Month: February 2008

Countin’ ’em

*sigh* Monday. It’s Monday again. Why God why?!?!?

I guess cuz it has to be.

Granted, I had today off. Not because of the holiday. My company doesn’t give us that one off. Nah. I took a few days vacation.

I was honored, over the weekend, to have a visit from my best friend. She lives in Las Cruces and made quite a long trip to get here. Should have gone easy, but due to inclement weather somewhere or other, she languished in the unfathomably ugly Phoenix airport, cutting short our visit time by several hours.

We hadn’t had the chance to be together in person for quite a while. October, I think, was the last gathering in New Mexico. She hadn’t been this way for years.

The occasion of her visit was to begin her duties as my Matron of Honor (what a terrible thing to call a nice married lady…”matron”, feh!).

Those duties included 1) calming my ass down, 2) helping me look at wedding magazines without crying in anxiety and 3) going with me to choose a wedding dress.

It is that last one, the wedding dress one, where she earned her combat pay.

Despite having been in several weddings, I’ve never had the, uh, agony, pleasure, of going with a friend through the whole dress buying process.

Through the recommendation of a work friend, I found a place in San Francisco (right off Union Square) that you can choose from their “menu” and they make you a custom fit dress. The friend that made the recommend doesn’t have a model perfect bod, and I saw her wedding photos. She looked *stunning*. I figured these were the people to work some magic.

Let’s review. 1) wedding dress shopping, 2) in San Francisco, 3) off Union Square, 4) getting measured.

I. Was. Terrified.

The good news is, as of this year, my friend has been my best friend for, count ’em, twenty years. Yup, met back in 1988. Oh the lives we’ve lived since then.

So I felt comfortable in the presence of The Good Man and The Best Friend to say, “I’m scared.”

And bless them both, they talked me down, fed me breakfast, told me I’d be great and brought me to the fifth story, blonde-wood floored dress shop feeling strong and confident and loved.

As an aside, let me tell you this bit of Too Much Information. At the shop, they hand you a strapless bra, some really awful gold lamé shoes, tell you to strip down and we’ll be right back with dresses for you to try on.

I wore a pair of steel belted control top hose to try to better my chances. So there I stood, shivering in a billowy curtained dressing room wearing black hose, a strapless bra and gold shoes. The urge to wheeze, “anyone want a cocktail” like a Reno waitress was too much to bear.

I stood there, horribly nervous and horribly uncomfortable and I looked over at my friend. She gave me an “it’s going to be ok look” and all I could do was bust out laughing.

The laughing stopped when they slipped the first dress over my head. Who knew I had a waist? Who knew I could actually pull off a strapless?

My friend was brutally honest with me on each dress we tried on and after an hour and a half, I think we’ve settled on a good one.

After that, the rest of the weekend was easy. We did sightseeing and had good eats. I got the rare chance to spend several days with my two most favorite people in the world. And was so gratified to see how well they got along with each other, as well.

I choked back a lot of tears this morning dropping her off at the airport. She has to get home to my two gorgeous goddaughters and her husband as well. I’ll see her again soon, but tonight my heart aches.

I miss my best friend, each day, very much.

Together she and I have learned a lot of lessons.

The most recent, from the dress shop employee.

The key to femininity is:

Spanx and a sash.

And she’s not lying, that sh*t can work wonders!

Most people in this world, if asked to make a party list, can fill a page with a list of friends. I cannot. I have very few friends, but the friends I do have mean everything to me. They are more than friends, they are family.

For that, I am grateful.

Add to that, my friend carted a bag of Hatch grown green chile out here and whipped up a batch of rellenos Sunday night that would make you cry (and I think The Good Man and I did weep, just a little, in gratitude). THAT is love.

Photo below to make you drool.

Misremembered

It’s now firmly a part of our lexicon. Thank you Roger freaking Clemens.

I listened to bits and pieces of his testimony before Congress Wednesday regarding his use of illegal and banned substances and was shocked and appalled by the behavior on both sides of the conversation.

The day was all about tossing people under the bus.

Chuck Knoblauch, a bit player at best, tossed Clemens under.

Andy Pettitte, Clemens supposed best friend, whoosh, tossed Clemens under the bus.

And then Clemens went ahead and tossed his wife right on under.

Good times.

And in the finest hour, Clemens said that Pettitte, his best friend, must have “misremembered” when he told investigators that Clemens had used performance enhancing substances.

And the Congressmen were no better firing off supposition and innuendo. What we have here is a modern day McCarthy trial. These Congressmen are so keen to go after the superstars that they’ll listen to any sub-Mendoza Line player who got name checked in the Mitchell Report who wants to squeal out names in order to distance themselves from the circus.

Re-freaking-diculous.

It was bad what they did to Bonds. It’s bad what they are doing to Clemens. It’s bad for baseball.

And in the end, baseball will prevail. Because it will.

“The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it’s a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh… people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.”

–Terence Mann, Field of Dreams.

Glad I watched this movie again last week. Because I need to believe again in the magic of the game I love.

Am I a baseball purist that expects each player to be pristine and au natural? No. But do I condone steroids? No.

I just want to put this awful witch hunt behind us and move on.

Did anyone even notice that Giants pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training, uh, Wednesday?

I choose to think about that. And pray to whichever entity you choose that I can “misremember” the events of this week.

Now. Gentlemen, play ball.

Photo by Karen Fayeth

From the Heart

I wrote up a blog post last night about the Congressional investigation of Roger Clemens and yesterday’s hearings. It’s a good post, and will see the light of day tomorrow, I think.

