I can't ever remember a time without her. 41 years ago, my parents brought a tiny baby home and introduced me, still a baby myself, to my little sister. I don't remember life without her, so as far as I'm concerned, she has been here my entire life.
Her job, although I was two years older than she, was to protect me. She protected me at night, kept my piggies safe from the big bad wolf, and everything else that goes bump in the night. As family lore tells it, she kept me safe from most things that go bump in the day, too. She was always the brave one. She kept our room clean, let me sleep with her when I was scared, and took care of me when I got sick in the night.
Although she's younger, it seems like I've always lived in her shadow. She did everything better than me. She cleaned house better (I regret I never got the urge). She made better grades. The teachers liked her better. She had more friends. She was better with the boys. She managed her money better.
She definitely snuck out better, as our mother discovered late one summer evening when she came in and found me tucked safely in my bed, with my sister nowhere to be seen. It was some hours later when my sister snuck back in and tried to slide between her covers, only to find Mom laying there, mad as a wet hen, and I'm certain just as disappointed. I don't think I made it any easier for my sister when I tried to console my mom by telling her, "don't worry, she does this all the time." Oopsie.
My sister saved me from some terrible decision making when she drug me off to college with her before what should have been my junior year. We lived together for years after, laughing hysterically as only sisters can do. I will never forget one morning as we were reading the paper, when she asked me with a quizzical look on her face what in the world a "toe-aster" pastry was. "Toaster pastry?" I replied. I will never look at a pop-tart without thinking of us, sitting at our kitchen table, laughing until tears rolled down our faces.
The Toe-Aster pastry is just as funny as the time we came home together in her car. She drove a stick shift, and for some reason, I was driving that night. We'd just driven three hours with a squirmy puppy in the car and were rounding third base headed for home when I exited the freeway and inconveniently forgot to downshift. The car lurched wildly, my sister frantically held on to the puppy, trying to tell me what to do, while, I, confused as hell, hysterically yelled, "This is not my car!" as I tried to avoid killing either us or the car. Good times indeed.
For some reason, despite the fact she seemed better at most things than I, she often turned to me for advice growing up. I always gave it. Some of it good, some of it not so much. When she had a big decision to make about her career a few years ago, she called me and we talked for a long time about it. It struck me as odd that she, stuck between the offer of a partnership at her CPA firm and an offer to be a CFO, called me to discuss her options. After all, she's the one who did my taxes, and she knew damn well what tax bracket I fell in. It seemed ironic to me at the time that she was asking me for advice when either of the two jobs she had in front of her paid many, many, many times what I brought in.
My sister has made the decision to come walk the 3-day Komen walk with me in November. Under duress, I might add, as I spent an entire day convincing her that she can, indeed, raise the minimum necessary to walk. It took me two months to raise my money; it took her just about a day. And she is now the #1 fundraiser in the Dallas-Fort Worth walk. Not by much, but by God, she's at the top of the list.
When I congratulated her yesterday, she said she was proud, too, but knowing that I was proud of her meant even more. It dawned on me then that I've never said I'm proud of her. I think sisters are like an old married couple. So many things are left unsaid because you just know the other person knows what you're thinking.
So, here you go, Adnohr.
I am so proud of the child you were and the grown up you've become. I am proud you left a miserable relationship that was eating you up to marry a really, really terrific guy who loves you and supports you. I am proud of the ridiculous amount of money that you make and the stunning home you own. I'm proud of your expensive toys, although most of them frighten me to some degree. I am proud of the support you give the people you love and the sacrifice you're making to walk with me in November. I am ridiculously proud that you've raised over $10,000 to eradicate breast cancer forever, when you were worried you couldn't raise two grand.
I'm proud that you're well read and interesting and fun to be around. I'm proud to be the sister of the life of the party. I'm proud you take care of yourself and those around you, even when the ones around you make it hard sometimes. Your sense of family and purpose are astounding at times, and that makes me proud.
I think all sisters love each other, by default, because that's what we're supposed to do. But it's another thing entirely to hold your sister in high esteem, to love her and honor her. They say pride is a sin, but I'm not buying it.
So, Little Sister, today is for you. I love you and I am so so proud of you!
Einahpets
ps - I didn't buy a card. Again.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Unequally yoked
Oh, the joys of targeted marketing. NOT!
Here's what I had in my inbox this morning:
It's not that I'm opposed to the person of color. In fact there are several "Black" men (it's ok to refer to them that way if the ad does, right?) that I find wildly attractive. Sterling Sharp, Blair Underwood, Taye Diggs. All very, very yummy. But I digress...
I think we all know that my tastes run more to the Brown than the Black.
As a reminder, here's what I look like:
Yes, those are freckles. And blue eyes. Oh yeah, and I've been married for 11 years. To a Mexican.
You'll see if you look closely enough, that there is an "opt out" option at the bottom of the email, and I've tried to exercise that option several times.
So, I tried a different approach today. Since the email at least appears to come from a human's email address, I emailed him back a picture of me. And one of my Mexican husband. And asked him nicely to include us both in his database of singles if he thought we would be a fit for his service. Otherwise, would he kindly remove my address from his system? I'm really, truly, not interested. Unless of course, Taye Diggs is on there and wouldn't mind a dalliance with a 40-something married white chick
I'm now taking bets on whether or not I'll get another email from our friends at BlackPeopleMeet.com.
You want in?
Peace out,
LadySteele
Here's what I had in my inbox this morning:
It's not that I'm opposed to the person of color. In fact there are several "Black" men (it's ok to refer to them that way if the ad does, right?) that I find wildly attractive. Sterling Sharp, Blair Underwood, Taye Diggs. All very, very yummy. But I digress...
I think we all know that my tastes run more to the Brown than the Black.
As a reminder, here's what I look like:
Yes, those are freckles. And blue eyes. Oh yeah, and I've been married for 11 years. To a Mexican.
You'll see if you look closely enough, that there is an "opt out" option at the bottom of the email, and I've tried to exercise that option several times.
So, I tried a different approach today. Since the email at least appears to come from a human's email address, I emailed him back a picture of me. And one of my Mexican husband. And asked him nicely to include us both in his database of singles if he thought we would be a fit for his service. Otherwise, would he kindly remove my address from his system? I'm really, truly, not interested. Unless of course, Taye Diggs is on there and wouldn't mind a dalliance with a 40-something married white chick
I'm now taking bets on whether or not I'll get another email from our friends at BlackPeopleMeet.com.
You want in?
Peace out,
LadySteele
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
If it's not Sex, it's Lesbians. Good gosh, y'all.
First it was The idiots at ABC, now it's our Holy Grail of Radio, KERA.
LittleG and I were on the way to the "lye-bary" on Saturday, and the good folks at National Public Radio were interviewing people who make movies. Safe enough topic, I think to myself.
Turns out I was wrong.
The subject of the interview during that timeslot was the woman who wrote the book or the screenplay upon which The Kids are All Right is based. This is not going to end well, I think to myself, remembering the storyline of the movie, and my inquisitive little sponge in her booster seat right behind me.
I act quickly to change the station to some far more kid-friendly selection, maybe Lady Gaga, Ke$ha or 50 Cent. Unfortunately, I don't hit that button fast enough.
