Peripheral Vision. Or, How I Realized I Have Boobs.

My breastesses have been a topic of conversation in my family for years. This is because the distribution of mammary matter among the women in my family has been disproportionate. I've never paid much attention to my mother's because they seem just about right. My sister ended up with more than a fair handful--a curse she hopes one day to alleviate. In the meantime, she continually threatens to wear a t-shirt to work that says, "My eyes are up here, moron" with arrows rising from her chest area to her face.¹

I, on the other hand, was a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee (IBTC) for years!² Over the years, my breastessess have matured and filled out a bit more and I'm no longer sure I'd continue to meet the requirements for membership in the IBTC. Still, they aren't ginormous and for that I'm grateful. That said, I haven't exactly flattered or done favors for my figure in the last eight years either.

That's because about eight years ago, I discovered sports bras. Wonderful contraptions. They practically plaster your breasts to your chest and make them nearly immovable. This is a good thing, if you make exercising or any kind of sport a part of your lifestyle. On occasion, I have been known to exercise, hence the existence of sports bras in my life.

For months now, Emm has been telling me I need to get better bras, because apparently I have a figure. So, several weeks ago, she, my friend Ms. Swizzies, and I went clothes shopping. The last stop of the day before the mall closed at 6:00³ was Beldona's for bras. Both Emm and Ms. Swizzies insisted.

To make a long story short, Emm and Ms. Swizzies hauled out bras for me. Both of them--Emm more than Ms. Swizzies--woman-handled my breastesses into those bras, making an adjustment here and a push-up there and voila! My chest went from being an androgynous no-ma'am's land to hubba hubba!

Mission accomplished, I paid for my bras⁴ and off we went. I've been wearing those bras now for about a month and I will admit, they do flatter my figure and my assets far more than squishifying sports bras ever did, will, or could. Other than that, though, I haven't really noticed my breasts or the impact of a positive bra on the same.

So the other day, I'm walking down the hall at work. I generally try to look straight ahead when I'm walking. This seems to help me avoid running into things or people. Anyway--I'm proceeding along, looking straight ahead, when I suddenly become aware of something in my peripheral vision. It wasn't anything above or beside me, but rather, below me. With shocking clarity I realized, "I HAVE BOOBS!"

That's right, boys and girls. My bras have transformed my peripheral vision! I'm no longer a flat-chested bore. I'm a busty broad...

Oy, moron! *SLAP!* My eyes are up here!



1. I found this picture of said t-shirt on Zazzle. What I find intriguing is the model has virtually no breasts. Frankly, I think the model in this picture is a man with long hair. So much for truth in advertising!
2. I even have a t-shirt to prove it. I'd show it to you, but it's at home in the States.
3. Crazy, right? But hey, this was Switzerland. Apparently, it's a miracle they're even open that late on a Saturday!
4. Good Lord, but bras are expensive! I can get six sports bras at Jockey for what I paid for two bras at Beldona. Sheesh.

Photo sources: Google Images and Wikimedia.

More T-Shirts and Bumper Stickers

Whine, whine. Bitch, bitch. Moan, moan.
Dammit, but I'm high maintenance!

Ask me about my
Other Worldly
friendship.

Saving the Tatas
One Squishification
at a Time!

Some of my best friends

are Other Worldly.

If you truly value women like you say you do,
you wouldn't have to tell them. You'd show them.

* Just in case you don't know this, "Other Worldly Friend" is how Oprah characterizes her relationship with her friend Gayle.

What I Think About What I Want

First off and again, I want to say thank you to everyone who provided feedback yesterday. I really appreciate it. I made my list before I posted yesterday, because I wanted it to be independent of any input initially. What each of you provided was largely an affirmation of what I wrote myself.

So, without further ado, here are my answers to my question. My approach was a bit simplistic. I literally just made a list. For the sake of this entry and ease of reading, I'll string my list together into sentences.

1. What do I like to do? (I tried to look at this from a personal and professional aspect.)

Personally, I enjoy kayaking, going to the beach and tidepooling or hiking, visiting historic sites and seeing new places. I like cooking and baking, hosting dinners and having parties. I also enjoy eating out and trying new foods and I'm always on a quest to find that next fun and innovative, but tasty recipe. I really enjoy visiting museums, going to the symphony and ballet, and listening to good music. I enjoy a good bout of yard work--or dig and dirt therapy, as a friend of mine calls it.

