So yesterday was my birthday. 41. It's funny when you start having birthdays where you actually remember when your parents are the age you are now. That actually started when I turned 39. Either way, that's neither here nor there.
So, on my 41st birthday I am here at Squadron Officer School(SOS)at Maxwell AFB in Montgomery, Alabama with a bunch of 20-early-30- somethings making an attempt to feel younger than I am. Not that I chose to come here, mind you. It was one of those unwritten 'requirements' of being at my particular junction of my career. Suffice it to say it has taken me a lot longer to get back up to being able to run 3 miles than it did 10 years ago.
A couple of weeks ago an acquaintance from years back saw an update from me on Facebook that I was here in Alabama and she made the suggestion to come up and have lunch. So the Sunday before last, she did. She was one of my first supervisors when I was enlisted and stationed back in Geilenkirchen, Germany 20 or so years ago. We hadn't seen each other at all since Germany. It was truly a highlight of my time here in Alabama. Thinking about it now, I should have had someone take a picture of us.
This course is two months long and we are down to our last three weeks. So far, I think we got lucky with our flight. We haven't started hating each other yet and although we don't agree on everything, I think that all of us like and respect each other. We hear horror stories from random other flights about fighting, bickering, backstabbing, and general disdain for one another. We are quite fortunate.
Last week, I hurt my hand playing one of our field games. I'd like to think it wouldn't have hurt as badly if I had been younger, but the truth is that it was a one in a million hit and it would have hurt anyone. I probably have some tendon issue going on with it now, but there isn't a whole lot I can do about it here. They said I should have an MRI if it didn't get any better, but even though it is still pretty bad, I simply don't have time in this schedule to get it taken care of. I'll live.
Eric and I will be moving to DC soon after I graduate from SOS which is somewhat stressful, but exciting too. I will probably be more excited once we figure out where we are going to live. Having Macy makes things a little more complicated, but she is a non-negotiable. Hopefully if we have to sacrifice having a home with a yard, the fact that DC is a good size city, we are hoping there are dog-walkers for hire who can take her out mid-day while we are at work. As I have had time to wrap my head around living in the DC area, I get more and more excited about the idea of living in a big city again. Bring it on, DC. *Queue the "Rocky" music*
While tonight's post isn't nearly as clever or witty as I intended it to be going in, sometimes it's good just to get these thoughts out. For now, I'm heading to bed. Got a long week ahead and I need my beauty sleep.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
The Banana Mobile lives!
So just as he predicted, by the time dad and I walked back into the house, my mother was there with a message in hand saying that someone named David from Roger Dean Chevrolet had called and asked that we call him back. Dad gives me a quick wink and calls David back.
The very next day we go to pick up my car. Dad and I got out there, and I drove my car off the lot. The feeling of freedom and independence was immediate and life-changing. Suddenly there were no walls, borders, restrictions or rules. I moved out of my house about 3 weeks later and only lived in South Florida for about another month before deciding that I missed NY too much to stay.
I didn't tell a soul. I packed up my few belongings into the car and at 17, I started the drive up I-95 to NY. About 8 hours into the drive, I hear what sounded to my ears like an explosion. I had no idea what happened, but I suddenly had little control over my car. I guide it slowly over to the side of I-95 and come to a stop. My right front tire had blown. Here I was, 17 years old, in South Georgia, on I-95, at dusk. With a blown tire. I don't even know if I have a spare. Ok, I thought to myself, this is NOT a big deal. I know what a tire looks like and I know what a jack looks like and I can do this. I am praying that nobody stops to help. My fear was being murdered by ax. At 4'9" and about 85 pounds, I could hardly rely on my ass-kicking abilities.
I open my trunk and was so happy to see a spare tire in there that I almost started to cry. What I didn't see was a jack. I do, however, see this other weird looking metal accordion looking thing. Perhaps this was the tool? I didn't know. I get the tire out of the trunk and was probably more proud of that little accomplishment than I should have been and I bring it over to the front of the car. How hard could it be? Take one tire off, put the new tire on, and be back on the road to NY, right? RIGHT! I know that beneath a hubcap are the bolts that hold the tire on. But apparently I was lacking the tool specific to taking this particular hubcap off the tire. So I proceed to start beating and prying the hubcap off the tire with the tire iron. I am beating and bending and prying for about 45 minutes before I finally got the thing off. I then slowly began to figure out this weird jack-like tool and began the daunting process of cranking the car up off the road. Every time I cranked, my knuckles scrapped the ground and I simply lacked the power to do this right. After an hour or so, bleeding and defeated, I sat on the ground next to my car and cried in the dark.