"Mom," says LittleG, "what is a lesbian?" And there it is.
EGAD.
If you've read me at all, you know I just don't swing that way. I do tend to be pretty liberal in my views on "others," be they a different religion, skin color, or sexual persuasion. I don't always understand the other guy, but I do my best to accept them.
For the benefit of one of my extremely conservative readers, I should throw in here that we've all sinned and fallen short and I don't think I or any other human has the right to judge another. Those aren't my words, and I've paraphrased just a bit, but I think you get the gist of it.
Anyway, just because I am reasonably comfortable with the concept of a lesbian doesn't mean I'm ready to explain it to my six year old.
I know, based on six years of dealing with this child, that I had better answer her question, or she'll just keep asking it. And the more she asks, the more interesting the concept will become.
So I walked a fine line and said that sometimes moms love moms instead of moms loving dads, and in our family, we don't judge people like that. Everyone is different, and that's ok.
And my beautiful, precious, perceptive little girl says, "I get it Mom. They are just different than us, just like if their skin was another color. Can we get another Mudge book when we get inside?"
Sometimes the simplest answer is the right one. I'm a little hacked off at NPR that I had to have that conversation with her at this point in her life, but perhaps by having a simple conversation now, the harder conversations yet to come will be a little easier.
Gotta go - I need to go burn a "safe for LittleG" mix tape for the car. Wonder where I put that personalized Veggie Tales CD?
LittleG and I were on the way to the "lye-bary" on Saturday, and the good folks at National Public Radio were interviewing people who make movies. Safe enough topic, I think to myself.
Turns out I was wrong.
The subject of the interview during that timeslot was the woman who wrote the book or the screenplay upon which The Kids are All Right is based. This is not going to end well, I think to myself, remembering the storyline of the movie, and my inquisitive little sponge in her booster seat right behind me.
I act quickly to change the station to some far more kid-friendly selection, maybe Lady Gaga, Ke$ha or 50 Cent. Unfortunately, I don't hit that button fast enough.
"Mom," says LittleG, "what is a lesbian?" And there it is.
EGAD.
If you've read me at all, you know I just don't swing that way. I do tend to be pretty liberal in my views on "others," be they a different religion, skin color, or sexual persuasion. I don't always understand the other guy, but I do my best to accept them.
For the benefit of one of my extremely conservative readers, I should throw in here that we've all sinned and fallen short and I don't think I or any other human has the right to judge another. Those aren't my words, and I've paraphrased just a bit, but I think you get the gist of it.
Anyway, just because I am reasonably comfortable with the concept of a lesbian doesn't mean I'm ready to explain it to my six year old.
I know, based on six years of dealing with this child, that I had better answer her question, or she'll just keep asking it. And the more she asks, the more interesting the concept will become.
So I walked a fine line and said that sometimes moms love moms instead of moms loving dads, and in our family, we don't judge people like that. Everyone is different, and that's ok.
And my beautiful, precious, perceptive little girl says, "I get it Mom. They are just different than us, just like if their skin was another color. Can we get another Mudge book when we get inside?"
Sometimes the simplest answer is the right one. I'm a little hacked off at NPR that I had to have that conversation with her at this point in her life, but perhaps by having a simple conversation now, the harder conversations yet to come will be a little easier.
Gotta go - I need to go burn a "safe for LittleG" mix tape for the car. Wonder where I put that personalized Veggie Tales CD?
Monday, July 12, 2010
All comments welcome....well, almost all!
Dear 峻帆峻帆峻帆, 玉苓玉苓, and 雅芳:
I've received several comments on my blogs from you, and while I'm sure you're all lovely people, your comments are written entirely in an Asian language that this particular ugly American cain't quite git the gist of.
Plus, you've got those annoying html codes in your message, and I'm not willing to approve your comments. Who knows what kind of whacky site those links take you. I'm not about to find out, nor am I going to expose my ever-dwindling reader base to the links.
Please do us both a favor and quit trying. I'm not going to approve your comments, and I'm frankly, a bit tired of refusing them. Please stop.
Thanks a bunch.
Lady Steele
I've received several comments on my blogs from you, and while I'm sure you're all lovely people, your comments are written entirely in an Asian language that this particular ugly American cain't quite git the gist of.
Plus, you've got those annoying html codes in your message, and I'm not willing to approve your comments. Who knows what kind of whacky site those links take you. I'm not about to find out, nor am I going to expose my ever-dwindling reader base to the links.
Please do us both a favor and quit trying. I'm not going to approve your comments, and I'm frankly, a bit tired of refusing them. Please stop.
Thanks a bunch.
Lady Steele
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
¿Qué?
Dear Dominos Pizza,
You've gone a little far in your attempt to personalize your marketing message to my family. Back in the day when you were keeping us hopped up on free chocolate lava crunch cakes, I was all about it. An occasional free coupon for bread sticks keeps MrG feeling happy. We love that.
What we don't love is receiving emails like this:
I realize it's cool right now to personalize marketing efforts to your prospects. Heck, I do it all day myself.
But I resent like hell that you assume, based on my last name, and perhaps my zip code, that you should be marketing to me in Spanish. Isn't anyone out there paying attention, for the love of Pedro? Check out the photo at the right. You darn near can't get any more non-Hispanic than I am.
How are you deciding which customers get which version of the email? Do you have some brain trust in a little room having conversations like this? "Oh, his name is Dominelli - send him the Italian one." "And her name is Silja - she should get the Indian one." "And his name is Kalniņš - send him the Latvian one."
I don't know how the decisions are made, but I sure recommend someone pay attention to what's being sent out, and think about the effect your message is having on the people receiving it. I don't want pizza now. Instead, a big plate of steaming enchiladas seems more in order. Don't you think?
While researching this piece, I found that Garcia is actually the 15th most popular last name in France. If you're going to send me marketing pieces I can't read, can I at least get them in French? I love the little squiggly things over the letters.
Hasta la vista,
SenoraSteele
p.s. My next door neighbor to the west whose last name is Flores doesn't speak a lick of Spanish either. But the guy named Brown on the east side does. So can you be sure they get the correct email? That ought to send the brain trust into a tizzy.
You've gone a little far in your attempt to personalize your marketing message to my family. Back in the day when you were keeping us hopped up on free chocolate lava crunch cakes, I was all about it. An occasional free coupon for bread sticks keeps MrG feeling happy. We love that.
What we don't love is receiving emails like this:
I realize it's cool right now to personalize marketing efforts to your prospects. Heck, I do it all day myself.
But I resent like hell that you assume, based on my last name, and perhaps my zip code, that you should be marketing to me in Spanish. Isn't anyone out there paying attention, for the love of Pedro? Check out the photo at the right. You darn near can't get any more non-Hispanic than I am.
How are you deciding which customers get which version of the email? Do you have some brain trust in a little room having conversations like this? "Oh, his name is Dominelli - send him the Italian one." "And her name is Silja - she should get the Indian one." "And his name is Kalniņš - send him the Latvian one."
I don't know how the decisions are made, but I sure recommend someone pay attention to what's being sent out, and think about the effect your message is having on the people receiving it. I don't want pizza now. Instead, a big plate of steaming enchiladas seems more in order. Don't you think?