I’m delaying that one mainly because I took stock of today’s date. And realized my baseball vitriol can last another day.

Today is about love, baby.

So my words will be those of love and gratitude for a very special person.

Someone who has been there from day one, and will be there when I take my last breath. Unfailingly.

Over the years, we’ve had a rocky relationship.

Look, let me just be blunt. I’ve abused this person. Treated her bad. Called her names. Ignored her complaints about pain, hunger or hurt feelings. Pushed her too hard, even when I knew she was insecure. I’ve made her mad. Made her cry. Made her eat cabbage soup or Slim Fast instead of real food. Or starved her. Or made her overeat the point of exhaustion. Didn’t believe in her. Told her she wasn’t talented. Told her she was dumb. Unlovable. Unworthy. Useless.

We’ve had good times too. Trips to fascinating places. She always shows the wild-eyed wonder of a child when visiting somewhere new.

She’s got a great sense of humor. She has a heart built for loving and being loved. She is an artist; sensitive, kind, with emotions that run deep. She looks at the world with a different set of eyes than most, and oddly, can manage to find something good about even seemingly unkind people. She has a knack for finding the human in the heart of even the fiercest person (including the CEO of her own company, one time, in a strange interaction in the cafeteria).

She’s also one hell of a businesswoman when she turns it on. She used to love to turn that part of her on, but lately, it doesn’t matter all that much anymore. Negotiating deals doesn’t provide that natural high. All that arguing is just tiresome.

And she’s struggling with that realization.

She is respected for the work she does for her employer, even though she never gives herself any credit for it. She’ll compliment her employees but forget to thank herself.

She’s always been smart, but as the years go by, she’s becoming more intuitive. Smarts only take you so far. Wits get you across the finish line.

Someday, she may even learn to love herself, at least a little bit.

And the love of a good man has helped her see herself with a new set of eyes. Seeing herself through his eyes, she knows she is lovable, and worthy, and talented, and more.

That same good man makes her want to continue to work really hard to be the best person she can possibly be, because he deserves nothing less.

I admire her tenacity. I just wish she wouldn’t worry so much.

And so today, with as much love as I have, I give the candy hearts and paper flowers to the one who will always be there through thick and thin.

My ownself.

It’s time to treat myself nice. So be it, and so it is.

You have no idea how much hard mental work it’s taken me to get to a place where I could even write this, much less share it publicly.

And so with that, I say Happy Valentine’s Day to all.

May you love yourself as much as you love the people in your life.

"Let me tell you how it will be

There’s one for you, nineteen for me

Cos I’m the taxman, yeah, I’m the taxman”**

Ah yes, it’s that time of year again.

Paid a visit to Mr. Tax Man today. A good man. Conservative. Just what I want in a tax preparer.

I sold a couple shares of stock this year. So Uncle Sam will come whistlin’ through my paycheck before April. Ouch.

I asked Mr. Tax Man if he thought the planned rebates would help stimulate the sagging economy. He said he didn’t see how since the last one didn’t either.

Oh well. All my employees are madly scouring their W2’s to see if they get the rebate. One will miss it by $800. An f-bomb was issued in response. No rebate will be coming my way. *sigh*

So it goes. I remember taxes always made my Dad incredibly tense back in the day. I’m rather happy to give money to a professional to worry about such things. I give him my ragtag pile of documents and he makes magic.

It’s all good.

“If you drive a car, I’ll tax the street
If you try to sit, I’ll tax your seat
If you get too cold, I’ll tax the heat
If you take a walk, I’ll tax your feet”

**with thanks and acknowledgement to The Beatles for writin’ it and Stevie Ray Vaughan for making it move.

The Good Child

I used to be that. I was the one that didn’t get into trouble. And when I did get into trouble, it *pained* me. I worked long and hard my whole life to “go along to get along”.

But not always. And not as much lately.

Been doing a lot of “head work”. You know the kind where you go sit on a couch and talk about your feelings? It’s hard work, but as I work at it, I find, I don’t always like sitting there being a good girl anymore.

And that’s ok. What’s not ok is the guilt I still have about it.

Tonight I went to the book club at my local library. For this month, we read “Three Cups of Tea” by Greg Mortenson and David Relin.

The book, roughly, is about a guy who tried to scale K2 in Pakistan, but didn’t make it to the summit. While wandering around, hungry, disoriented and lost, he finds himself in the tiny village of Korphe, where the villagers care for him. While there he sees the sad state of schools in the village, children study outside and share a teacher with another village, and vows to build them a school. This sets off a long journey around building a series of schools in a fairly hostile country.

It’s a wonderful story. But in my opinion, the writing in the book is truly awful. And this is a book club, right?

So the discussion group I attend, it’s mostly elderly folks. They are really wonderful and I enjoy them. But I get tired of the need for everyone to agree. Every time the book club starts, the librarian asks, “how did everyone like the book.” Everyone always likes the book. Everyone but one. Me.

I have become, in the bounds of this book club, the proverbial turd in the punchbowl.

And the cheese stands alone.

I don’t *try* to be disagreeable. I just like a lively discussion. But I think these fine folks think I’m a rabble-rouser.

Which, if you know me, is pretty funny. I’m feisty, sure, but there is that whole ingrained “go along to get along” thing.

Maybe this therapy thing is working? Because tonight I’m ALL fired up. I do feel a little guilty for not being the good girl, but I’m working through it. I am not sure the people enjoyed my point of view, but I thought I made some darn good points.

We don’t *always* have to agree in order to get along. Right?

Or is that just me……………