As a 17 year old, you can only imagine the terrifying thoughts that were going through my head. After about 15 minutes or so, my pity-party came to an end and I managed to not only get the car the rest of the way off the ground, but I managed to get the new tire on the car.
I drove the rest of the way to NY without stopping. I was scared to death that my tire was going to fall off. The next morning, exhausted and hungry, I drove directly into Bob Maher's autobody shop. He was one of my dad's best friends and I wanted him to check my tire. Turns out I had done everything right. It was my first test as an adult and it was a good one. And I passed.
That car became a home for both me and my best friend, Cindi. We spent more time in that car than we did in either of our houses. I kept that car until I went into the military in September of 1990. I probably had that car for less time than I did any other car I owned, but I will always remember it and it will always have a special place in my heart. Probably Cindi's heart too. She actually LIVED in that car during her moments of homelessness. HA!
The very next day we go to pick up my car. Dad and I got out there, and I drove my car off the lot. The feeling of freedom and independence was immediate and life-changing. Suddenly there were no walls, borders, restrictions or rules. I moved out of my house about 3 weeks later and only lived in South Florida for about another month before deciding that I missed NY too much to stay.
I didn't tell a soul. I packed up my few belongings into the car and at 17, I started the drive up I-95 to NY. About 8 hours into the drive, I hear what sounded to my ears like an explosion. I had no idea what happened, but I suddenly had little control over my car. I guide it slowly over to the side of I-95 and come to a stop. My right front tire had blown. Here I was, 17 years old, in South Georgia, on I-95, at dusk. With a blown tire. I don't even know if I have a spare. Ok, I thought to myself, this is NOT a big deal. I know what a tire looks like and I know what a jack looks like and I can do this. I am praying that nobody stops to help. My fear was being murdered by ax. At 4'9" and about 85 pounds, I could hardly rely on my ass-kicking abilities.
I open my trunk and was so happy to see a spare tire in there that I almost started to cry. What I didn't see was a jack. I do, however, see this other weird looking metal accordion looking thing. Perhaps this was the tool? I didn't know. I get the tire out of the trunk and was probably more proud of that little accomplishment than I should have been and I bring it over to the front of the car. How hard could it be? Take one tire off, put the new tire on, and be back on the road to NY, right? RIGHT! I know that beneath a hubcap are the bolts that hold the tire on. But apparently I was lacking the tool specific to taking this particular hubcap off the tire. So I proceed to start beating and prying the hubcap off the tire with the tire iron. I am beating and bending and prying for about 45 minutes before I finally got the thing off. I then slowly began to figure out this weird jack-like tool and began the daunting process of cranking the car up off the road. Every time I cranked, my knuckles scrapped the ground and I simply lacked the power to do this right. After an hour or so, bleeding and defeated, I sat on the ground next to my car and cried in the dark.
As a 17 year old, you can only imagine the terrifying thoughts that were going through my head. After about 15 minutes or so, my pity-party came to an end and I managed to not only get the car the rest of the way off the ground, but I managed to get the new tire on the car.
I drove the rest of the way to NY without stopping. I was scared to death that my tire was going to fall off. The next morning, exhausted and hungry, I drove directly into Bob Maher's autobody shop. He was one of my dad's best friends and I wanted him to check my tire. Turns out I had done everything right. It was my first test as an adult and it was a good one. And I passed.
That car became a home for both me and my best friend, Cindi. We spent more time in that car than we did in either of our houses. I kept that car until I went into the military in September of 1990. I probably had that car for less time than I did any other car I owned, but I will always remember it and it will always have a special place in my heart. Probably Cindi's heart too. She actually LIVED in that car during her moments of homelessness. HA!
