As most people who know me realize, I am deployed right now. Things are not quite as easy when you are deployed as they are back home. There are many things that you just don't have regular access to and take for granted when you are home. Things like scanners, faxes, and reliable internet.
There is a system that myself and one other guy needs access to. It is not a big deal system or anything like that, just something we need that will make our jobs easier in the deployed location. There is a particular form that needed to be signed by three people in three different locations in two different countries in order to get this access. Fine. It took three days go get this done and sent back, even electronically, but we did it. Yay us.
Today, I get the following email:
Ilisa,
The copy that you sent was illegible and *** didn't want to accept it. Can
you please try to send me a clearer one? Thanks for trying.
Stan
************************************************************************************
As I am sure you can only imagine, here is the response I sent:
Stan,
I am not directing the following rant at you, obviously.
But are they SHITTING ME???? Do those people at *** KNOW where **** and I are??? They are lucky to have gotten ANYthing at all from us. It's not like we have faxes and scanners at our disposal whenever we want to use them. Neither **** nor I even have a dedicated workstation! I have to use my HOME laptop for half the shit I send out for crying out loud and I am LUCKY to have internet access at all! Half the time even THAT doesn't work!
I cannot believe that in a deployed situation, those people are going to give you shit and get anal about some administrative paper-pusher bullshit that was probably called out by someone who has to justify their existence somehow. Now *** and I, who aren't even in the same vicinity as one another, are going to be the ones forced to jump through hoops to get "legible" copies. IS THAT REALLY WHAT THEY ARE TELLING YOU??? My god!! It isn't like we are asking for the keys to Fort fucking Knox, here. Perhaps I will be better off sending the signed copies via CARRIER PIGEON.
************************************************************************************
Heavy heavy sigh. My public service announcement for the night...Don't send out emails when you're angry.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
A night out!
Last night I had to opportunity to eat out at a restaurant. The place is called Monal and it is located 3900 feet up in the Margalla Hills in Pakistan. It is the largest restaurant in the country and the scariest drive I have ever been on.
Growing up in NY, there was a place in New Paltz that took you though some mountain roads as you went up towards Kerhonkson. There was one spot in particular that had a hairpin turn. Used to be a test of driving skills to make your way up. Then I got here.
The almost 4,000 foot drive up the mountain was like the hairpin turn of New Paltz on crack. I had to pop my ears about 7 different times, and I believe that I came close to heart failure at several points along the way (both up and down the mountain). To say nothing of the wild boars, monkeys (yes, monkeys), and foxes running in the road.
When we finally arrived at Molan, and got past the guards with automatic rifles, it took my breath away. It was the most beautiful restaurant I had ever been too. It was almost completely outdoors and we chose to sit at the farthest edge of the seating area with a spectacular view of Islamabad at night.
The food was excellent. I had a chicken spinach crepe dish that was scrumptious. As the night went on, we were all quite cold, even though they had fire lamp heaters at our table. So once we were done with eating, we were pretty eager to get to the warmth of our vehicle. Personally I spent the walk to the car mentally preparing myself for the journey back down the mountain. Eeek! My hands were sweaty even before we were half way down. hee hee!
I wish I had some pictures for you, but it was dark outside and I didn't bring my camera. We do intend to go there again at some point and I will take my camera for sure when we do. You could probably google some pictures of the place too.
Growing up in NY, there was a place in New Paltz that took you though some mountain roads as you went up towards Kerhonkson. There was one spot in particular that had a hairpin turn. Used to be a test of driving skills to make your way up. Then I got here.
The almost 4,000 foot drive up the mountain was like the hairpin turn of New Paltz on crack. I had to pop my ears about 7 different times, and I believe that I came close to heart failure at several points along the way (both up and down the mountain). To say nothing of the wild boars, monkeys (yes, monkeys), and foxes running in the road.
When we finally arrived at Molan, and got past the guards with automatic rifles, it took my breath away. It was the most beautiful restaurant I had ever been too. It was almost completely outdoors and we chose to sit at the farthest edge of the seating area with a spectacular view of Islamabad at night.
The food was excellent. I had a chicken spinach crepe dish that was scrumptious. As the night went on, we were all quite cold, even though they had fire lamp heaters at our table. So once we were done with eating, we were pretty eager to get to the warmth of our vehicle. Personally I spent the walk to the car mentally preparing myself for the journey back down the mountain. Eeek! My hands were sweaty even before we were half way down. hee hee!
I wish I had some pictures for you, but it was dark outside and I didn't bring my camera. We do intend to go there again at some point and I will take my camera for sure when we do. You could probably google some pictures of the place too.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Dear Abby
Yesterday I was reading the Dear Abby column in our local Stars and Stripes newspaper (which I enjoy reading when I am overseas) and while I will read it every day and 3 seconds after I am done with it the memory of the letters written are gone, yesterday's was different. I can't stop thinking about this letter.
A woman was writing in for some advice about her neighbors (on both sides of her home). The lots are tiny, separated by only the driveway and both sets of neighbors are smokers. They insist on throwing their cigarette butts into her yard. She has, until now, simply gone out with a trash bag and picked up the butts from her yard. I am thinking to myself as I am reading this, "Hell nah! You need to walk you ass over there and tell those nasty ass people to stop throwing their nasty ass butts into your yard!" The next part of her letter addresses my idea, although much less rudely. She said she had thought of saying something to them, but they are trouble makers and rather than stir up the pot, for the sake and safety of her two year old children who like to play in the front yard (and subsequently pick up cigarette butts and put them in their mouths which is where everything goes when you are two), she would rather not. The advice Dear Abby gave her was probably spot on. She told the writer (paraphrasing here) that she was smart not to confront the troublemaker neighbors. She needed to keep picking up the butts and just have her children play in the backyard with her keeping a close watch on them.
I was troubled by this on so many levels that I probably don't have the room to address all of it here. Now, normally I am a hard-ass when it comes to people popping out puppies that they can't afford to feed, clothe and shelter properly and safely. I am not really sure why I am feeling compassionate for this particular advice seeker. But I find her situation disheartening. To live in a place where you are forced to submit to the actions of others because you are too afraid for yourself and your family to ask that the people giving you issue refrain from doing so, must be just horrible. Her children can't go outside and play. I can't imagine what it would have been like as a child to not be allowed to go outside and play. My entire wonder-filled childhood memory bank is chock full of memories of me going off ALONE through the woods, the trails, or the streets and the shopping centers. Without fear. And I promise you that if my father even for one second feared for our safety he would never have allowed that wandering, or adventuring to take place. And we grew up dirt poor.
My very first home that I bought with my own money was a condo in what used to be a fairly upscale part of Ft Lauderdale called "Inverrary". Over the past several decades it went from owner-occupied condos to renters. Because renters generally bring down property values (people just don't care if they don't own it) in the majority of neighborhoods, my neighbors were no different. I was in my condo one day and some new renters (one of MANY horrible neighbors) had moved into the unit one floor below me. I would sit out on my terrace and smell the pot as it wafted upwards (i plead the 5th on my opinion of this particular item), but what really bothered me was their music. It was so loud it shook my condo constantly. All day and all night. I remember taking my bar stools that sat at my kitchen counter and slamming them on the floor (his ceiling) in the hopes that he would turn it down so I could sleep, but it never worked. Finally I got fed up one Saturday morning and I marched my ass down to his unit and banged on his door. He refused to answer so I banged and banged and finally kicked the door over and over again for close to an hour before he finally opened the door and said "WHAT??!!" Well, the guy that stood before me was about 6' 1", heroin thin, prison tattoos, and had gold teeth. I actually hesitated for a second, but my stubborn ass wasn't going to let this go after coming this far.
I proceeded to tell him that his f'n music and his f'n pot smoking were making my life miserable and if he didn't believe it that he needed to come up to my unit and listen to what it sounds like from there so he could see what the hell I was talking about. He told me he can't come up. I asked him why not and he proceeds to lift up the leg of his pants and show me the police monitor bracelet around his ankle. Charming. OK then. But after all that, he agreed to turn down his music. And he did it. I imagine that the ankle bracelet kept me sort of safe because he couldn't really come up and kill me in the middle of the night without risking the alarm going off at police headquarters, but still.
My point is, obviously you can't call the police on someone for throwing cigarette butts onto your lawn because that is just a waste of police resources. You can't just tell her to move because we all know in this day, it is just not always that simple. I suppose she could do what I did and risk the consequences of asking them to not throw their butts in her lawn any more. But if she or the neighbors come of as confrontational, she could be putting herself and her kids in danger. I don't know if I have any better advice than what Dear Abby gave her. But I do know that I feel for her and how horrible it must be to live in a bad situation day after day and never be able to find a way out. Very few people love their job so most people will look forward to coming home at night. They look to their home as a sanctuary and a break from their lives day to day. This woman doesn't have that. Going home is no better than going to work. Perhaps she tried and for her efforts she got stuck with lousy neighbors. I am pretty darn grateful that I am not in her situation today.