While researching this piece, I found that Garcia is actually the 15th most popular last name in France. If you're going to send me marketing pieces I can't read, can I at least get them in French? I love the little squiggly things over the letters.
Hasta la vista,
SenoraSteele
p.s. My next door neighbor to the west whose last name is Flores doesn't speak a lick of Spanish either. But the guy named Brown on the east side does. So can you be sure they get the correct email? That ought to send the brain trust into a tizzy.
Monday, May 17, 2010
A day "home" with LittleG
LittleG has strep throat. Or, rather, she's recovering from it. As I have missed some time from work lately and am already planning to take Friday off, I felt it in the best interest of my illustrious career that I not be the parent to stay at home today. In other words, MrG drew the short stick.
I called them around 11:00 this morning to check in on them, and here's how the conversation went:
MrG: Hello?
Me: Hi. What are you guys doing?
MrG: We are out shopping. (use your suspicious voice when you read this to yourself.)
Me: How is my baby?
MrG: She is feeling much better.
Me: Can I talk to her?
LittleG: Hi, Mommy. (use your sad pathetic voice here)
Me: Hi, Baby! How are you feeling?
LittleG: My throat hurts.
Me: Where are you?
LittleG: At Best Buy.
MrG: (in the background) Don't tell her we're at Best Buy! Tell her we're at Petsmart.
LittleG: Mom, if Dad tells you we're at Petsmart, he's a LIAR!
Ha. Short stick indeed. I left him at home with her so I didn't have to call the $10 per hour sitter-in-a-box. And my Dearly Beloved is at Best Buy spending the family fortune.
Praise the Lord and pass the Augmentin! And the checkbook......
Lady Steele
I called them around 11:00 this morning to check in on them, and here's how the conversation went:
MrG: Hello?
Me: Hi. What are you guys doing?
MrG: We are out shopping. (use your suspicious voice when you read this to yourself.)
Me: How is my baby?
MrG: She is feeling much better.
Me: Can I talk to her?
LittleG: Hi, Mommy. (use your sad pathetic voice here)
Me: Hi, Baby! How are you feeling?
LittleG: My throat hurts.
Me: Where are you?
LittleG: At Best Buy.
MrG: (in the background) Don't tell her we're at Best Buy! Tell her we're at Petsmart.
LittleG: Mom, if Dad tells you we're at Petsmart, he's a LIAR!
Ha. Short stick indeed. I left him at home with her so I didn't have to call the $10 per hour sitter-in-a-box. And my Dearly Beloved is at Best Buy spending the family fortune.
Praise the Lord and pass the Augmentin! And the checkbook......
Lady Steele
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Happy 70th Birthday, Dad
Dear Dad,
You would have been 70 years old today, if cancer hadn't taken you from us. Instead, we took you on that sunny beautiful day to the Veterans Cemetary, where men and women in full uniform saluted as we brought you in for our final goodbye. It seems almost fitting that I will be sitting today with another family who has lost someone they love.
Things are going pretty well for us. MrG and I still like each other more often than not, and after eleven years of marriage, I think we've finally got the swing of things. We're one payment away from paying off the van. I know you were so proud when we brought over the first car I ever bought without your help.
Your precocious little granddaughter continues to grow and amaze pretty much everyone around her. She stands physically head and shoulders above most of her classmates, and seemingly has the self confidence to pull it off with grace and finesse. We have had her in soccer the past two seasons, and it has been so good for her, both physically and socially. She has emerged as a real team leader and it has been so good for her self confidence. It's too bad her playing skills aren't quite as refined as her leadership skills, because she would certainly be a force to be reckoned with if that were the case.
She is blowing it out of the water at school. You're probably rolling over in your grave at the thought of her learning Spanish, but she's doing it, and she's doing it well. She placed in the Gifted & Talented program at school in all four subjects, and her work is so good that they will be using it as examples for the teachers in a G&T workshop this summer. She is so sassy and has the vocabulary of a fourth grader. This is not always a good combination, as you might imagine!
Your other daughter and her husband have continued to collect very expensive toys, as is their right for their station in life. They brought home the most beautiful boat last month, which would both delight and terrify you, I think. She has had a very trying two years, and I know you would tell her, if you could, that it's the challenges that make us stronger. She has certainly had the chance to become stronger, and I know she misses having you here to help her.
Your son, believe it or not, has finally gotten a real job. After 20 something years of doing his own thing pretty successfully, he's decided that being his own boss is not all it's cracked up to be. He's doing the 9 to 5 thing, day in, day out, just like the rest of the world. He now spends his evenings and weekends with his son playing baseball or riding motorbikes and with that lovely daughter of his just radiating in her pure beauty. She is so much like you at times that it's heartbreaking. She was born on Mom's birthday six months after you died, and there is not a one among us who doubts that she brought parts of you back to us.
Mom is as busy as ever. Church and bunco and bridge and who knows what else all keep her social calendar booked. She went home last weekend for a class reunion and when I fussed at her for not checking in with me after a 200 mile trip on her own, she reminded me tersely that she is a grownup and she has a job. Not much has changed in that regard. She is going this summer to Mongolia, and this holiday season to Bethlehem to sing with the choir. Although you found your faith late in life, I know that her commitment to the Lord would bring you a sense of pride and contentment.
As for me, I am still doing the sales gig. It's been a decade now, and I truly love what I do. I work with nice people. I make decent money. And what I do makes me happy. That's a lot more than a lot of people can say. Jimz is still my very best friend in the world, and we see each other as often as we can. I am on the PTA board at LittleG's school, and at least three times a week, I turn into a total soccer mom.
We miss you here, Dad, and we hope you are happy where you are. I'll try to write again soon.
Lots of love,
Stephanie
You would have been 70 years old today, if cancer hadn't taken you from us. Instead, we took you on that sunny beautiful day to the Veterans Cemetary, where men and women in full uniform saluted as we brought you in for our final goodbye. It seems almost fitting that I will be sitting today with another family who has lost someone they love.
Things are going pretty well for us. MrG and I still like each other more often than not, and after eleven years of marriage, I think we've finally got the swing of things. We're one payment away from paying off the van. I know you were so proud when we brought over the first car I ever bought without your help.
Your precocious little granddaughter continues to grow and amaze pretty much everyone around her. She stands physically head and shoulders above most of her classmates, and seemingly has the self confidence to pull it off with grace and finesse. We have had her in soccer the past two seasons, and it has been so good for her, both physically and socially. She has emerged as a real team leader and it has been so good for her self confidence. It's too bad her playing skills aren't quite as refined as her leadership skills, because she would certainly be a force to be reckoned with if that were the case.
She is blowing it out of the water at school. You're probably rolling over in your grave at the thought of her learning Spanish, but she's doing it, and she's doing it well. She placed in the Gifted & Talented program at school in all four subjects, and her work is so good that they will be using it as examples for the teachers in a G&T workshop this summer. She is so sassy and has the vocabulary of a fourth grader. This is not always a good combination, as you might imagine!
Your other daughter and her husband have continued to collect very expensive toys, as is their right for their station in life. They brought home the most beautiful boat last month, which would both delight and terrify you, I think. She has had a very trying two years, and I know you would tell her, if you could, that it's the challenges that make us stronger. She has certainly had the chance to become stronger, and I know she misses having you here to help her.