Sunday, January 8, 2012
My First Car
My first car was a pale yellow 1984 Ford Fairmont. Affectionately known as “The Banana Mobile.” I bought it in 1989 about a month after I moved from NY to Palm Beach, Florida.
My father came with me to the dealership, Roger Dean Chevrolet, and we went on the hunt. Our salesman, a HOT HOT guy named David DiMessino (yes, he was so hot, that I remember his name 20+ years later) showed us a few cars and we finally came upon my Fairmont. This car was DA BOMB. It was the high end of the Fairmont line with all the bells and whistles. Power windows and locks, cruise control, and the icing on the cake…A kickin’ AM/FM stereo with 8-track player. Oh yeah.
Being 17 with no car-buying experience, I get a look inside this car and I am literally bouncing up and down with excitement saying something along the lines of “I want this one! I want this one!” David the salesman was smiling from ear to ear and my father looked like he wanted to kill me.
Off we go into the office with David to get the deal done. It was here that I learned about haggling. Prices were offered, words were spoken, and ultimately my father got up and said “Let’s go, Liss, we’re leaving.” I continued to sit there, looking back and forth between my father and my David and trying to figure out what the hell just happened. I was mortified. I was a very bright 17 year old yet it never occurred to me to just say to my father, “Hey, I’ve worked since I was 11 years old for this money and we’re staying!” Instead, in his best lower octave serious voice dad gives me one more “Let’s. Go.” Slowly I stand up, tears in my eyes, and we walk out of the dealership. I have a pocket full of money, no car, no David DiMessino, nothing.
We get into dad’s car and go home. On the way, my father assures me that David will call and agree to the price we wanted. In fact, he promised, he probably already called and there will be a message waiting for us by the time we get home…
Tomorrow: The adventures of Ilisa and her Banana Mobile…
My father came with me to the dealership, Roger Dean Chevrolet, and we went on the hunt. Our salesman, a HOT HOT guy named David DiMessino (yes, he was so hot, that I remember his name 20+ years later) showed us a few cars and we finally came upon my Fairmont. This car was DA BOMB. It was the high end of the Fairmont line with all the bells and whistles. Power windows and locks, cruise control, and the icing on the cake…A kickin’ AM/FM stereo with 8-track player. Oh yeah.
Being 17 with no car-buying experience, I get a look inside this car and I am literally bouncing up and down with excitement saying something along the lines of “I want this one! I want this one!” David the salesman was smiling from ear to ear and my father looked like he wanted to kill me.
Off we go into the office with David to get the deal done. It was here that I learned about haggling. Prices were offered, words were spoken, and ultimately my father got up and said “Let’s go, Liss, we’re leaving.” I continued to sit there, looking back and forth between my father and my David and trying to figure out what the hell just happened. I was mortified. I was a very bright 17 year old yet it never occurred to me to just say to my father, “Hey, I’ve worked since I was 11 years old for this money and we’re staying!” Instead, in his best lower octave serious voice dad gives me one more “Let’s. Go.” Slowly I stand up, tears in my eyes, and we walk out of the dealership. I have a pocket full of money, no car, no David DiMessino, nothing.
We get into dad’s car and go home. On the way, my father assures me that David will call and agree to the price we wanted. In fact, he promised, he probably already called and there will be a message waiting for us by the time we get home…
Tomorrow: The adventures of Ilisa and her Banana Mobile…
Saturday, December 17, 2011
My love/hate relationship with...Florida
I fell in love with Florida the very first time I went. It was February of 1978. Growing up in NY all I ever knew was that summer was warm and winter was cold. To have gotten off the train in Miami Beach (contrary to popular belief, there is no such place as “south beach”. That’s just a pet-name for Miami Beach that has evolved over the years) in the middle of February and have it be warm was all it took. I was almost 7 years old and it didn’t take much to make me happy. From that point on, it was my goal to live in Florida.
In 1989 when I was 17, my dream came true and I moved to Palm Beach County with my parents. Eventually I moved away for my job in the military. But I have always enjoyed going back. Flying into PBI always made me giggle like I was a kid. Seeing that coast and those palm trees come into view was the best feeling ever. Every single time. And I made that flight countless times over the years. As wonderful as all of that was, the best part about being in Florida was seeing my mom and dad. Even after mom died, I still loved going to Florida. After all, dad was still there.