A woman was writing in for some advice about her neighbors (on both sides of her home). The lots are tiny, separated by only the driveway and both sets of neighbors are smokers. They insist on throwing their cigarette butts into her yard. She has, until now, simply gone out with a trash bag and picked up the butts from her yard. I am thinking to myself as I am reading this, "Hell nah! You need to walk you ass over there and tell those nasty ass people to stop throwing their nasty ass butts into your yard!" The next part of her letter addresses my idea, although much less rudely. She said she had thought of saying something to them, but they are trouble makers and rather than stir up the pot, for the sake and safety of her two year old children who like to play in the front yard (and subsequently pick up cigarette butts and put them in their mouths which is where everything goes when you are two), she would rather not. The advice Dear Abby gave her was probably spot on. She told the writer (paraphrasing here) that she was smart not to confront the troublemaker neighbors. She needed to keep picking up the butts and just have her children play in the backyard with her keeping a close watch on them.
I was troubled by this on so many levels that I probably don't have the room to address all of it here. Now, normally I am a hard-ass when it comes to people popping out puppies that they can't afford to feed, clothe and shelter properly and safely. I am not really sure why I am feeling compassionate for this particular advice seeker. But I find her situation disheartening. To live in a place where you are forced to submit to the actions of others because you are too afraid for yourself and your family to ask that the people giving you issue refrain from doing so, must be just horrible. Her children can't go outside and play. I can't imagine what it would have been like as a child to not be allowed to go outside and play. My entire wonder-filled childhood memory bank is chock full of memories of me going off ALONE through the woods, the trails, or the streets and the shopping centers. Without fear. And I promise you that if my father even for one second feared for our safety he would never have allowed that wandering, or adventuring to take place. And we grew up dirt poor.
My very first home that I bought with my own money was a condo in what used to be a fairly upscale part of Ft Lauderdale called "Inverrary". Over the past several decades it went from owner-occupied condos to renters. Because renters generally bring down property values (people just don't care if they don't own it) in the majority of neighborhoods, my neighbors were no different. I was in my condo one day and some new renters (one of MANY horrible neighbors) had moved into the unit one floor below me. I would sit out on my terrace and smell the pot as it wafted upwards (i plead the 5th on my opinion of this particular item), but what really bothered me was their music. It was so loud it shook my condo constantly. All day and all night. I remember taking my bar stools that sat at my kitchen counter and slamming them on the floor (his ceiling) in the hopes that he would turn it down so I could sleep, but it never worked. Finally I got fed up one Saturday morning and I marched my ass down to his unit and banged on his door. He refused to answer so I banged and banged and finally kicked the door over and over again for close to an hour before he finally opened the door and said "WHAT??!!" Well, the guy that stood before me was about 6' 1", heroin thin, prison tattoos, and had gold teeth. I actually hesitated for a second, but my stubborn ass wasn't going to let this go after coming this far.
I proceeded to tell him that his f'n music and his f'n pot smoking were making my life miserable and if he didn't believe it that he needed to come up to my unit and listen to what it sounds like from there so he could see what the hell I was talking about. He told me he can't come up. I asked him why not and he proceeds to lift up the leg of his pants and show me the police monitor bracelet around his ankle. Charming. OK then. But after all that, he agreed to turn down his music. And he did it. I imagine that the ankle bracelet kept me sort of safe because he couldn't really come up and kill me in the middle of the night without risking the alarm going off at police headquarters, but still.
My point is, obviously you can't call the police on someone for throwing cigarette butts onto your lawn because that is just a waste of police resources. You can't just tell her to move because we all know in this day, it is just not always that simple. I suppose she could do what I did and risk the consequences of asking them to not throw their butts in her lawn any more. But if she or the neighbors come of as confrontational, she could be putting herself and her kids in danger. I don't know if I have any better advice than what Dear Abby gave her. But I do know that I feel for her and how horrible it must be to live in a bad situation day after day and never be able to find a way out. Very few people love their job so most people will look forward to coming home at night. They look to their home as a sanctuary and a break from their lives day to day. This woman doesn't have that. Going home is no better than going to work. Perhaps she tried and for her efforts she got stuck with lousy neighbors. I am pretty darn grateful that I am not in her situation today.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
3 Lobsters In To a 12 Lobster Tour
I arrived to this deployment on "lobster night". I had just gotten done with 34 hours of air travel, zero sleep and the feeling of dried salt on my cheeks from the tears cried after leaving the love of my life for the next 6 months. It was exactly 30 nights ago tonight.
After going through the drama of getting into the compound of my deployed location, and believe you me, it is DRAMA, I was finally met by the guy I replaced (whom I knew from several previous assignments) and we picked up the key to my bunk and went off to chow. As we were walking along in the dark, with the tiny desert rocks crunching beneath our feet, he says to me, "You got here on a good night. It's lobster night." I wasn't really thinking too seriously about what he said, because I really didn't know my own name by that point, but as we walked into the DFAC (military for chow hall), sure enough, there were lobster tails steaming away behind the counter. Mashed potato's and corn ON the cob too. I grabbed me a plate. This was fan-fricken-tastic. I don't have so much as a RED lobster where I live, but here I am. With real lobster tails on my plate. Oh, and lest I forget...drawn butter. GAWD!
As we sit down and I am stuffing my face with rockin' lobster I ask if we eat this good all the time? He tells me that lobster night is every other Wednesday and has been since he got there. Awesome.
A part of me is almost ashamed to admit how happy I have been since I got here. The food is good (even if it is not lobster every night) and the salad fixin's are always fresh, I have a room where I sleep that is in a solid building, I work in a place that has afforded me the opportunity to work directly with people that I would otherwise NEVER have the opportunity to work with in my career, and tonight was lobster night, yet again. What more could anyone ask? I clearly have it better than most who are deployed. Hell, I even have it better than those poor Spam-eatin' cruise ship passengers who are currently stranded out in the middle of the ocean.
Time is pretty relative. I think everyone who is deployed, happy or not, counts down the days until they can be back with the people they love again. While I am not a clock-watcher per se, I count down too. There are several ways that military people tick off the days on their calenders. Modern technology has made this pretty easy. There are several Excell spreadsheets out there that do it for you. "The Donut Of Freedom" "The Donut of Misery", "The Circle Of Freedom" etc. They all count down the days you have served, the days you have remaining, and as each day goes by a circle with a picture emerges. My picture turns from a desloate desert to a white sandy beach with each day.
But tonight as I was chatting with my love, happily telling him that it was lobster night, he was supporitvely cheerful right along with me and told me that I was now 3 lobster nights in to at 12 lobster night tour. I like his countdown clock the best. Only 9 more lobster nights to go!
After going through the drama of getting into the compound of my deployed location, and believe you me, it is DRAMA, I was finally met by the guy I replaced (whom I knew from several previous assignments) and we picked up the key to my bunk and went off to chow. As we were walking along in the dark, with the tiny desert rocks crunching beneath our feet, he says to me, "You got here on a good night. It's lobster night." I wasn't really thinking too seriously about what he said, because I really didn't know my own name by that point, but as we walked into the DFAC (military for chow hall), sure enough, there were lobster tails steaming away behind the counter. Mashed potato's and corn ON the cob too. I grabbed me a plate. This was fan-fricken-tastic. I don't have so much as a RED lobster where I live, but here I am. With real lobster tails on my plate. Oh, and lest I forget...drawn butter. GAWD!
As we sit down and I am stuffing my face with rockin' lobster I ask if we eat this good all the time? He tells me that lobster night is every other Wednesday and has been since he got there. Awesome.
A part of me is almost ashamed to admit how happy I have been since I got here. The food is good (even if it is not lobster every night) and the salad fixin's are always fresh, I have a room where I sleep that is in a solid building, I work in a place that has afforded me the opportunity to work directly with people that I would otherwise NEVER have the opportunity to work with in my career, and tonight was lobster night, yet again. What more could anyone ask? I clearly have it better than most who are deployed. Hell, I even have it better than those poor Spam-eatin' cruise ship passengers who are currently stranded out in the middle of the ocean.