Your son, believe it or not, has finally gotten a real job. After 20 something years of doing his own thing pretty successfully, he's decided that being his own boss is not all it's cracked up to be. He's doing the 9 to 5 thing, day in, day out, just like the rest of the world. He now spends his evenings and weekends with his son playing baseball or riding motorbikes and with that lovely daughter of his just radiating in her pure beauty. She is so much like you at times that it's heartbreaking. She was born on Mom's birthday six months after you died, and there is not a one among us who doubts that she brought parts of you back to us.
Mom is as busy as ever. Church and bunco and bridge and who knows what else all keep her social calendar booked. She went home last weekend for a class reunion and when I fussed at her for not checking in with me after a 200 mile trip on her own, she reminded me tersely that she is a grownup and she has a job. Not much has changed in that regard. She is going this summer to Mongolia, and this holiday season to Bethlehem to sing with the choir. Although you found your faith late in life, I know that her commitment to the Lord would bring you a sense of pride and contentment.
As for me, I am still doing the sales gig. It's been a decade now, and I truly love what I do. I work with nice people. I make decent money. And what I do makes me happy. That's a lot more than a lot of people can say. Jimz is still my very best friend in the world, and we see each other as often as we can. I am on the PTA board at LittleG's school, and at least three times a week, I turn into a total soccer mom.
We miss you here, Dad, and we hope you are happy where you are. I'll try to write again soon.
Lots of love,
Stephanie
Monday, May 03, 2010
Everyone deserves a lifetime
Pretend, if you will, that I'm your local Public Radio affiliate and that it's pledge time again. I'm going to ask you, every so often, if you can help me reach my goal. As soon as I get there, I'll quit asking. In the meantime, I need your financial support. If you come here and are entertained, please take a moment and donate what you can. And tell your friends. And ask them to tell their friends!
I am walking in the Komen 3-Day Walk for the Cure in Dallas in November, and I would like to ask for your help. I have to raise a minimum of $2,300 for the privilege of sleeping in a tent and walking 60 miles in just three days.
Why in the world would anyone want to lace up her tennis shoes and subject herself to that? I’ll tell you why….
I’m walking for the 40,000 women who will die this year alone from breast cancer, and for the 200,00 women who will be diagnosed with the disease in the next twelve months. I’m walking for the 400 men who will die this year, and for the 1,500 who will be diagnosed.
I’m walking because my grandmother died from breast cancer, and because my mom and I both had it and beat it. I’m walking because I don’t want my six-year old daughter to have to fight this disease someday, or to ever feel the terror that comes with a breast cancer diagnosis.
I’m walking for my grandmother, and my mother, and myself, and my daughter, and my sister, and my aunts, and my nieces and my friends. And I’m walking for yours.
Can you make a donation to help me reach my goal?
The Susan G. Komen for the Cure® is the largest source of nonprofit funds in the world dedicated to the fight against breast cancer. Money raised by Susan G. Komen programs funds research, screening, and treatment for breast cancer. Virtually every major advance in the fight against breast cancer in the last 27 years has been impacted by a Susan G. Komen grant.
Please click the fancy widget on the right hand of the page, and donate if you can. Easy payment plans are available if you pay by credit card, or you can print a donation form if you prefer to pay by check.
If you or someone you love has had breast cancer, it would be my honor to walk in your loved one’s honor or memory. Please email me the name, and I will walk every one of those sixty miles for you or the one you love.
Thank you in advance for your consideration. Help me help the women and men who will come after me, because everyone deserves a lifetime!
Lady Steele
I am walking in the Komen 3-Day Walk for the Cure in Dallas in November, and I would like to ask for your help. I have to raise a minimum of $2,300 for the privilege of sleeping in a tent and walking 60 miles in just three days.
Why in the world would anyone want to lace up her tennis shoes and subject herself to that? I’ll tell you why….
I’m walking for the 40,000 women who will die this year alone from breast cancer, and for the 200,00 women who will be diagnosed with the disease in the next twelve months. I’m walking for the 400 men who will die this year, and for the 1,500 who will be diagnosed.
I’m walking because my grandmother died from breast cancer, and because my mom and I both had it and beat it. I’m walking because I don’t want my six-year old daughter to have to fight this disease someday, or to ever feel the terror that comes with a breast cancer diagnosis.
I’m walking for my grandmother, and my mother, and myself, and my daughter, and my sister, and my aunts, and my nieces and my friends. And I’m walking for yours.
Can you make a donation to help me reach my goal?
The Susan G. Komen for the Cure® is the largest source of nonprofit funds in the world dedicated to the fight against breast cancer. Money raised by Susan G. Komen programs funds research, screening, and treatment for breast cancer. Virtually every major advance in the fight against breast cancer in the last 27 years has been impacted by a Susan G. Komen grant.
Please click the fancy widget on the right hand of the page, and donate if you can. Easy payment plans are available if you pay by credit card, or you can print a donation form if you prefer to pay by check.
If you or someone you love has had breast cancer, it would be my honor to walk in your loved one’s honor or memory. Please email me the name, and I will walk every one of those sixty miles for you or the one you love.
Thank you in advance for your consideration. Help me help the women and men who will come after me, because everyone deserves a lifetime!
Lady Steele
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I love Sam!
Here is the only thing that made four hours of back-to-back birthday parties worthwhile on Saturday....
Sam, by the way, is the artist that drew us. I think he nailed it.
Sam, by the way, is the artist that drew us. I think he nailed it.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Take your sense of entitlement and stick it!
I am pouting like a petulant child.
There's something in my life I feel like I have earned, and yet, I've been denied it.
There is really nothing worse than being a grown up and feeling like you've really earned something, be it an increase in a credit limit, a coveted position on the PTA board, a promotion at work, or finally landing the ever popular position of Team Mom for the soccer team, and being denied it based purely on what someone else thinks about what you think.
I won't go into this here, for reasons of personal privacy. But there is something out there I think I deserve. I found out today I didn't get it. And I am not one bit happy about it. Suffice it to say that I do not agree with the powers that be AT ALL about the reason they gave me for not giving me my golden ring.
In fact, I cried myself home today (and in case you've not been paying attention, I am not a crier). I am giving myself one red snotty faced, crappy assed night to cry over spilled milk, or whatever label you want to give it, and then I'm done with it.
Truth be told, my feelings are hurt. I felt like I deserved what I thought I had coming. And when it didn't come to me, I felt like my legs had been kicked out from underneath me.
You might want to remind me that superheroes don't cry. Oh yeah, tell that to my pile of snotty tissues. You might want to remind me that good things come to those who wait. And to that I would say, how damn long does one have to wait? A month? A school year? A decade?
So, tonight, I'm pouting like the spoiled entitled little brat that I am. Tomorrow, I will put on my big girl panties and head back into my day.
Screw 'em all I say. You want a big fat happy face? That's what you'll get. In the meantime, I am gonna have a good cry and most of a bottle of merlot.
Tomorrow is a new day, and I'm sure it will dawn fresh and bright.
Ever forward, friends.
There's something in my life I feel like I have earned, and yet, I've been denied it.