When dad died I made a trip to Florida for the funeral. I remember that flight into PBI like it was yesterday. My amazing coastline and beautiful palm trees came into view and my immediate thought was “I hate this fucking place. I am never coming back here again.”
I know that my emotions were raw. It didn’t help that I had just flown 15 hours from South Korea and barely knew my own name by that point. But it didn’t matter. For me south Florida had lost its allure.
About a year later, my sister Michele, who still lives in Palm Beach County, was getting married. It was going to be my first trip back since dad had passed away. I was with Eric by then and I was looking forward to showing him the area I had grown to know, love, and adopt as my own. So the trip turned out to be a good one. Happy. Lots of fun memories. Subsequently I have made several more trips to visit my sister as well as my Aunt who also lives in the area.
With each trip back, however, I have become more and more unhappy. I don’t know what it is, but when I go back to visit, and drive around, I see memories of mom and dad. All other times that I have gone home those memories had made me smile, and over the last 3 or 4 visits instead of making me smile, it makes me sad. I don’t get it. I would have thought that the memories would continue to make me smile and become progressively easier. Instead, they have become progressively more sad.
Florida used to be my “happy place”. Now it feels like I have not only lost my folks, but that I have lost my “happy place” as well. My “you-CAN-go-home-again” place.
Don’t get me wrong, I am THRILLED with the life I have created for myself and the people who are in it. I am VERY happy. I just feel, sort of an additional loss if you will, when it comes to Florida. I am not quite sure what to do with it yet. I still love palm trees, though.
In 1989 when I was 17, my dream came true and I moved to Palm Beach County with my parents. Eventually I moved away for my job in the military. But I have always enjoyed going back. Flying into PBI always made me giggle like I was a kid. Seeing that coast and those palm trees come into view was the best feeling ever. Every single time. And I made that flight countless times over the years. As wonderful as all of that was, the best part about being in Florida was seeing my mom and dad. Even after mom died, I still loved going to Florida. After all, dad was still there.
When dad died I made a trip to Florida for the funeral. I remember that flight into PBI like it was yesterday. My amazing coastline and beautiful palm trees came into view and my immediate thought was “I hate this fucking place. I am never coming back here again.”
I know that my emotions were raw. It didn’t help that I had just flown 15 hours from South Korea and barely knew my own name by that point. But it didn’t matter. For me south Florida had lost its allure.
About a year later, my sister Michele, who still lives in Palm Beach County, was getting married. It was going to be my first trip back since dad had passed away. I was with Eric by then and I was looking forward to showing him the area I had grown to know, love, and adopt as my own. So the trip turned out to be a good one. Happy. Lots of fun memories. Subsequently I have made several more trips to visit my sister as well as my Aunt who also lives in the area.
With each trip back, however, I have become more and more unhappy. I don’t know what it is, but when I go back to visit, and drive around, I see memories of mom and dad. All other times that I have gone home those memories had made me smile, and over the last 3 or 4 visits instead of making me smile, it makes me sad. I don’t get it. I would have thought that the memories would continue to make me smile and become progressively easier. Instead, they have become progressively more sad.
Florida used to be my “happy place”. Now it feels like I have not only lost my folks, but that I have lost my “happy place” as well. My “you-CAN-go-home-again” place.
Don’t get me wrong, I am THRILLED with the life I have created for myself and the people who are in it. I am VERY happy. I just feel, sort of an additional loss if you will, when it comes to Florida. I am not quite sure what to do with it yet. I still love palm trees, though.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Goldsboro Comes Through!
Ah, food. I love food. And I have the hips to prove it.
Last Friday night though, was an exceptional night for food. For one of my favorite foods too, no less! That night I had a steak worthy of the highest praise from none other than…me.
On the recommendation of a co-worker, Eric and I visited a brand new restaurant in Goldsboro, NC called Carl & ‘Chelle’s (which I am guessing is short for MI-chelle). If am not mistaken they have only been open since September. Now, living here in Goldsboro I have received recommendations-a-plenty from people regarding where to eat. Some places have even been pretty good. The majority of the time however, the places left me wondering what the hell these people were smoking before they came out with their recommendations. So suffice it to say, expectations were a little bit reserved. Still, being a bit of a food/steak snob, I simply MUST go to a place that came this highly recommended. We were not disappointed.