Time is pretty relative. I think everyone who is deployed, happy or not, counts down the days until they can be back with the people they love again. While I am not a clock-watcher per se, I count down too. There are several ways that military people tick off the days on their calenders. Modern technology has made this pretty easy. There are several Excell spreadsheets out there that do it for you. "The Donut Of Freedom" "The Donut of Misery", "The Circle Of Freedom" etc. They all count down the days you have served, the days you have remaining, and as each day goes by a circle with a picture emerges. My picture turns from a desloate desert to a white sandy beach with each day.
But tonight as I was chatting with my love, happily telling him that it was lobster night, he was supporitvely cheerful right along with me and told me that I was now 3 lobster nights in to at 12 lobster night tour. I like his countdown clock the best. Only 9 more lobster nights to go!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Standing out
I am a pretty happy person. I tend to be optimistic, although realistic, about life in general. As such, a few weeks prior to my deployment I started to get my head in the right place. Thinking about all the good things and postivie things that were going to come from this experience. One of those things, which may seem minor to some, is that I got to be away from any children for a full 6 months. That has been great. Love it.
However, being someplace without any children has one drawback that I never saw comming. When I (meaning me in particular) am someplace where there are no children, I become the smallest thing walking around the joint. When I first got here, people would stare and laugh and I didn't quite understand why. I was very self-concious. Was my reflective belt on wrong? Did my PT shose have too much pink in them? Am I walking crooked? I had no idea what was wrong and I was none too happy about it.
Then a few days ago I was standing by a sink, washing my hands, and two army women were standing next to me. I hear the all too familiar giggling and one of them say "No, don't say anything to her!" and the other, much to the dismay of her friend says to me, "I am sooo sorry to stare, but I just have to ask...how short are you?" So that's it. Got it. "4 feet 9 inches." I smile as I walk away listening to the "Oh my god" and "Wow!" as I go.
Since then, many more people than I ever really imagined would even care have acutally stopped staring long enough to ask me the same question. I am not sure why they all have asked me how "short" I am as opposed to how "tall" I am. It used to be "tall". Maybe it is an army thing. I don't think anyone in the Air Force has asked yet. I have gotten pretty good at deciphering when people are laughing at me as opposed to just laughing in general when I walk by. Sometimes I will just say "4 foot 9" as I am walking and I will hear the table of 4, 5, or 6 people bust up laughing with "Damn! She heard you!" or whatever else they might be saying.
I have always had a pretty good sense of humor about my height. It's good to know they are staring at me because I am short and it wasn't that my reflective belt was all askew or something tragic like that.
However, being someplace without any children has one drawback that I never saw comming. When I (meaning me in particular) am someplace where there are no children, I become the smallest thing walking around the joint. When I first got here, people would stare and laugh and I didn't quite understand why. I was very self-concious. Was my reflective belt on wrong? Did my PT shose have too much pink in them? Am I walking crooked? I had no idea what was wrong and I was none too happy about it.
Then a few days ago I was standing by a sink, washing my hands, and two army women were standing next to me. I hear the all too familiar giggling and one of them say "No, don't say anything to her!" and the other, much to the dismay of her friend says to me, "I am sooo sorry to stare, but I just have to ask...how short are you?" So that's it. Got it. "4 feet 9 inches." I smile as I walk away listening to the "Oh my god" and "Wow!" as I go.
Since then, many more people than I ever really imagined would even care have acutally stopped staring long enough to ask me the same question. I am not sure why they all have asked me how "short" I am as opposed to how "tall" I am. It used to be "tall". Maybe it is an army thing. I don't think anyone in the Air Force has asked yet. I have gotten pretty good at deciphering when people are laughing at me as opposed to just laughing in general when I walk by. Sometimes I will just say "4 foot 9" as I am walking and I will hear the table of 4, 5, or 6 people bust up laughing with "Damn! She heard you!" or whatever else they might be saying.
I have always had a pretty good sense of humor about my height. It's good to know they are staring at me because I am short and it wasn't that my reflective belt was all askew or something tragic like that.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Hashimoto's
If you are like me, you probably thought that Hashimoto's was just was me misspelling an atomic bomb location in Japan. However, it is not. Hashimoto's is an auto-immune disorder. Named for the physician who first discovered it. From my readings (as a non-medical professional), an autoimmune disorder is when your body turns on itself. Your immune system attacks an otherwise healthy organ (or something) as if it is an enemy and tries to destroy it. In the case of Hashimoto's, your body's organ of choice is your thyroid.
Hashimoto's itself does not cause symptoms. What causes symptoms is the destruction of your thyroid. As your thyroid is being attacked it's function slows down, and your symptoms are those of a thyroid which can no longer function effectively because it has come under attack (it is a losing fight). THOSE symptoms sucks socks.
For years I figured these symptoms were just a fluke and would go away on their own eventually. Maybe if I changed my diet and exercised more, life would improve. After all, that is the answer to everything now a days, right? Diet and exercise. I gave it a shot. For several years. I began to think, maybe if I step out of my house with the right foot instead of my left foot every morning, things would improve (A joke, people. Come on.). Sometimes, as is the case with Hashimoto's, my thyroid would kick into gear and I would drop weight suddenly and my hair would stop falling out, and my need to sleep during the day finally went away and I would think FINALLY the exercise and fewer calories are starting to work! Then, just as suddenly as it came on, it would go away. I knew I wasn't doing anything differently. Still, I blamed myself. Where else could I look to blame, right?
When I was first told that I had this I figured no big deal. I was grateful that my provider was astute enough to actually LOOK for it and run a test specifically for Hashimoto's (none of which I knew she did until I had an appointment to go over the results). If nothing else, I felt somewhat validated because it put a real reason why all my working out and eating less had not resulted in weight loss (and actually I gained weight. A LOT OF IT). She put me on medication and I fully expected my life (and my weight) would just return to normal. Boy was I wrong.
You would not believe all the things your thyroid does. It plays a significant role in several of your body's functions. Your metabolism (and not in a good way as explained above), your body temperature (unless you really enjoy being cold all the time, this is not in a good way either), your energy level (unless you really didn't have anything better to do during the day than sleep because you just can't stay awake, this one pretty much sucks too). And several other things that simply cause vanity woes (pale skin, hair falling out, eyebrows fall out, etc.). From what I have read, many people suffer from depression with this as well. I am NOT one of those unlucky ones. Don't get me wrong, I am fat, cold, uncomfortable and sleepy all the time, but I am still a happy person. I swear I am!
I am not an activist, or a commiserative person, really. I think I just needed to write it out. Now that I am about 7 months into this, and the reality that my symptoms may never go away, I am angry about it. Not angry about LIFE, just about Hashimoto's.
I am leaving for deployment in the next couple of weeks and when I get back, I am going to try an alternative, homeopathic medication, to see if I can get symptom relief. I am really looking forward to giving it a shot. Of course, I am an optimist anyway, so I always think the 'next' thing I try is going to work. I have faith!! This time, it is going to work! It IS going to work...right?
Hashimoto's itself does not cause symptoms. What causes symptoms is the destruction of your thyroid. As your thyroid is being attacked it's function slows down, and your symptoms are those of a thyroid which can no longer function effectively because it has come under attack (it is a losing fight). THOSE symptoms sucks socks.
For years I figured these symptoms were just a fluke and would go away on their own eventually. Maybe if I changed my diet and exercised more, life would improve. After all, that is the answer to everything now a days, right? Diet and exercise. I gave it a shot. For several years. I began to think, maybe if I step out of my house with the right foot instead of my left foot every morning, things would improve (A joke, people. Come on.). Sometimes, as is the case with Hashimoto's, my thyroid would kick into gear and I would drop weight suddenly and my hair would stop falling out, and my need to sleep during the day finally went away and I would think FINALLY the exercise and fewer calories are starting to work! Then, just as suddenly as it came on, it would go away. I knew I wasn't doing anything differently. Still, I blamed myself. Where else could I look to blame, right?
When I was first told that I had this I figured no big deal. I was grateful that my provider was astute enough to actually LOOK for it and run a test specifically for Hashimoto's (none of which I knew she did until I had an appointment to go over the results). If nothing else, I felt somewhat validated because it put a real reason why all my working out and eating less had not resulted in weight loss (and actually I gained weight. A LOT OF IT). She put me on medication and I fully expected my life (and my weight) would just return to normal. Boy was I wrong.
You would not believe all the things your thyroid does. It plays a significant role in several of your body's functions. Your metabolism (and not in a good way as explained above), your body temperature (unless you really enjoy being cold all the time, this is not in a good way either), your energy level (unless you really didn't have anything better to do during the day than sleep because you just can't stay awake, this one pretty much sucks too). And several other things that simply cause vanity woes (pale skin, hair falling out, eyebrows fall out, etc.). From what I have read, many people suffer from depression with this as well. I am NOT one of those unlucky ones. Don't get me wrong, I am fat, cold, uncomfortable and sleepy all the time, but I am still a happy person. I swear I am!