There is really nothing worse than being a grown up and feeling like you've really earned something, be it an increase in a credit limit, a coveted position on the PTA board, a promotion at work, or finally landing the ever popular position of Team Mom for the soccer team, and being denied it based purely on what someone else thinks about what you think.
I won't go into this here, for reasons of personal privacy. But there is something out there I think I deserve. I found out today I didn't get it. And I am not one bit happy about it. Suffice it to say that I do not agree with the powers that be AT ALL about the reason they gave me for not giving me my golden ring.
In fact, I cried myself home today (and in case you've not been paying attention, I am not a crier). I am giving myself one red snotty faced, crappy assed night to cry over spilled milk, or whatever label you want to give it, and then I'm done with it.
Truth be told, my feelings are hurt. I felt like I deserved what I thought I had coming. And when it didn't come to me, I felt like my legs had been kicked out from underneath me.
You might want to remind me that superheroes don't cry. Oh yeah, tell that to my pile of snotty tissues. You might want to remind me that good things come to those who wait. And to that I would say, how damn long does one have to wait? A month? A school year? A decade?
So, tonight, I'm pouting like the spoiled entitled little brat that I am. Tomorrow, I will put on my big girl panties and head back into my day.
Screw 'em all I say. You want a big fat happy face? That's what you'll get. In the meantime, I am gonna have a good cry and most of a bottle of merlot.
Tomorrow is a new day, and I'm sure it will dawn fresh and bright.
Ever forward, friends.
Friday, April 23, 2010
I'm a dirty, dirty superhero!
From a CNN report...
"As the country was sinking into its worst financial crisis in more than 70 years, Security and Exchange Commission employees and contractors cruised porn sites and viewed sexually explicit pictures using government computers, according to an agency report obtained by CNN...More than half of the workers made between $99,000 and $223,000."
I'm not a particular fan of porn, but I'm not opposed to cruising porn sites all day if I'm bringing home a salary in the low 200s.
Call me!
"As the country was sinking into its worst financial crisis in more than 70 years, Security and Exchange Commission employees and contractors cruised porn sites and viewed sexually explicit pictures using government computers, according to an agency report obtained by CNN...More than half of the workers made between $99,000 and $223,000."
I'm not a particular fan of porn, but I'm not opposed to cruising porn sites all day if I'm bringing home a salary in the low 200s.
Call me!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Smack on the playground used to mean something else entirely
Thank God I'm from Texas! Here, we just worry about handguns....
Third-grader had heroin at Pennsylvania school
by Associated Press
Posted on April 14, 2010 at 3:49 PM
Updated today at 4:12 PM
WILKINSBURG, Pa. — Police near Pittsburgh say they have confirmed that more than 60 small bags a third-grader was handing out to classmates were full of heroin.
The 8-year-old boy brought the bags to Turner Elementary School on Tuesday before a teacher discovered them. Wilkinsburg police said at a news conference Wednesday that some of the bags were found empty in a trash can but there was no evidence any of the kids ingested the drugs.
School officials sent a letter home to parents about the incident.
Police say the bags had the words "trust me" stamped on them and would have a street value of about $1,000.
Police have contacted the boy's parents. The investigation into where the boy got the drugs is continuing.
Ya think??
Left, Left, Left, Right, Left!
Have you been missing me? If so, it's because my left brain buried me.
As my last post said, I've signed up for the 3-day walk, and I have expended a huge amount of mental energy planning and preparing for the task ahead. As a sales person, I'm already pretty focused on chasing the Almighty Dollar. But this is different, and I've had to approach it differently. So I've done all kinds of thinking about what will work, what won't work, and how to raise an inordinate amount of money so I don't have to pay it out of my own pocket. (Click the link to the right if you'd like to help me reach my goal! I'm just saying.)
I also got tapped at work about three weeks ago to assist on another sales team temporarily. While I know my product inside out, upside down, front and back, I know only a teeny tiny bit about the other product they've asked me to sell. I've been selling for a decade, and I'm pretty good at what I do, but being asked to change horses mid-stream has had me absolutely bumfuzzled. I work the other team in the morning, then return to my team in the afternoon. So I spend a big chunk of each day having to re-orient myself to the appropriate product.
At home, the balancing act of time and energy management continues. MrG made me fire the maids, so now, we have to do our own housework. (I don't like him much right now, for the record.) Luckily, he's been much more willing (and able, I should add) to assist in the housekeeping chores, and LittleG is a whiz with a Swiffer. After six and a half years of having someone else worry about the dusting and scrubbing the bathrooms, I now have to work that into our schedule. The laundry never seems to stop, and for some reason, those people that I live with insist that I feed them at least daily, which means grocery shopping and kitchen chores.
Anyway, my point here is that I have been compartmentalizing all the "stuff" I have on my mind. At work, I'm focusing on just where in the building I'm sitting at the moment, and what that particular product requires of me. At home, I'm balancing the chores I've been used to, as well as working in the ones someone else has been handling for me. I assign myself the title of Soccer Mom for practices and games, and PTA Board Member when that time comes. With all of my free time, I'm thinking about how in the world I'm going to rasie the money for Komen.
So my left brain has been working overtime. Planning, scheduling, putting continengcy plans in place in case my original plans fail. I haven't had the smallest itch to be the tiniest bit creative.
But a beautiful thing happened yesterday. I found my right brain! I wrote. I baked. I decorated. And I created a cake that I may be as proud of as any other I've ever decorated. See?
I should note for the record that I'm an Aggie, and this is an Arkansas Razorback cake. It pained me to make it, but my friend who asked for it has promised a nice donation to my Komen pot, so I struggled through it.
I don't have any grand delusions that my right brain will ever trump my left. I think all that we can hope for is tiny glimpses into my emotional, creative side. Hopefully my right brain will have its moments of brilliance and greatness through interesting blog posts and beautiful cakes (even if they are cakes with red and black pigs).
At least that's what I'm planning for!
As my last post said, I've signed up for the 3-day walk, and I have expended a huge amount of mental energy planning and preparing for the task ahead. As a sales person, I'm already pretty focused on chasing the Almighty Dollar. But this is different, and I've had to approach it differently. So I've done all kinds of thinking about what will work, what won't work, and how to raise an inordinate amount of money so I don't have to pay it out of my own pocket. (Click the link to the right if you'd like to help me reach my goal! I'm just saying.)
I also got tapped at work about three weeks ago to assist on another sales team temporarily. While I know my product inside out, upside down, front and back, I know only a teeny tiny bit about the other product they've asked me to sell. I've been selling for a decade, and I'm pretty good at what I do, but being asked to change horses mid-stream has had me absolutely bumfuzzled. I work the other team in the morning, then return to my team in the afternoon. So I spend a big chunk of each day having to re-orient myself to the appropriate product.
At home, the balancing act of time and energy management continues. MrG made me fire the maids, so now, we have to do our own housework. (I don't like him much right now, for the record.) Luckily, he's been much more willing (and able, I should add) to assist in the housekeeping chores, and LittleG is a whiz with a Swiffer. After six and a half years of having someone else worry about the dusting and scrubbing the bathrooms, I now have to work that into our schedule. The laundry never seems to stop, and for some reason, those people that I live with insist that I feed them at least daily, which means grocery shopping and kitchen chores.