The restaurant is small, with only about 8 tables total. We arrived just before 6pm and waited about 20 minutes for a seat. While we were waiting, a couple who had just finished eating saw us waiting and asked us if we had ever eaten there before. We told them no, and they told us that it would be well worth the wait. Expectations and hope went even higher. It must be good when people leaving are raving to complete strangers about the quality of the fare, right? When we sat down, the first thing that we noticed was that there were no menus. I have been to such an establishment before and believe you me, it takes a huge ego and exceptional quality to get away with that. After the waiter took our drink orders, the chef himself rolled up to our table with a butcher block and two whole cuts of beef. Tonight they were serving Ribeye and Filet Mignon. I began to drool. I knew we were in for a treat. I picked the 8oz Filet while Eric went with the Ribeye. Both ordered medium-rare. Always a pleasure going to a restaurant where the quality of the beef is good enough to be ordered at the temperature you desire. Your choice for a side was either a baked potato or a twice-baked potato. There was also a salad bar which was basic, but plenty of traditional options.
In short order, out came our meals. Holy cannoli. This steak was utterly amazing. It cut like butter. It was seasoned to perfection. It was cooked perfectly. I have been to some of the best steakhouses in countries all over the world, and this steak was without a doubt in the top three. Maybe even the top two. It brought a smile to my face and tears to my eyes. In Goldsboro. A mere 25 minutes from home. I will be recommending Carl and ‘Chelle’s to anyone who will listen to me. Anyone with taste, that is.
Last Friday night though, was an exceptional night for food. For one of my favorite foods too, no less! That night I had a steak worthy of the highest praise from none other than…me.
On the recommendation of a co-worker, Eric and I visited a brand new restaurant in Goldsboro, NC called Carl & ‘Chelle’s (which I am guessing is short for MI-chelle). If am not mistaken they have only been open since September. Now, living here in Goldsboro I have received recommendations-a-plenty from people regarding where to eat. Some places have even been pretty good. The majority of the time however, the places left me wondering what the hell these people were smoking before they came out with their recommendations. So suffice it to say, expectations were a little bit reserved. Still, being a bit of a food/steak snob, I simply MUST go to a place that came this highly recommended. We were not disappointed.
The restaurant is small, with only about 8 tables total. We arrived just before 6pm and waited about 20 minutes for a seat. While we were waiting, a couple who had just finished eating saw us waiting and asked us if we had ever eaten there before. We told them no, and they told us that it would be well worth the wait. Expectations and hope went even higher. It must be good when people leaving are raving to complete strangers about the quality of the fare, right? When we sat down, the first thing that we noticed was that there were no menus. I have been to such an establishment before and believe you me, it takes a huge ego and exceptional quality to get away with that. After the waiter took our drink orders, the chef himself rolled up to our table with a butcher block and two whole cuts of beef. Tonight they were serving Ribeye and Filet Mignon. I began to drool. I knew we were in for a treat. I picked the 8oz Filet while Eric went with the Ribeye. Both ordered medium-rare. Always a pleasure going to a restaurant where the quality of the beef is good enough to be ordered at the temperature you desire. Your choice for a side was either a baked potato or a twice-baked potato. There was also a salad bar which was basic, but plenty of traditional options.
In short order, out came our meals. Holy cannoli. This steak was utterly amazing. It cut like butter. It was seasoned to perfection. It was cooked perfectly. I have been to some of the best steakhouses in countries all over the world, and this steak was without a doubt in the top three. Maybe even the top two. It brought a smile to my face and tears to my eyes. In Goldsboro. A mere 25 minutes from home. I will be recommending Carl and ‘Chelle’s to anyone who will listen to me. Anyone with taste, that is.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
You knew that...right?
I love my dog, Macy. She is the biggest boo-bear, with the sweetest disposition ever and I am so lucky to have her.