I am not an activist, or a commiserative person, really. I think I just needed to write it out. Now that I am about 7 months into this, and the reality that my symptoms may never go away, I am angry about it. Not angry about LIFE, just about Hashimoto's.
I am leaving for deployment in the next couple of weeks and when I get back, I am going to try an alternative, homeopathic medication, to see if I can get symptom relief. I am really looking forward to giving it a shot. Of course, I am an optimist anyway, so I always think the 'next' thing I try is going to work. I have faith!! This time, it is going to work! It IS going to work...right?
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Crime and punishment
Getting a ticket sucks. Based on that statement, you would think that I am about to gripe about having just gotten a ticket. However, I am not. I didn't get a ticket. Didn't even get pulled over.
But Eric and I were driving down the highway and saw some poor guy who did get pulled over and it got me thinking. I am sure that what I am about to talk about is not a new thought. It is probably as old as getting tickets themselves, but I am a little slower than the average bear so I am just now putting two and two together.
The punishment for getting a ticket does not fit the crime. Not even close. The punishment for getting a ticket is so much worse than the 'crime' of speeding that I cannot believe that they are still allowed to hand out such punishments willy-nilly.
Think about this for a moment. You are driving down a road where the speed limit is 60. You are cruising along at, say 69 MPH. Criminal! Yes, here in NC they will pull you over in a heartbeat for going 5-10 MPH over the speed limit. You look in your rear view mirror and see those dastardly blue lights. Which might actually be pretty if it weren't for the message they are giving you.
You give the trooper your best plea for mercy. "But officer, my dog bit me and I have ice cream in the back seat and I lost my job and had a fight with my husband and the economy has me stressed and Kagen is now on the Supreme Court and it made me sleep late this morning and I couldn't get to Starbucks before 7am..." All this pleading because you were going 9 MPH over the speed limit. You criminal.
But do you know WHY you are pleading? You are pleading with the probably really hot, but effin' heartless trooper because you know you are going to PAY for this ticket. You are going to pay dearly. The ticket you are now holding in your pissed off little digits is going to haunt you. FOR YEARS.
You will not only be paying well over $100 dollars for the ticket itself, but you will likely decide to go to court to try and get the ticket thrown out. Maybe the cop wont show up! Yeah! No WAY he'll show up! Guess what? He doesn't have to show up. Now you don't just have to pay for the ticket but you have to pay for court costs too. Now your cost is up to $224. Sigh. But wait...there's more...about 3 months later, when you have forgotten that you even got pulled over, you get a notice from your insurance company that your rates are going up by 25% because you were speeding. For the next 3 years. It would have been 35% but since you were doing less than 10 MPH over the speed limit they are going to cut you a break. Oh THANK YOU dear insurance company!
So, for going 9 MPH over the speed limit, when you figure in all the costs to include the increase in your insurance premiums, you are out well over $1000 dollars and on probation for 3 years. And that ticket stays on your record and follows you around for countless years afterwards.
Penalty for possession of 1 ounce of marijuana in the state of Colorado: "One ounce or less is a petty offense that requires a court appearance but with no incarceration and a maximum fine of $100."
How does that feel, you criminal?
But Eric and I were driving down the highway and saw some poor guy who did get pulled over and it got me thinking. I am sure that what I am about to talk about is not a new thought. It is probably as old as getting tickets themselves, but I am a little slower than the average bear so I am just now putting two and two together.
The punishment for getting a ticket does not fit the crime. Not even close. The punishment for getting a ticket is so much worse than the 'crime' of speeding that I cannot believe that they are still allowed to hand out such punishments willy-nilly.
Think about this for a moment. You are driving down a road where the speed limit is 60. You are cruising along at, say 69 MPH. Criminal! Yes, here in NC they will pull you over in a heartbeat for going 5-10 MPH over the speed limit. You look in your rear view mirror and see those dastardly blue lights. Which might actually be pretty if it weren't for the message they are giving you.
You give the trooper your best plea for mercy. "But officer, my dog bit me and I have ice cream in the back seat and I lost my job and had a fight with my husband and the economy has me stressed and Kagen is now on the Supreme Court and it made me sleep late this morning and I couldn't get to Starbucks before 7am..." All this pleading because you were going 9 MPH over the speed limit. You criminal.
But do you know WHY you are pleading? You are pleading with the probably really hot, but effin' heartless trooper because you know you are going to PAY for this ticket. You are going to pay dearly. The ticket you are now holding in your pissed off little digits is going to haunt you. FOR YEARS.
You will not only be paying well over $100 dollars for the ticket itself, but you will likely decide to go to court to try and get the ticket thrown out. Maybe the cop wont show up! Yeah! No WAY he'll show up! Guess what? He doesn't have to show up. Now you don't just have to pay for the ticket but you have to pay for court costs too. Now your cost is up to $224. Sigh. But wait...there's more...about 3 months later, when you have forgotten that you even got pulled over, you get a notice from your insurance company that your rates are going up by 25% because you were speeding. For the next 3 years. It would have been 35% but since you were doing less than 10 MPH over the speed limit they are going to cut you a break. Oh THANK YOU dear insurance company!
So, for going 9 MPH over the speed limit, when you figure in all the costs to include the increase in your insurance premiums, you are out well over $1000 dollars and on probation for 3 years. And that ticket stays on your record and follows you around for countless years afterwards.
Penalty for possession of 1 ounce of marijuana in the state of Colorado: "One ounce or less is a petty offense that requires a court appearance but with no incarceration and a maximum fine of $100."
How does that feel, you criminal?
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Am I the problem?
I don't drink alcohol. It isn't some religious extremist declaration or anything. I don't like the smell of it, I don't like the taste of it, and most importantly my system doesn't react well to it. And not in a that's-what-happens-when-you-drink-too-much way, smart asses. I get very ill from very small amounts. As in, less than half a glass small.
With that in mind, it should be no surprise that it is only on the rare occasion that I buy alcohol either. My fiance Eric, on the other hand, has a passion for the hops. His taste in brew is as eclectic and far reaching as pallet of the most passionate wine connoisseur. Or, like I am with steak. :)
While Eric is deployed, he doesn't get to drink at all. So when he is just about to come home, I like to make sure he has a little somethin' somethin' in his fridge. I stock him up on the diet Dr. Pepper, make sure the tank on the gas grill is full, and I buy at least a little of one of the beer's that he likes.
So I go to Target today. And, surprise surprise, they happen to have the beer I was looking for on their shelves! Bonus! So I go up to the register with my milk, bread, liquid plumber and the beer. The cashier looks at it and says "Is that alcohol?". I say yes it is. And I get momentarily excited because I think this is going to be a you-look-too-young-to-buy-liquor conversation. However, my mood quickly heads south when she says to me "Blue Law". I didn't understand what she said so I asked her to repeat it. Again, she says "Blue Law". I am standing there, clueless, and she apparently picked up on my confusion. She says to me "You must not be from North Carolina. It is against the law to sell alcohol to anyone before 2pm on Sundays." I was shocked. I am standing there with my mouth open, feeling like some derelict, raging alcoholic, who was trying to pull a fast one in defiance of some right-wing religious extremist North Carolina law. Trust me, that is exactly the look she was giving me, too. Poor little raging alcoholic. So addicted to the poison that she has to have it before 2pm on a Sunday. Tsk tsk tsk.
Of all the people in the world to make that mistake, it has to be me, right? The one freakin' person in this state who never drinks anything, never buys alcohol, and generally speaking really can't stand people who do, I am the one who gets busted, and subsequently denied, trying to buy it.
What's worse is I actually FELT embarrassed and ashamed! Then I was pissed off at myself for feeling like that! I don't have anything to be ashamed about! All I wanted to do was buy something special for my fiance who is coming back from the war and deserves to have it waiting for him when he gets home! Am I wrong, here? Is it just me who feels like the fact that a law like that even exists is just effin' stupid?
Try this one, North Carolina (and any other effin' state that has the same kind of stupid law), if a person wants to drink themselves to death before 2pm on a Sunday, it ain't up to you to save 'em. Let Darwin take care of their liver damaged sorry asses. But don't tell me when I can and can't buy alcohol.
With that in mind, it should be no surprise that it is only on the rare occasion that I buy alcohol either. My fiance Eric, on the other hand, has a passion for the hops. His taste in brew is as eclectic and far reaching as pallet of the most passionate wine connoisseur. Or, like I am with steak. :)
While Eric is deployed, he doesn't get to drink at all. So when he is just about to come home, I like to make sure he has a little somethin' somethin' in his fridge. I stock him up on the diet Dr. Pepper, make sure the tank on the gas grill is full, and I buy at least a little of one of the beer's that he likes.