Anyway, my point here is that I have been compartmentalizing all the "stuff" I have on my mind. At work, I'm focusing on just where in the building I'm sitting at the moment, and what that particular product requires of me. At home, I'm balancing the chores I've been used to, as well as working in the ones someone else has been handling for me. I assign myself the title of Soccer Mom for practices and games, and PTA Board Member when that time comes. With all of my free time, I'm thinking about how in the world I'm going to rasie the money for Komen.
So my left brain has been working overtime. Planning, scheduling, putting continengcy plans in place in case my original plans fail. I haven't had the smallest itch to be the tiniest bit creative.
But a beautiful thing happened yesterday. I found my right brain! I wrote. I baked. I decorated. And I created a cake that I may be as proud of as any other I've ever decorated. See?
I should note for the record that I'm an Aggie, and this is an Arkansas Razorback cake. It pained me to make it, but my friend who asked for it has promised a nice donation to my Komen pot, so I struggled through it.
I don't have any grand delusions that my right brain will ever trump my left. I think all that we can hope for is tiny glimpses into my emotional, creative side. Hopefully my right brain will have its moments of brilliance and greatness through interesting blog posts and beautiful cakes (even if they are cakes with red and black pigs).
At least that's what I'm planning for!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The sound of silence
"Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence." ~ from The Desiderata by Max Ehrmann
This poem has hung in my mother's sewing room my entire life, although since my dad died and she got the house repainted, there's really no way to know where it is has been relocated. Regardless, during my years at home, it hung there, and I saw it, maybe a million times, and still take its words to heart.
I heard yesterday that women spend something like three years of their lives shopping. As a working mom, I'm not surprised by that at all. My stolen minutes of shopping time - be they at the grocery store or the mall - are often my only quiet times of the day. I work in an office surrounded by people who make noise, a lot of it. I leave my office and drive five minutes away, where I pick up LittleG, who makes noise, and a lot of it. Once I get her to bed, MrG and I have our grown up discussions, or time in front of the TV, neither of which is quiet time. So I spend my days surrounded by noise.
When times get tough, as they often do, I will slip away to pick up an item or two at the grocery or drug store. I often find myself uncharacteristically dawdling during these trips. After all, a trip to the store for band-aids should be just that - in, out, done. But I tend to wander the aisles, looking at the pretty shiny things. During this time, my mind is my own, with no intrusions from coworkers, clients,or needy family members. In these days of horrible customer service, I rarely have to worry that my quiet time will be intruded upon my a store employee. But that's another blog.
I had some time alone after work yesterday. LittleG had soccer practice, and I somehow convinced her father to take her so I wouldn't have to go. They left the house, and I started dinner and pulled out a work project that still needed some attention. I worked quietly by myself until they got home about an hour and a half later, bringing with them a a swirling dervish of noise and mayhem.
I didn't realize until they came in just how quiet it had been. I had not turned on the TV, radio, or iPod. I was in the kitchen, where the only sounds came from the flipping of my paperwork, and the bubbling of food on the stove. Even the dogs were quiet.
My dad used to ask for "peace and quiet" for his birthday every year, and now I understand why. As a textbook extrovert, I tend to thrive on the noises from people around me - laughter, chatter, quiet conversation. But as a mom who is stretched pretty thin, silence has become therapy for me.
I haven't shared this news with many people yet, and now is as good a time as any, I guess. I've made the decision to walk the Komen 3-day walk in Dallas this November.
Beyond the obvious benefits that come from participating in a walk like this - comraderie, friendship, exercise - I will be giving myself the gift of silence. I will have to train for hours and hours, and most of that time, I will be alone. Even when I'm walking the days of the event and I'm surrounded by others, I have to think that some of my time will be spent in silence. The sheer determination that it will take to push my body to walk 60 miles in 3 days will dictate quiet time.
So I will push forward during this next seven months, remembering the peace there is in silence.
Hugs,
LadySteele
P.S. My sweet aunt pointed out I should make it easy for my dear readers to donate to the cause. If you're so inclined, click the widget on the right of your screen to make a donation online!
This poem has hung in my mother's sewing room my entire life, although since my dad died and she got the house repainted, there's really no way to know where it is has been relocated. Regardless, during my years at home, it hung there, and I saw it, maybe a million times, and still take its words to heart.
I heard yesterday that women spend something like three years of their lives shopping. As a working mom, I'm not surprised by that at all. My stolen minutes of shopping time - be they at the grocery store or the mall - are often my only quiet times of the day. I work in an office surrounded by people who make noise, a lot of it. I leave my office and drive five minutes away, where I pick up LittleG, who makes noise, and a lot of it. Once I get her to bed, MrG and I have our grown up discussions, or time in front of the TV, neither of which is quiet time. So I spend my days surrounded by noise.
When times get tough, as they often do, I will slip away to pick up an item or two at the grocery or drug store. I often find myself uncharacteristically dawdling during these trips. After all, a trip to the store for band-aids should be just that - in, out, done. But I tend to wander the aisles, looking at the pretty shiny things. During this time, my mind is my own, with no intrusions from coworkers, clients,or needy family members. In these days of horrible customer service, I rarely have to worry that my quiet time will be intruded upon my a store employee. But that's another blog.
I had some time alone after work yesterday. LittleG had soccer practice, and I somehow convinced her father to take her so I wouldn't have to go. They left the house, and I started dinner and pulled out a work project that still needed some attention. I worked quietly by myself until they got home about an hour and a half later, bringing with them a a swirling dervish of noise and mayhem.
I didn't realize until they came in just how quiet it had been. I had not turned on the TV, radio, or iPod. I was in the kitchen, where the only sounds came from the flipping of my paperwork, and the bubbling of food on the stove. Even the dogs were quiet.
My dad used to ask for "peace and quiet" for his birthday every year, and now I understand why. As a textbook extrovert, I tend to thrive on the noises from people around me - laughter, chatter, quiet conversation. But as a mom who is stretched pretty thin, silence has become therapy for me.
I haven't shared this news with many people yet, and now is as good a time as any, I guess. I've made the decision to walk the Komen 3-day walk in Dallas this November.
Beyond the obvious benefits that come from participating in a walk like this - comraderie, friendship, exercise - I will be giving myself the gift of silence. I will have to train for hours and hours, and most of that time, I will be alone. Even when I'm walking the days of the event and I'm surrounded by others, I have to think that some of my time will be spent in silence. The sheer determination that it will take to push my body to walk 60 miles in 3 days will dictate quiet time.
So I will push forward during this next seven months, remembering the peace there is in silence.
Hugs,
LadySteele
P.S. My sweet aunt pointed out I should make it easy for my dear readers to donate to the cause. If you're so inclined, click the widget on the right of your screen to make a donation online!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
My brilliant, brilliant child
LittleG: Hey, Mom?
Me: Yes, LittleG
LittleG: Does the Crimson Steed have a name?
Me: No, LittleG
LittleG: I have the perfect name for her, then
Me: What should her name be?
LittleG: Vanessa, cause she's a van.
I don't name my cars, and I always kind of felt like the Crimson Steed was a big old boy horse. But really, how do you argue with logic like that?