She had a cancer scare last year right before I deployed and *knock wood* she has been happy, healthy and cancer free since having surgery to remove the small tumor. Life is good. That said, she's an older dog already. At 11 years old, she has her little grey chin coming in, it's a little tougher for her to wake up in the mornings, and she isn't quite as sprightly as she used to be. She's getting kinda deaf too. All part of the cycle of life.
Last week she was lying in her bed, and she yelped. It was without a doubt a yelp of sudden pain. But she seemed to get over it quickly and we moved on. A couple hours later while she was just walking from the living room to the kitchen, she yelped again. After the 3rd yelp, I did a cursory check with my non-vet eyes and decided that, given her age and history, I should just take her in to the vet and have them take a look in case I am missing something. Don't want my moose in pain if she doesn't need to be.
I drop her off for her appointment today, and headed into work. A couple hours later I get a call from the vet. She has some degenerative joint disease in her knees and that is likely what was causing her the pain. Nothing a few days without walks and some rimadil won't fix up. Awesome. "And by the way", the vet goes on to say, "where she was shot might be giving her some problems too." Me: Um...excuse me? The Vet: "You knew that she'd been shot, right"? Me: Um...NO!? Like, today?!" The Vet: "No, no, it's an old injury but there are a lot of little bullet fragments around the area of her left hip."
My first reaction is just a pain in my heart. I knew that Macy had likely been abused as a younger dog. I rescued her from a shelter when she was around 3 or 4. About a month after I had her, I was getting a little tired of her going into the trash can and knocking it over for scraps. When I finally caught her in the act, I had rolled up a newspaper and whacked it on the counter and shouted "Macy, NO"! Never touched her. Never intened to touch her, either. But whacking the newpaper on the counter caused her to curl up into a ball, skulk over to the door trying to get outside and she peed on herself. This was OBVIOUSLY a dog who had been beaten into submission. Broke my heart in two. I ran over to her and gave her kisses and loving and apologized for hitting the counter (really?). But I didn't care what impression I may have been giving. I called my sister in law for advice on what to do now (since Macy is my first dog in LIFE). She told me, Liss, she's a dog. Get a trash can that goes under your sink. Problem solved.
My second reaction today was anger. Anyone who knows my dog, knows how sweet and sorta helpless she is under pressure. Who would do that to a dog? Any dog? But especailly MY dog. A dog that I have grown to love an insane amount. Who loves me and loves Eric unconditionally. All she needs in return is pats and food.
As the vet was showing me the x-rays today of her hip and the bullet and all it's fragments were still there lodged in her body, the reaction of heartbreak and anger came together. But in the end, anger won.
If the chicken-shit ass hole who shot my Macy all those years ago is still alive, I hope that someone shoots you in both of your knees, rendering you unable to run from the pack of angry pitbulls who can smell your blood as it pools on the ground around you while you scream in agony and they show you what being a carnivore is truly about.
She had a cancer scare last year right before I deployed and *knock wood* she has been happy, healthy and cancer free since having surgery to remove the small tumor. Life is good. That said, she's an older dog already. At 11 years old, she has her little grey chin coming in, it's a little tougher for her to wake up in the mornings, and she isn't quite as sprightly as she used to be. She's getting kinda deaf too. All part of the cycle of life.
Last week she was lying in her bed, and she yelped. It was without a doubt a yelp of sudden pain. But she seemed to get over it quickly and we moved on. A couple hours later while she was just walking from the living room to the kitchen, she yelped again. After the 3rd yelp, I did a cursory check with my non-vet eyes and decided that, given her age and history, I should just take her in to the vet and have them take a look in case I am missing something. Don't want my moose in pain if she doesn't need to be.
I drop her off for her appointment today, and headed into work. A couple hours later I get a call from the vet. She has some degenerative joint disease in her knees and that is likely what was causing her the pain. Nothing a few days without walks and some rimadil won't fix up. Awesome. "And by the way", the vet goes on to say, "where she was shot might be giving her some problems too." Me: Um...excuse me? The Vet: "You knew that she'd been shot, right"? Me: Um...NO!? Like, today?!" The Vet: "No, no, it's an old injury but there are a lot of little bullet fragments around the area of her left hip."