So I go to Target today. And, surprise surprise, they happen to have the beer I was looking for on their shelves! Bonus! So I go up to the register with my milk, bread, liquid plumber and the beer. The cashier looks at it and says "Is that alcohol?". I say yes it is. And I get momentarily excited because I think this is going to be a you-look-too-young-to-buy-liquor conversation. However, my mood quickly heads south when she says to me "Blue Law". I didn't understand what she said so I asked her to repeat it. Again, she says "Blue Law". I am standing there, clueless, and she apparently picked up on my confusion. She says to me "You must not be from North Carolina. It is against the law to sell alcohol to anyone before 2pm on Sundays." I was shocked. I am standing there with my mouth open, feeling like some derelict, raging alcoholic, who was trying to pull a fast one in defiance of some right-wing religious extremist North Carolina law. Trust me, that is exactly the look she was giving me, too. Poor little raging alcoholic. So addicted to the poison that she has to have it before 2pm on a Sunday. Tsk tsk tsk.
Of all the people in the world to make that mistake, it has to be me, right? The one freakin' person in this state who never drinks anything, never buys alcohol, and generally speaking really can't stand people who do, I am the one who gets busted, and subsequently denied, trying to buy it.
What's worse is I actually FELT embarrassed and ashamed! Then I was pissed off at myself for feeling like that! I don't have anything to be ashamed about! All I wanted to do was buy something special for my fiance who is coming back from the war and deserves to have it waiting for him when he gets home! Am I wrong, here? Is it just me who feels like the fact that a law like that even exists is just effin' stupid?
Try this one, North Carolina (and any other effin' state that has the same kind of stupid law), if a person wants to drink themselves to death before 2pm on a Sunday, it ain't up to you to save 'em. Let Darwin take care of their liver damaged sorry asses. But don't tell me when I can and can't buy alcohol.
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Dream of Independence
For my entire life I have worked. I have worked FOR someone since I was 12 years old. Forever dependent on someone else to pay my salary so that I can live in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed. And love my life, I do.
I grew up with a father who was determined to be his own boss. As someone who worked for him, I saw the struggles which never seemed to end. I did the bookkeeping for his plastics/decorating business starting when I was, as I said earlier, 12 years old. Even at that young age, I had a grasp on how hard it was for him to make ends meet. His business was a tough one. His product didn't sell itself by any stretch of the imagination. It was a constant struggle for sales. Cold calls, long hours, zero benefit. As a result, I always swore I would never go into business for myself. I knew very early on that I was NOT a salesman. I knew that I could never work at a job that was straight commission. Hell, I didn't even want to work in a job that was PART commission. I have a fear of being without a paycheck. As such, I had sort of resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to be someone else's bitch for the rest of my life. Good enough. Or was it?
The older I get, the more I realize that working FOR someone sucks. A lot. I have always been independent, and I resent the fact that I am dependent on someone else for my money.
A couple of years ago I made a decision that once I am out of the military I will never work for anyone again. I (we) will own our own business, be it a franchise or something else. It has changed my perspective. Sometimes, when I am having a lousy day at work, and I think about throwing in the military towel, I remember my promise to myself never to work for anyone again. It makes me smile, but it also keeps me grounded. I can't just leave the military because I can't afford to (resentment enters here). I will not do it until I can fulfill the promise to myself to never work for someone else again. But it is going to take nine more years until I will be able to get out with a full retirement and benefits for the rest of my life. THEN, when I buy our franchise or whatever else it may be, and I fail miserably, I will still have a paycheck to fall back on. But I won't be dependent on someone else. Ever again.
I grew up with a father who was determined to be his own boss. As someone who worked for him, I saw the struggles which never seemed to end. I did the bookkeeping for his plastics/decorating business starting when I was, as I said earlier, 12 years old. Even at that young age, I had a grasp on how hard it was for him to make ends meet. His business was a tough one. His product didn't sell itself by any stretch of the imagination. It was a constant struggle for sales. Cold calls, long hours, zero benefit. As a result, I always swore I would never go into business for myself. I knew very early on that I was NOT a salesman. I knew that I could never work at a job that was straight commission. Hell, I didn't even want to work in a job that was PART commission. I have a fear of being without a paycheck. As such, I had sort of resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to be someone else's bitch for the rest of my life. Good enough. Or was it?
The older I get, the more I realize that working FOR someone sucks. A lot. I have always been independent, and I resent the fact that I am dependent on someone else for my money.
A couple of years ago I made a decision that once I am out of the military I will never work for anyone again. I (we) will own our own business, be it a franchise or something else. It has changed my perspective. Sometimes, when I am having a lousy day at work, and I think about throwing in the military towel, I remember my promise to myself never to work for anyone again. It makes me smile, but it also keeps me grounded. I can't just leave the military because I can't afford to (resentment enters here). I will not do it until I can fulfill the promise to myself to never work for someone else again. But it is going to take nine more years until I will be able to get out with a full retirement and benefits for the rest of my life. THEN, when I buy our franchise or whatever else it may be, and I fail miserably, I will still have a paycheck to fall back on. But I won't be dependent on someone else. Ever again.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Outback Steakhouse disapoints...again
Anyone who knows me knows that I love Outback Steakhouse. I eat at Outback at least twice a week. I am a bit of a steak snob having been to many fantastic steak houses in the country (and around the world for that matter)and been fortunate enough to have tasted some of the best filets out there.
With all that said, I was always so thrilled with the quality of steak (namely the filet) that I would get at an Outback. This was surprising because not only is it a family place, but it is a CHAIN! The same can be said for Ruth's Chris, I suppose (minus the family for the most part), but that is a different caliber of restaurant and one would expect to get great steak for the price you pay at a Ruth's Chris.
But Outback was one of those restaurants that I could go to anywhere I may travel and get the same quality every time. Same great salad, same great bread, same great filets.
Being in the military, I move around a lot, sometimes for 3 years, sometimes for 3 months. No matter where I end up, one of the first things I did was look up the nearest Outback. Coming here to Goldsboro, North Carolina was no different. Sure enough, there was an Outback here and I was SO happy. Mostly because this is a really tiny town and the choices of places to eat are few. Places for decent steak...even fewer.
Over the past 3 or 4 months, the quality of everything from the bread, to the salad, and especially the steak has just gotten worse and worse. They changed the type of salad they use from what used to be fresh, to what tastes like a bag salad with dry carrot slices and purple shredded cabbage. Yucko! The honey wheat bread, which was always very good, has been coming out less than hot to downright cold. When we ask for new bread, what comes out is not all that much better. The steaks are what really let down, though. I used to get a consistent, tender filet that I could quite literally cut with my fork. Now, only about 1 out of every 7 or 8 times I visit is the steak good enough for me to really enjoy. I feel badly sending it back every time, because what comes back is never much better so I stopped sending it back. I keep ordering it though because I am always so hopeful that they will come through for me this time.
I am even a member of Outback Rewards and then I fill out those surveys (that give you a free bloomin' Onion for filling out!) and I always tell them about the issues. It has not improved.
I hate to think this, but I don't want to go back to Outback anymore. That bothers me because when it is good it is SO good! I always make sure on Outback days that I don't eat lunch. That way me (and even the people I go with) are nice and hungry by the time we get there. But I really think I only have a few more chances left in my heart for you dear Outback. I really don't want to start learning how to cook my own steak. That borders on sac-relig.
Anyone else having the same experience I am?
With all that said, I was always so thrilled with the quality of steak (namely the filet) that I would get at an Outback. This was surprising because not only is it a family place, but it is a CHAIN! The same can be said for Ruth's Chris, I suppose (minus the family for the most part), but that is a different caliber of restaurant and one would expect to get great steak for the price you pay at a Ruth's Chris.
But Outback was one of those restaurants that I could go to anywhere I may travel and get the same quality every time. Same great salad, same great bread, same great filets.
Being in the military, I move around a lot, sometimes for 3 years, sometimes for 3 months. No matter where I end up, one of the first things I did was look up the nearest Outback. Coming here to Goldsboro, North Carolina was no different. Sure enough, there was an Outback here and I was SO happy. Mostly because this is a really tiny town and the choices of places to eat are few. Places for decent steak...even fewer.