Me: Yes, LittleG
LittleG: Does the Crimson Steed have a name?
Me: No, LittleG
LittleG: I have the perfect name for her, then
Me: What should her name be?
LittleG: Vanessa, cause she's a van.
I don't name my cars, and I always kind of felt like the Crimson Steed was a big old boy horse. But really, how do you argue with logic like that?
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Buy that kid a pony!
As if being a working mom who travels every now and then is not hard enough, I found this in LittleG's room while deep cleaning during my "day off" this week:
For those of you who are not fluent in the Language of the Six Year Old, please let me translate:
"Dad,
Where is my mommy? At Las Vegas."
The picture shows either a really sad child with pigtails and big fat tears in her eyes, or a praying mantis in a dress. I'm not sure. Either way, this creature is very unhappy.
Orson Wells once said that there were only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror. I'd like to add a third to that....guilt!
Leave the light on for me, LittleG - I won't be gone long!
Love,
Mom of the Year
For those of you who are not fluent in the Language of the Six Year Old, please let me translate:
"Dad,
Where is my mommy? At Las Vegas."
The picture shows either a really sad child with pigtails and big fat tears in her eyes, or a praying mantis in a dress. I'm not sure. Either way, this creature is very unhappy.
Orson Wells once said that there were only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror. I'd like to add a third to that....guilt!
Leave the light on for me, LittleG - I won't be gone long!
Love,
Mom of the Year
Monday, March 08, 2010
A family in need
A coworker of mine delivered twin babies last week at only 24 weeks. Both children are in the fights of their lives, and the medical bills are mounting for Mom and Dad.
One of our exhibitors has graciously donated a Barcelona 6-person spa (a $6,500 value) and an Infra-Red Deep Heat Sauna (a $3,000 value) for us to raffle off. The tickets for the spa are $20 each, and for the sauna are $10 each.
If you are interested in helping a family who is in dire straights, please click the link below for more information.
Kosa Babies
If you would like to purchase raffle tickets or place a direct donation, please contact me at sdfgarcia67 at gmail dot com. I will work something out with you through Paypal. If you are local in the DFW area, I can give you directions to our office where you can purchase the tickets yourself.
The raffle will be held on Wednesday, March 17, and ALL proceeds from the raffle will go directly to the family. The spa and sauna will be shipped direct from the manufacturer to the winner of each of the raffle drawings.
Please link back to this post as many times as you can. This family needs our help, and you or someone you know could be a big winner!
Those of us who can help should help.
Peace and health,
Lady Steele
One of our exhibitors has graciously donated a Barcelona 6-person spa (a $6,500 value) and an Infra-Red Deep Heat Sauna (a $3,000 value) for us to raffle off. The tickets for the spa are $20 each, and for the sauna are $10 each.
If you are interested in helping a family who is in dire straights, please click the link below for more information.
Kosa Babies
If you would like to purchase raffle tickets or place a direct donation, please contact me at sdfgarcia67 at gmail dot com. I will work something out with you through Paypal. If you are local in the DFW area, I can give you directions to our office where you can purchase the tickets yourself.
The raffle will be held on Wednesday, March 17, and ALL proceeds from the raffle will go directly to the family. The spa and sauna will be shipped direct from the manufacturer to the winner of each of the raffle drawings.
Please link back to this post as many times as you can. This family needs our help, and you or someone you know could be a big winner!
Those of us who can help should help.
Peace and health,
Lady Steele
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
A record shattered.....almost
I should have known what I was about to be up against when I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror late Sunday night. It was gray and ashen, the color of a corpse. Sweat glistened on my cold clammy skin as waves of nausea rolled across my body, and a toxic cold fluid filled my veins and squished through my intestines. It was clearly going to be a really long night.
It turns out, it was a really long 36 hours. A. REALLY. LONG. 36 HOURS.
I'm not one who throws up. I have horrible memories of vomiting as a child, and as a grownup, I will go to nearly any length to avoid ever doing it again. So many lengths, in fact, that I've not paid homage to the porcelain god Ralph since August 19, 1987. It's a strange thing to keep track of, I know, but there is some degree of significance attached to the date.
I've been sick twice on alcohol in my life. The first time was in July of 1987, and the second was August 19, 1987. I remember the second time the best because my sister and I had just moved away to college together and I got stinkin' drunk with a boy I had liked for a handful of years. I matched him beer for beer through a 12-pack, then we made the rather questionable decision to go out after more beer, and for some reason, barbecue. I remember throwing up and passing out. The next morning, I vowed never to do it again. The throwing up part, of course, not the drinking part!.....
And so, I haven't. Through my years of bar crawling as a college co-ed, a pregnancy, and six years of living with a little petri dish who drags home every gastrointestinal germ known to man, I have been vomit free. I cleaned up kid poop and kid puke and dog poop and dog puke, I've picked up the remnants of the former living, now rendered lifeless by one dog or another, without a single gag or retch.
But on Sunday night, my internal fortitude was sorely tested. I sat, naked, sweating, and shivering (how is that even possible?) on the side of the tub and prayed to just let it all go. Barf out whatever horrid germ was tormenting my insides and rid myself of the misery. And yet? Nothing.
I am almost jealous of the people who can feel sick and just puke it all out. I have a girlfriend who throws up every time she has a headache or gets stressed out. This is a trait she has passed along to her daughters, lucky devils. In hindsight, it seems rather perverse that I was sitting naked on my bathtub thinking about my girlfriend and her daughters. Until you've been there, don't judge me people!
Regretfully, according to Murphy's Law of Stomach Flu, what does not go up must certainly go down. Most of my readers are pretty smart folks, so I will leave some degree of mystery and let you wonder exactly how I spent most of the next 36 hours. Not a fun day and a half, I assure you.
At any rate, it's now Wednesday evening, and I felt for the first time today a gnawing hunger. I've fed myself like a fussy toddler for the past two days....a juice box here, a handful of dry cereal there, maybe a piece of toast or some watered down sprite. But this evening, hunger came to call. And I've never been so happy to want food in my life.
And so I indulged.
So far, so good.
Like a clear fresh morning dawns after a dark summer night's storm, I feel like I might just live to see another day, maybe even to stretch the limits of a long held record. Praise the Lord and pass the Taco Bell!
Wait! Not so fast!! LittleG just called out from the hall bathroom, "Mom, will you come look at my poop?"
Yes, Shelly, even modern superheroes fall victim to earthly illness. Just hopefully not more often than every two decades or so.
Hugs and Lysol to you all,
Lady Steele
It turns out, it was a really long 36 hours. A. REALLY. LONG. 36 HOURS.
I'm not one who throws up. I have horrible memories of vomiting as a child, and as a grownup, I will go to nearly any length to avoid ever doing it again. So many lengths, in fact, that I've not paid homage to the porcelain god Ralph since August 19, 1987. It's a strange thing to keep track of, I know, but there is some degree of significance attached to the date.
I've been sick twice on alcohol in my life. The first time was in July of 1987, and the second was August 19, 1987. I remember the second time the best because my sister and I had just moved away to college together and I got stinkin' drunk with a boy I had liked for a handful of years. I matched him beer for beer through a 12-pack, then we made the rather questionable decision to go out after more beer, and for some reason, barbecue. I remember throwing up and passing out. The next morning, I vowed never to do it again. The throwing up part, of course, not the drinking part!.....