My first reaction is just a pain in my heart. I knew that Macy had likely been abused as a younger dog. I rescued her from a shelter when she was around 3 or 4. About a month after I had her, I was getting a little tired of her going into the trash can and knocking it over for scraps. When I finally caught her in the act, I had rolled up a newspaper and whacked it on the counter and shouted "Macy, NO"! Never touched her. Never intened to touch her, either. But whacking the newpaper on the counter caused her to curl up into a ball, skulk over to the door trying to get outside and she peed on herself. This was OBVIOUSLY a dog who had been beaten into submission. Broke my heart in two. I ran over to her and gave her kisses and loving and apologized for hitting the counter (really?). But I didn't care what impression I may have been giving. I called my sister in law for advice on what to do now (since Macy is my first dog in LIFE). She told me, Liss, she's a dog. Get a trash can that goes under your sink. Problem solved.
My second reaction today was anger. Anyone who knows my dog, knows how sweet and sorta helpless she is under pressure. Who would do that to a dog? Any dog? But especailly MY dog. A dog that I have grown to love an insane amount. Who loves me and loves Eric unconditionally. All she needs in return is pats and food.
As the vet was showing me the x-rays today of her hip and the bullet and all it's fragments were still there lodged in her body, the reaction of heartbreak and anger came together. But in the end, anger won.
If the chicken-shit ass hole who shot my Macy all those years ago is still alive, I hope that someone shoots you in both of your knees, rendering you unable to run from the pack of angry pitbulls who can smell your blood as it pools on the ground around you while you scream in agony and they show you what being a carnivore is truly about.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Being an introvert
The other day I posted a status update on Facebook making mention of the fact that Facebook was great for us introverts. Because it allows us to interact with people without actually having to speak to them or be in the general vicinity of them. I don't quote this because it wasn't verbatim what I wrote, but close enough. The comments that were generated are what really surprised me, though.
I thought that most people who knew me realized that I was an introvert. I think that most people mistakenly assume that being an introvert was another way of saying "shy" or perhaps even as extreme as "anti-social". Neither of which are even remotely true. About me, or about anyone who is truly an introvert.
I stole these from Wikipedia: "Introverts are people whose energy tends to expand through reflection and dwindle during interaction". Oh yeah. All me. This one too: "...social networking sites have been a thriving home for introverts in the 21st century, where introverts are free from the formalities of social conduct and may become more comfortable blogging about personal feelings they would not otherwise disclose." Like, holy shit! I never read that prior to posting my status update. I just knew enough about myself to know it to be true. This one really brings it home: "Introversion is not the same as being shy or being a social outcast. Introverts prefer solitary activities over social ones, whereas shy people (who may be extraverts at heart) avoid social encounters out of fear, and the social outcast has little choice in the matter of his or her solitude." So there!
Introverts such as myself tend to not be people persons. I actually had a resume with that statement on it. "I am not a people person." I think it is pretty darn important that a potential employer knows that going in, because if they decide to put you in a customer service type of role, then they will find out pretty quickly anyhow and have no one to blame but themselves when things turn sour.
As an introvert, the time I spend with ME is truly wonderful. The time I spend with Eric is also wonderful, but I, as well as most introverts I imagine, do not require the presence of others to feel comfortable, secure, fulfilled or otherwise. Another advantage to being an introvert is that I can say with certainty that I have never felt lonely a day in my life. Ever. My mind is constantly engaged in thought. I theorize about everything. I am constantly working out things in my mind, coming up with answers to questions that I create. I am all about "why" and "how".
I will admit that although it has been several years now, that I didn't realize that I was an introvert until well into adulthood. It was during college when I took one of those Myers-Briggs tests for the first time when I realized that my personality-type actually fell into a 'category' at all. Most of my life I would just assume that everyone felt as I did and just faked it because that is what was socially acceptable. Ok, that wasn't the clearest sentence, so here is an example of what I mean.
Growing up friends would always want to go out to...wherever. A party, a club, a hockey game, other people's houses, wherever. I would go with when invited, because that's just what you did. But I would always be the one sitting, looking at the clock, wondering when an acceptable time to leave without appearing rude was going to be.