Over the past 3 or 4 months, the quality of everything from the bread, to the salad, and especially the steak has just gotten worse and worse. They changed the type of salad they use from what used to be fresh, to what tastes like a bag salad with dry carrot slices and purple shredded cabbage. Yucko! The honey wheat bread, which was always very good, has been coming out less than hot to downright cold. When we ask for new bread, what comes out is not all that much better. The steaks are what really let down, though. I used to get a consistent, tender filet that I could quite literally cut with my fork. Now, only about 1 out of every 7 or 8 times I visit is the steak good enough for me to really enjoy. I feel badly sending it back every time, because what comes back is never much better so I stopped sending it back. I keep ordering it though because I am always so hopeful that they will come through for me this time.
I am even a member of Outback Rewards and then I fill out those surveys (that give you a free bloomin' Onion for filling out!) and I always tell them about the issues. It has not improved.
I hate to think this, but I don't want to go back to Outback anymore. That bothers me because when it is good it is SO good! I always make sure on Outback days that I don't eat lunch. That way me (and even the people I go with) are nice and hungry by the time we get there. But I really think I only have a few more chances left in my heart for you dear Outback. I really don't want to start learning how to cook my own steak. That borders on sac-relig.
Anyone else having the same experience I am?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Thoughts on Mother's day
Eric and I went to a mall in Raleigh this afternoon to meet with/interview a DJ for our wedding. While there I couldn't help but notice just how many men were out at the mall with children in tow, sans women. Enough for me, a person who makes it a point NOT to notice much of anything dealing with children, to notice the oddity. I began to wonder if it was just a fluke. Perhaps today was National Chester-the-molester-takes-their-kid-to-the-mall day. I then remembered it was Mother's day. Funny how all a mother seems to want on this Mother's day is to NOT be a mother. Not deal with their kids. Not cook any meals. Not do any of the things for which this day was invented to give thanks for. Get rid of the kids, pawn them off on anyone willing to take 'em, right? Well good for you. Hear that silence? Feel the peace within the walls of your home as you drift easily out from your slumber and start your day with the peaceful tranquility that can only be achieved by having a house free from children. Ahhh....welcome to my world. I get that every single day. Jealous much?
In all seriousness, I know enough about what a mother has to go through to be a successful parent to know that there is no way in hell that you would ever catch me doing it. There are some people who would call me selfish, but make no mistake, there is ZERO selfish about taking care of oneself. No one else is going to do it. Selfish is having children then being unwilling to do what it takes to be an effective, loving parent.
I find it hard to believe that it has been 12 years since my own mom passed away. This was a woman who successfully and lovingly raised two children of her own to adulthood, then turned around and married a man with three young children and adopted us as her own. This is the woman who had already gone through the years of making chicken soup from scratch to ease the tummy of her sick little ones, to start doing it all over again. This was a woman who already dealt with first periods, first dates, broken hearts and broken bones. This was a woman who had already broken up countless sibling fights, cooked countless homemade meals and cleaned countless sinks full of dishes to turn around and go practically back to the starting line to do it all again with my brother my sister and myself. And she did it with such passion, gusto, and love, that it never once occurred to me that she never had to do any of it. I think of my mom every single day. I am thankful to have had her for the years that I did. Most of all I am eternally grateful for the mother that she was, but especially for the mom she didn't have to be. I love you mom. And give a shout out to dad for me too.
In all seriousness, I know enough about what a mother has to go through to be a successful parent to know that there is no way in hell that you would ever catch me doing it. There are some people who would call me selfish, but make no mistake, there is ZERO selfish about taking care of oneself. No one else is going to do it. Selfish is having children then being unwilling to do what it takes to be an effective, loving parent.
I find it hard to believe that it has been 12 years since my own mom passed away. This was a woman who successfully and lovingly raised two children of her own to adulthood, then turned around and married a man with three young children and adopted us as her own. This is the woman who had already gone through the years of making chicken soup from scratch to ease the tummy of her sick little ones, to start doing it all over again. This was a woman who already dealt with first periods, first dates, broken hearts and broken bones. This was a woman who had already broken up countless sibling fights, cooked countless homemade meals and cleaned countless sinks full of dishes to turn around and go practically back to the starting line to do it all again with my brother my sister and myself. And she did it with such passion, gusto, and love, that it never once occurred to me that she never had to do any of it. I think of my mom every single day. I am thankful to have had her for the years that I did. Most of all I am eternally grateful for the mother that she was, but especially for the mom she didn't have to be. I love you mom. And give a shout out to dad for me too.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Suggestion for restaurants...
Those who know me know that I have an aversion to disruptive children. What a parent may tune out, the rest of the world is still subjected to and I think it is important to never lose sight of basic consideration for others in public places like restaurants. Becoming a parent does not exempt you from this basic rule of etiquette. While I understand that there are some children that are very well behaved in restaurants, (these are the ones you don't even know are there), there are also way too many who's parents should know better. And judging from the restaurant we are dining in should be able to afford a sitter for the night.
So since it is not reasonable for me to hope that a law banning children from restaurants (other than perhaps fast food types), will soon be passed, I have a different proposal for the restaurant industry. Now that the majority of states have banned smoking in all restaurants, the host/hostess no longer has to ask a patron "Would you prefer smoking or non-smoking?", so how about they replace it with the question "Children or no children"? and have a separate section specifically for families with children! See?? Everyone wins!
Far be it for me to complain without presenting an alternative solution.
So since it is not reasonable for me to hope that a law banning children from restaurants (other than perhaps fast food types), will soon be passed, I have a different proposal for the restaurant industry. Now that the majority of states have banned smoking in all restaurants, the host/hostess no longer has to ask a patron "Would you prefer smoking or non-smoking?", so how about they replace it with the question "Children or no children"? and have a separate section specifically for families with children! See?? Everyone wins!
Far be it for me to complain without presenting an alternative solution.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Soapbox returns
There is a story in the news this week about a teenage girl who committed suicide. Very sad. Looked like a beautiful young lady by her picture. Her parents (I am assuming) feel that the harassment she suffered at the hands of other teenage girls were the cause of her taking her own life. This has spawned a lawsuit against the teenagers who were harassing her in the weeks prior and leading up to the day she took her own life.
I am a huge believer in being the master of your own destiny. People never, ever, commit suicide due to the actions of another. People commit suicide because THEY do not have the ability to deal with their problems in a different way. Children and teens are not exempt from this.
Take heartbreak for example. If the person you love breaks your heart and you commit suicide, is that really the fault of the person who broke your heart? Or is it YOUR fault for not being able to deal with the pain of the heartbreak? Arguably, heartbreak is one of the worst kinds of pain a person can feel in their life and it is a test of endurance to be able to come through on the other side. But no matter how bad the pain is, how each person deals with it is entirely their responsibility. If they learn something from the experience and grow stronger from the process then good for them. If they find that the despair is too much and they commit suicide, then bad on them. But just as you have to give credit to someone who comes through pain and adversity a stronger person, you must lay blame on the same person who takes their own life. This is because it was their decision.
Parents are shouldered with the responsibility of making sure their kids have the tools necessary to deal with life issues as they come up, but even with that, even the best parent can only do so much. If a child commits suicide, it isn't the fault of the parents. As I said before, children and teens are not exempt from being the masters of their own destinies. Suicide is a highly personal choice and no matter how badly a person is treated by another, harassed by another, or had their heart broken by another, it still comes down to a personal choice to live or to die.
The fact the the teenage girls who were harassing this poor kid are horrible, awful, bully bitches who should probably be sent to a North Korean labor camp for some retributional bullying of their own is a different story all together.
I am a huge believer in being the master of your own destiny. People never, ever, commit suicide due to the actions of another. People commit suicide because THEY do not have the ability to deal with their problems in a different way. Children and teens are not exempt from this.
Take heartbreak for example. If the person you love breaks your heart and you commit suicide, is that really the fault of the person who broke your heart? Or is it YOUR fault for not being able to deal with the pain of the heartbreak? Arguably, heartbreak is one of the worst kinds of pain a person can feel in their life and it is a test of endurance to be able to come through on the other side. But no matter how bad the pain is, how each person deals with it is entirely their responsibility. If they learn something from the experience and grow stronger from the process then good for them. If they find that the despair is too much and they commit suicide, then bad on them. But just as you have to give credit to someone who comes through pain and adversity a stronger person, you must lay blame on the same person who takes their own life. This is because it was their decision.
Parents are shouldered with the responsibility of making sure their kids have the tools necessary to deal with life issues as they come up, but even with that, even the best parent can only do so much. If a child commits suicide, it isn't the fault of the parents. As I said before, children and teens are not exempt from being the masters of their own destinies. Suicide is a highly personal choice and no matter how badly a person is treated by another, harassed by another, or had their heart broken by another, it still comes down to a personal choice to live or to die.
