot and DIY. I *think* I'm more handy than perhaps I truly am, but I have a huge spirit with need for learning and projects. I'll barrel into things head first. For example? I'd like to refinish the front door. But it will be highly difficult with my husband lurking about over the next two months as he will want to meddle and become distracted from studying for boards. Boards are his top priority. Ok, well, they are my first priority and yet I have little control over them. 100% honesty? I have absolutely no control over them. There I said it. So I sublimate my energy into things I can accomplish. A house is a perfect solution. Now, if only my back with cooperate and somehow convince J to go study anywhere else besides home...

Alas, I get ahead of myself. First thing is first: those damn empty flattened boxes in the basement we saved from last year. Wouldn't you know I can't deafen out their cries any longer and have got to fill them with our treasures and worldly goods.