So back to my Myers-Briggs test...and forgive me as I think I have actually written about this before...but it tells you what your best professional fit might be to your personality category, and mine pretty much said that I needed to be a research scientist who worked alone on top of a remote mountain in Nepal. With the monkeys and whatnot. I distinctly remember being insulted at that answer but over the years, I realized that it was EXACTLY who I am. I would be willing to bet money that the majority of your scientists, researchers, philosophers, entrepreneurs, artists, and the like are introverts as well.
I feel like my introversion is a gift, quite honestly. It sure came in handy when I was deployed. When there was no TV, internet, or even power at times, my mind was a constant source of entertainment.
Seriously, though. I wish that more of my family had come to my defense when I wrote that status update. I think most felt I was being negative, but that wasn't the case at all. I was merely stating a fact. A fact about myself. One that I have learned to love and embrace! Lucky for me, Eric is a bit of an introvert as well. Not nearly as much as me, but enough so that he understands and loves me because of, and in spite of, it.
I thought that most people who knew me realized that I was an introvert. I think that most people mistakenly assume that being an introvert was another way of saying "shy" or perhaps even as extreme as "anti-social". Neither of which are even remotely true. About me, or about anyone who is truly an introvert.
I stole these from Wikipedia: "Introverts are people whose energy tends to expand through reflection and dwindle during interaction". Oh yeah. All me. This one too: "...social networking sites have been a thriving home for introverts in the 21st century, where introverts are free from the formalities of social conduct and may become more comfortable blogging about personal feelings they would not otherwise disclose." Like, holy shit! I never read that prior to posting my status update. I just knew enough about myself to know it to be true. This one really brings it home: "Introversion is not the same as being shy or being a social outcast. Introverts prefer solitary activities over social ones, whereas shy people (who may be extraverts at heart) avoid social encounters out of fear, and the social outcast has little choice in the matter of his or her solitude." So there!
Introverts such as myself tend to not be people persons. I actually had a resume with that statement on it. "I am not a people person." I think it is pretty darn important that a potential employer knows that going in, because if they decide to put you in a customer service type of role, then they will find out pretty quickly anyhow and have no one to blame but themselves when things turn sour.
As an introvert, the time I spend with ME is truly wonderful. The time I spend with Eric is also wonderful, but I, as well as most introverts I imagine, do not require the presence of others to feel comfortable, secure, fulfilled or otherwise. Another advantage to being an introvert is that I can say with certainty that I have never felt lonely a day in my life. Ever. My mind is constantly engaged in thought. I theorize about everything. I am constantly working out things in my mind, coming up with answers to questions that I create. I am all about "why" and "how".
I will admit that although it has been several years now, that I didn't realize that I was an introvert until well into adulthood. It was during college when I took one of those Myers-Briggs tests for the first time when I realized that my personality-type actually fell into a 'category' at all. Most of my life I would just assume that everyone felt as I did and just faked it because that is what was socially acceptable. Ok, that wasn't the clearest sentence, so here is an example of what I mean.
Growing up friends would always want to go out to...wherever. A party, a club, a hockey game, other people's houses, wherever. I would go with when invited, because that's just what you did. But I would always be the one sitting, looking at the clock, wondering when an acceptable time to leave without appearing rude was going to be.
So back to my Myers-Briggs test...and forgive me as I think I have actually written about this before...but it tells you what your best professional fit might be to your personality category, and mine pretty much said that I needed to be a research scientist who worked alone on top of a remote mountain in Nepal. With the monkeys and whatnot. I distinctly remember being insulted at that answer but over the years, I realized that it was EXACTLY who I am. I would be willing to bet money that the majority of your scientists, researchers, philosophers, entrepreneurs, artists, and the like are introverts as well.
I feel like my introversion is a gift, quite honestly. It sure came in handy when I was deployed. When there was no TV, internet, or even power at times, my mind was a constant source of entertainment.
Seriously, though. I wish that more of my family had come to my defense when I wrote that status update. I think most felt I was being negative, but that wasn't the case at all. I was merely stating a fact. A fact about myself. One that I have learned to love and embrace! Lucky for me, Eric is a bit of an introvert as well. Not nearly as much as me, but enough so that he understands and loves me because of, and in spite of, it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)