The fact the the teenage girls who were harassing this poor kid are horrible, awful, bully bitches who should probably be sent to a North Korean labor camp for some retributional bullying of their own is a different story all together.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Wedding dress
I bought my wedding dress yesterday. So let me get this out of the way up front. I am not going to post a picture of the wedding dress that I bought. This is because I just don't want to risk Eric seeing it by mistake. I may be an old bride, but I believe there is something fundamentally special about your husband-to-be seeing you in your dress for the first time on your wedding day. Getting married/having a wedding is an experience that I never predicted for my life and I am really going to stick with the traditional (as much as it can be without appearing foolish for a woman my age).
The experience of buying the dress was everything I had hoped it would be. Considering that I never really ever thought about getting married, I didn't have any preconceived wishes for what I wanted my wedding dress to look like. This is probably both a good thing and a bad thing. No expectations, but no good ideas either. I had two girlfriends with me and that was a GOOD thing. They were both supportive and gave me eyes that I didn't have. They also knew when to stop me. Basically at the dress that made me go "Oh my god" as I looked in the mirror. This was my dress. It had no price tag (as was the case with almost all of the dresses that were appealing to my eye), and perhaps there have been too many episodes of "Say Yes To The Dress" in recent weeks, and that terrified me. Say Yes To The Dress Rule #1, never ever try on a dress unless you know you can afford it because without a doubt, that will be the dress you fall in love with and have to mortgage your home to own. But I was pleasantly surprised at the cost of this amazing Casablanca gown. And afford it, I could. And buy it, I did. I thought lovingly of my mom for a moment or two who passed away almost 12 years ago, and knew she would have absolutely loved this dress and being with me for the shopping. I am sorry I missed out on that part of the experience but I don't think I could have asked for a better day or a better result. I know she was looking down at me, and giving her approval.
The rest of the world will just have to wait until June of 2011 to see it.
The experience of buying the dress was everything I had hoped it would be. Considering that I never really ever thought about getting married, I didn't have any preconceived wishes for what I wanted my wedding dress to look like. This is probably both a good thing and a bad thing. No expectations, but no good ideas either. I had two girlfriends with me and that was a GOOD thing. They were both supportive and gave me eyes that I didn't have. They also knew when to stop me. Basically at the dress that made me go "Oh my god" as I looked in the mirror. This was my dress. It had no price tag (as was the case with almost all of the dresses that were appealing to my eye), and perhaps there have been too many episodes of "Say Yes To The Dress" in recent weeks, and that terrified me. Say Yes To The Dress Rule #1, never ever try on a dress unless you know you can afford it because without a doubt, that will be the dress you fall in love with and have to mortgage your home to own. But I was pleasantly surprised at the cost of this amazing Casablanca gown. And afford it, I could. And buy it, I did. I thought lovingly of my mom for a moment or two who passed away almost 12 years ago, and knew she would have absolutely loved this dress and being with me for the shopping. I am sorry I missed out on that part of the experience but I don't think I could have asked for a better day or a better result. I know she was looking down at me, and giving her approval.
The rest of the world will just have to wait until June of 2011 to see it.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Nice and Not Nice...
So today I read a headline off of CNN (I think) and it said “Big Banks Try To Make Nice”. I will admit that I didn’t read the article. I am just arrogant and judgmental enough to believe I didn’t need to. I have been in that situation and have had my opinions for many years now.
My philosophy has always been rather simple when it comes to “making nice” or being respectful in general. My phrase of choice to describe my feelings is this: A person who is nice to you, but not nice to the waiter, is not a nice person.
This can be applied to many different areas of concern, banking being one of them. Back in the day when I was a poor hard working minion, I couldn’t afford to bank with a big bank. Weather it was First Union, Wachovia, Bank of America (for whom I even worked for 6 years), or countless others. If you didn’t have $X amount of collateral, assets or worth, they would charge you exorbitant fees to utilize their holier-than-thou services. Services that the upper financial class got for free. As a logical person, this made no sense to me. You are charging the people who are just starting out or having a difficult time financially and who are the ones who obviously cannot afford it, and yet you are giving the services away for free to those who could easily afford to pay for them.
As I got older I began to understand the logic that the banking industry used in choosing the threshold at which they charged for services and that at which they didn’t, I am a business major after all. But understanding it never got me any closer to agreeing with it. To this day I think it is a low-down dirty shame.
My turning point came one day about 15 years ago when I did my banking with First Union. I had about $17 in that account. Money was tighter than my jeans after a Friendly’s ice cream sundae with peanut butter and hot fudge topping. Every month I was charged a fee for not maintaining a minimum balance and every month I hated that they took that fee right out of my account. Well that month the fee was $18 and they took my very last dime. In addition to 10 other dimes that I didn’t have. I had to borrow $20 from my sister and pawn my keyboard to pay for gas to get to work. It was the only time I ever borrowed money from any one in my life. I would have managed to get to my next payday had they not taken that “maintenance” fee.
Several years later and no longer a person who lived paycheck to paycheck, I opened an account with USAA. I opened it with $25. Just as a test, really. It is a huge hassle to change bank accounts and I didn’t want to make a decision I was going to regret later. Well it was the best decision I ever made. This was a bank that worked with me before I got on my financial feet and you better believe I developed a rockin relationship with them after I got there. From one checking account with $25 in it to nine different accounts from Checking and Savings to IRAs (ROTH and Traditional), to both of my houses and so on.
So to the big banks that are now trying to ‘make nice’ I say this: I am reminded of a line uttered by Julia Robert’s character in Pretty Woman: “Big mistake. Huge.”
My philosophy has always been rather simple when it comes to “making nice” or being respectful in general. My phrase of choice to describe my feelings is this: A person who is nice to you, but not nice to the waiter, is not a nice person.
This can be applied to many different areas of concern, banking being one of them. Back in the day when I was a poor hard working minion, I couldn’t afford to bank with a big bank. Weather it was First Union, Wachovia, Bank of America (for whom I even worked for 6 years), or countless others. If you didn’t have $X amount of collateral, assets or worth, they would charge you exorbitant fees to utilize their holier-than-thou services. Services that the upper financial class got for free. As a logical person, this made no sense to me. You are charging the people who are just starting out or having a difficult time financially and who are the ones who obviously cannot afford it, and yet you are giving the services away for free to those who could easily afford to pay for them.
As I got older I began to understand the logic that the banking industry used in choosing the threshold at which they charged for services and that at which they didn’t, I am a business major after all. But understanding it never got me any closer to agreeing with it. To this day I think it is a low-down dirty shame.
My turning point came one day about 15 years ago when I did my banking with First Union. I had about $17 in that account. Money was tighter than my jeans after a Friendly’s ice cream sundae with peanut butter and hot fudge topping. Every month I was charged a fee for not maintaining a minimum balance and every month I hated that they took that fee right out of my account. Well that month the fee was $18 and they took my very last dime. In addition to 10 other dimes that I didn’t have. I had to borrow $20 from my sister and pawn my keyboard to pay for gas to get to work. It was the only time I ever borrowed money from any one in my life. I would have managed to get to my next payday had they not taken that “maintenance” fee.
Several years later and no longer a person who lived paycheck to paycheck, I opened an account with USAA. I opened it with $25. Just as a test, really. It is a huge hassle to change bank accounts and I didn’t want to make a decision I was going to regret later. Well it was the best decision I ever made. This was a bank that worked with me before I got on my financial feet and you better believe I developed a rockin relationship with them after I got there. From one checking account with $25 in it to nine different accounts from Checking and Savings to IRAs (ROTH and Traditional), to both of my houses and so on.
So to the big banks that are now trying to ‘make nice’ I say this: I am reminded of a line uttered by Julia Robert’s character in Pretty Woman: “Big mistake. Huge.”
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Rest of My Life
I am engaged. A week an a half into my engagement and I am finally posting about it. It isn't that I didn't think about posting about it, but to be honest, we have just been flying on a cloud since he asked (and I said yes) that it just slipped past my usually diligent fingers. Well, that and working my tail off this week which included one 26 (yes that would be TWENTY-SIX) hour day. I suppose technically that is TWO days but hey, semantics. When no sleep is involved the days blend together.
In the past week and a half it seems like my thoughts are all about having a wedding. This is something that I never anticipated in my life. I had never even looked at wedding dresses before. And did you know they have entire magazines dedicated to nothing but brides and weddings?? So I have been trolling the Internet looking at wedding dresses, bought two magazines and was given one magazine by a wonderful coworker. I have discovered a couple of things in this wedding dress process. First of all, I have pretty consistent taste in designers (Casablanca, Alfred Angelo, Demitrios) and second, wedding gown sizes are enough to drive an otherwise sane woman to homicide. The saving grace to the second is that larger size than I have ever worn aside, a Casablanca gown looks magnificent on me. And looking at wedding dresses...holy canoli it's a LOT of fun!