And so, I haven't. Through my years of bar crawling as a college co-ed, a pregnancy, and six years of living with a little petri dish who drags home every gastrointestinal germ known to man, I have been vomit free. I cleaned up kid poop and kid puke and dog poop and dog puke, I've picked up the remnants of the former living, now rendered lifeless by one dog or another, without a single gag or retch.
But on Sunday night, my internal fortitude was sorely tested. I sat, naked, sweating, and shivering (how is that even possible?) on the side of the tub and prayed to just let it all go. Barf out whatever horrid germ was tormenting my insides and rid myself of the misery. And yet? Nothing.
I am almost jealous of the people who can feel sick and just puke it all out. I have a girlfriend who throws up every time she has a headache or gets stressed out. This is a trait she has passed along to her daughters, lucky devils. In hindsight, it seems rather perverse that I was sitting naked on my bathtub thinking about my girlfriend and her daughters. Until you've been there, don't judge me people!
Regretfully, according to Murphy's Law of Stomach Flu, what does not go up must certainly go down. Most of my readers are pretty smart folks, so I will leave some degree of mystery and let you wonder exactly how I spent most of the next 36 hours. Not a fun day and a half, I assure you.
At any rate, it's now Wednesday evening, and I felt for the first time today a gnawing hunger. I've fed myself like a fussy toddler for the past two days....a juice box here, a handful of dry cereal there, maybe a piece of toast or some watered down sprite. But this evening, hunger came to call. And I've never been so happy to want food in my life.
And so I indulged.
So far, so good.
Like a clear fresh morning dawns after a dark summer night's storm, I feel like I might just live to see another day, maybe even to stretch the limits of a long held record. Praise the Lord and pass the Taco Bell!
Wait! Not so fast!! LittleG just called out from the hall bathroom, "Mom, will you come look at my poop?"
Yes, Shelly, even modern superheroes fall victim to earthly illness. Just hopefully not more often than every two decades or so.
Hugs and Lysol to you all,
Lady Steele
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Oh Holy Day, Indeed
I will apologize in advance, dear readers, because I know some of you will read this on Ash Wednesday. It's inappropriate and will be offensive to some of you. Sorry. I mean it.
I am in the show business. Not the "there's no business like show business" kind of business. I am in the Trade Show business. And my show is next week. There's no way to describe how frazzled and full my brain is, but let me take a shot anyway. This is the equivalent of April 13 for a CPA. It's December 23 for anyone in retail. It's the last day of the month for someone who sells cars. It's the weekend before school starts for anyone with kids. Are you getting the picture?
I have a bunch of last minute stuff to coordinate. I have to time perfectly the haircut, the manicure, buying enough milk to get the family through my time away, without overstocking the fridge. There's laundry to do, bills to pay, outfits to coordinate, and a whole host of personal care items that must be addressed. And even though I've known for a year this day is coming, it seems to slip up out of nowhere and run me down like a bus driven by an angry man.
I realized at the PTA board meeting two weeks ago that Ash Wednesday falls two days before I get on a plane to leave for a week, right in the middle of Pre-Show Hysteria Week. My days are carefully scheduled to be sure nothing falls through the cracks, and I realized that night that I have no time to celebrate Ash Wednesday service as I have in the past.
I am a really terrible Catholic, but I have always attended mass on Ash Wednesday, and I wear my ashes proudly and keep in my mind what they symbolize.
Last year, I committed myself to living consciously during the days of Lent, and rather than give something up, I pledged to write something every day. Some of it I published online, some of it not so much. I kicked off the days of Lent by celebrating with dear friends at Ash Wednesday service over lunch. The church was beautiful, the message right on target, and the company could not be beat. And I did pretty darn well with my pledge.
This year, my dear sweet friends will meet again to go to church over lunch and to reflect on the days past and more importantly, the days to come. They will kneel together and sing and walk down the aisle for communion.
And you know what I'll be doing? I'll be getting a Brazilian wax job.
That's right, folks. As my friends kneel together in prayer and reflection, I will be getting my lady parts sugar-waxed by a lady aptly named Kim Lower, who owns Pretty Kitties salon. Really, girls, you can't make this stuff up. Google her.
Anyway, I'm hoping God will forgive me this year for over-scheduling and overlooking the uber-holiday that is Ash Wednesday. I'm pretty sure I'll be serving my own type of penance while my friends go to church.
One of my coworkers (yes, this has been a subject of great interest to my friends at the office) suggested that rather than going with the standard full monty or landing strip, perhaps I should consider leaving only a cross. That would sure keep the Lord on my mind for the next 46 days.
Peace be with you.
Lady Steele
I am in the show business. Not the "there's no business like show business" kind of business. I am in the Trade Show business. And my show is next week. There's no way to describe how frazzled and full my brain is, but let me take a shot anyway. This is the equivalent of April 13 for a CPA. It's December 23 for anyone in retail. It's the last day of the month for someone who sells cars. It's the weekend before school starts for anyone with kids. Are you getting the picture?
I have a bunch of last minute stuff to coordinate. I have to time perfectly the haircut, the manicure, buying enough milk to get the family through my time away, without overstocking the fridge. There's laundry to do, bills to pay, outfits to coordinate, and a whole host of personal care items that must be addressed. And even though I've known for a year this day is coming, it seems to slip up out of nowhere and run me down like a bus driven by an angry man.
I realized at the PTA board meeting two weeks ago that Ash Wednesday falls two days before I get on a plane to leave for a week, right in the middle of Pre-Show Hysteria Week. My days are carefully scheduled to be sure nothing falls through the cracks, and I realized that night that I have no time to celebrate Ash Wednesday service as I have in the past.
I am a really terrible Catholic, but I have always attended mass on Ash Wednesday, and I wear my ashes proudly and keep in my mind what they symbolize.
Last year, I committed myself to living consciously during the days of Lent, and rather than give something up, I pledged to write something every day. Some of it I published online, some of it not so much. I kicked off the days of Lent by celebrating with dear friends at Ash Wednesday service over lunch. The church was beautiful, the message right on target, and the company could not be beat. And I did pretty darn well with my pledge.
This year, my dear sweet friends will meet again to go to church over lunch and to reflect on the days past and more importantly, the days to come. They will kneel together and sing and walk down the aisle for communion.
And you know what I'll be doing? I'll be getting a Brazilian wax job.
That's right, folks. As my friends kneel together in prayer and reflection, I will be getting my lady parts sugar-waxed by a lady aptly named Kim Lower, who owns Pretty Kitties salon. Really, girls, you can't make this stuff up. Google her.
Anyway, I'm hoping God will forgive me this year for over-scheduling and overlooking the uber-holiday that is Ash Wednesday. I'm pretty sure I'll be serving my own type of penance while my friends go to church.
One of my coworkers (yes, this has been a subject of great interest to my friends at the office) suggested that rather than going with the standard full monty or landing strip, perhaps I should consider leaving only a cross. That would sure keep the Lord on my mind for the next 46 days.
Peace be with you.
Lady Steele
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