I am really looking forward to having my crew here with me when I try on the final 5 contenders.
Even MORE than that I am so looking forward to spending the rest of my life with the man of my dreams.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Vegas
I admit that what I am about to say may not go over very well with most people. I have a business trip coming up this week to Las Vegas and I am just not looking forward to it. I know. Who in their right mind would NOT be looking forward to a business trip to Vegas?? Well, I have to say, when you're me, you'd understand.
You see, I am not a drinker (not in an on-the-wagon, in recovery sort of way, just don't enjoy alcohol), I am not into gambling, and while I enjoy good food, it is pretty much wasted on someone who only eats enough to feed a bird. If Eric were with me, at least he could finish what I don't.
I suppose I could go to a show or two. I do enjoy shows. But again, while I am completely comfortable doing things by myself, it would be much more enjoyable if, when spending that kind of money for high quality entertainment, that I was with Eric or ANYONE who I actually know and/or love.
Eric was supposed to join me on this trip. Spend time doing whatever he likes to do (since he went to high school there and still has some connections in the area) during the day and join me in the evenings when I was done doing the obligatory business-y things but work got in the way (curse that mortgage that must be paid!).
I am not one to be totally negative, though. There is, after all, one really good thing about Vegas...the SPA!!!! I guess I will just have to suffer though some really good massages while I am there. Oh...and I think there is a Tiffany's too. Perhaps I can peruse the shelves of that little treasure chest...
And just like that, I am looking forward to the trip again. Woot!
You see, I am not a drinker (not in an on-the-wagon, in recovery sort of way, just don't enjoy alcohol), I am not into gambling, and while I enjoy good food, it is pretty much wasted on someone who only eats enough to feed a bird. If Eric were with me, at least he could finish what I don't.
I suppose I could go to a show or two. I do enjoy shows. But again, while I am completely comfortable doing things by myself, it would be much more enjoyable if, when spending that kind of money for high quality entertainment, that I was with Eric or ANYONE who I actually know and/or love.
Eric was supposed to join me on this trip. Spend time doing whatever he likes to do (since he went to high school there and still has some connections in the area) during the day and join me in the evenings when I was done doing the obligatory business-y things but work got in the way (curse that mortgage that must be paid!).
I am not one to be totally negative, though. There is, after all, one really good thing about Vegas...the SPA!!!! I guess I will just have to suffer though some really good massages while I am there. Oh...and I think there is a Tiffany's too. Perhaps I can peruse the shelves of that little treasure chest...
And just like that, I am looking forward to the trip again. Woot!
Monday, January 25, 2010
Happiness is a warm puppy...
Ok, so the title of this post is a blatant thievery from a Peanuts cartoon. So what? It sums up my evening perfectly. Now I realize that my puppy, Miss Macy Moo is HARDLY a puppy. She is an 88 pound 9 year old Greater Swiss Mountain/Rott mix. But we have a connection, her and I. We have a routine. We sit home in the evenings, I brew some tea, pop some popcorn and her and I watch some A&E or Discovery channel. We share the popcorn, she shares my lap and I believe the both of us are about as content as we can be. Happiness really is a warm puppy to share an evening with.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Unhappy
It is a rare thing to find a person who does what they love for a living. Or is it? How many people do you know who can honestly say that they love going to work every day? I happen to know quite a few people who absolutely love what they do. Totally jealous, by the way.
Then there are those like me who love getting paid, but loathe their job. I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. You can't do a job you didn't apply for, right? Now I know the economy is in the dirt, blah blah blah. This is not about the economy (Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, people.) This is about the feeling of dread that comes each Sunday. That feeling that if work was supposed to be enjoyable, they would call it a hobby and charge you to do it. That feeling that you try day after day to fight through to find the positive: "I work with great people". "The money more than pays the bills". "I am grateful to have a job at all". All of which apply to me. And none of which make the WORK any better. This hasn't always been the case during my years in the military. Just this particular job.
Perhaps someday there will be a job out there for a sushi taster or a chocolate eater or a racquetball learner that I could apply for. But until that time, I suppose I will just have to keep going and do the best job I know how while fighting the unhappy Sundays that always seem to keep coming.
At least there is happiness in knowing that when I retire from the military in 9 years, 10 months and 8 days from now, Eric and I will buy our own franchise and we will never have to work FOR anyone again.
Then there are those like me who love getting paid, but loathe their job. I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. You can't do a job you didn't apply for, right? Now I know the economy is in the dirt, blah blah blah. This is not about the economy (Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, people.) This is about the feeling of dread that comes each Sunday. That feeling that if work was supposed to be enjoyable, they would call it a hobby and charge you to do it. That feeling that you try day after day to fight through to find the positive: "I work with great people". "The money more than pays the bills". "I am grateful to have a job at all". All of which apply to me. And none of which make the WORK any better. This hasn't always been the case during my years in the military. Just this particular job.
Perhaps someday there will be a job out there for a sushi taster or a chocolate eater or a racquetball learner that I could apply for. But until that time, I suppose I will just have to keep going and do the best job I know how while fighting the unhappy Sundays that always seem to keep coming.
At least there is happiness in knowing that when I retire from the military in 9 years, 10 months and 8 days from now, Eric and I will buy our own franchise and we will never have to work FOR anyone again.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Thoughts from the last decade...
There were many things about this last decade that stick out in our minds. The obvious one being 9/11. While I remember all the same things that the rest of you do, (where I was, what I was doing, etc.), the thought that sticks with me the most with regard to 9/11 is the fact that I am of the age where I do not remember a time when the World Trade Center towers weren't there (I was born in 1971 and the towers were completed in 1972), but the kids born that day and after will never know a time when the towers WERE there. The top of tower 2 was my favorite place on the planet and will not likely be replaced any time soon.
On the other side of 9/11 though was a momentous occasion, and that was the turn of the old century into the new. Not too many people get to experience a turn of centuries. I spent my New Year's Eve, 1999, at a garden party at the house of a friend of a friend who's name I can't even remember, on the intercoastal of Miami complete with ice sculptures, sushi boats and Saigon Kick (had a hit song or two in the 80's to include the rock ballad "Love Is On The Way"). I shared the stage with them for a song. One of life's cooler moments to be sure. It was also the decade when I bought my first house (4 more would follow), graduated from college (which I never thought I would ever do in a million years), got to wear the title of Assistant Vice President while at Bank Of America, started and dropped out of Law School, came back into the military, and adopted my first dog who, to this day, brings a joy into my life I never imagined possible.
It was also the decade I turned 30, which I thought was the coolest age ever. On the down side, it is the decade when I became obsessed with my weight, which is a side of me that I loathe. It is also the decade when I lost my uncle, who I loved dearly, and my father who meant more to me than just about anyone on the planet. Back to the upside, it was a decade where I became even more self-aware than I was before and truly became comfortable with who I was as a person. I am proud as hell of who I have become and the life that I have created for myself. While I am fairly good at being reflective, I am still guilty of that-which-is-forefront-in-my-life-takes-the-spotlight, so with that in mind, the greatest occurrence of the past decade didn't take place until it was almost over. I fell in love. Eric, this next decade is for you...
On the other side of 9/11 though was a momentous occasion, and that was the turn of the old century into the new. Not too many people get to experience a turn of centuries. I spent my New Year's Eve, 1999, at a garden party at the house of a friend of a friend who's name I can't even remember, on the intercoastal of Miami complete with ice sculptures, sushi boats and Saigon Kick (had a hit song or two in the 80's to include the rock ballad "Love Is On The Way"). I shared the stage with them for a song. One of life's cooler moments to be sure. It was also the decade when I bought my first house (4 more would follow), graduated from college (which I never thought I would ever do in a million years), got to wear the title of Assistant Vice President while at Bank Of America, started and dropped out of Law School, came back into the military, and adopted my first dog who, to this day, brings a joy into my life I never imagined possible.
It was also the decade I turned 30, which I thought was the coolest age ever. On the down side, it is the decade when I became obsessed with my weight, which is a side of me that I loathe. It is also the decade when I lost my uncle, who I loved dearly, and my father who meant more to me than just about anyone on the planet. Back to the upside, it was a decade where I became even more self-aware than I was before and truly became comfortable with who I was as a person. I am proud as hell of who I have become and the life that I have created for myself. While I am fairly good at being reflective, I am still guilty of that-which-is-forefront-in-my-life-takes-the-spotlight, so with that in mind, the greatest occurrence of the past decade didn't take place until it was almost over. I fell in love. Eric, this next decade is for you...
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