I especially enjoy being creative: writing, blogging, and photography are particularly pleasant. In conjunction with that, I love using my skills to create multi-media presentations, laying out and formatting books, and researching and writing up interesting and useful information for my own and others consumption and edification. I also enjoy reading as much as I can; T.V. is no substitute for a good book!

I love learning, though I haven't been good about doing a lot of that consistently and I'd like to get myself back into both a learning-type setting like a university (i.e. continuing education classes) and into a self-taught-type setting (i.e. teaching/retraining myself in the Adobe Suite of software and new media software.) I love speaking German and, despite my lapse in the area of my academic training, I'm still very much fascinated by the need religion fills in the lives of individuals and in the public square. Stimulating conversation and thought-provoking movies followed by discussion are also quite enjoyable.

Professionally, I love collaborating on projects that have tangible, positive results. At the same time, I'd like a job where people are happy to see me and I'm happy to see them. I enjoy very point A to point Z kinds of jobs where the expectations and outcomes are clear. I love collaborating on projects that stimulate thinking and allow me to acquire new skills and build on existing ones.

2. What am I passionate about?

Frankly, I don't care for this question. That is to say, I'm not passionate about it. But in all fairness to the process, I'll answer it openly.

I'm passionate about learning and then expressing that knowledge through my writing and conversations. I'm passionate about doing a job well. While I'm not always the best practitioner of this myself, I believe manners and decorum matter, which means I'm passionate about being kind to others and being as objective and diplomatic as possible.

I'm passionate about my relationships. I care about people and believe the best in them. I try my level best to focus on their positive qualities and traits, capitalizing on their strengths rather than focusing on their shortcomings or what irks me.

I'm passionate about using and sharing my talents in a manner that produces positive results--whether that's making and sharing a nice meal with friends or paying attention to details in designs and layouts for products at work, the desire is the same.

I'm passionate about giving and serving in ways that empower people and free from them from worry so they can get on with the day-to-day of living. I'm passionate about being as neat and orderly as possible and creating a home that is a pleasant place to be and visit.

Finally, I'm passionate (but so far unsuccessful) about being financially secure and independent.

Professionally speaking, I'm passionate about making sure I treat my colleagues and peers with the same level of respect and decency with which I expect to be treated. I believe kindness matters and you can be successful and gracious.

3. What do I want my life to look like?

Honestly? Less clutter. Fewer possessions. I'm looking for quality, not quantity. I want to live somewhere where I can make a decent living, put a little money away for the future, travel somewhere different at least once a year, and know that I don't have to drive four hours to get to the beach or somewhere equally relaxing and beautiful.

4. What is important to me?

It is important to me to be fiscally and financially independent.

It is important to me to be responsible, trustworthy, and capable.

It is important to me to be a person of honesty, integrity, and kindness.

It is important to me to see the results of my work. Amorphous policies that take three years to implement are worthless and demoralizing. Publishing a book and holding it in my hands as evidence of my creativity is exhilirating!

5. What am I looking for?

Job security, job satisfaction, financial security, independence, creativity.

I'm also looking to be my own boss and take a few more risks. I'm tired of people telling me I can't do something. I'm also tired of not having the resources to just simply do whatever I'd like--whether it's on a total whim or it's been carefully researched. I want to feel hopeful and independent and passionate again.

I want to be happy.

*****

Thank you for reading and commenting!

And now I'm off to meet with my career counselor and then out to the States to see a Bollywood movie with my sister.

What

I finally met with my career counselor last week and laid it all out for her. How I've had three jobs in this town and each has been progressively worse than the last and each have ended up in some form of lay off and how I'm sick of the accomplish - nothing - in - a - timely - manner work ethic and how I'm tired of the political games and the bullshit and that I'd like to consider jobs outside of Washington, D.C. (The one exception would be, if I could land a job in editorial production at National Geographic, I'd consider a job here. But that is the only institution I would consider.)

She gave me homework, which is due tomorrow. I'm working on it right now, but I'm going to ask you to help me with my homework, too. Being brutally honest, please answer these questions based on your knowledge of me--whether it is personal (i.e. we've been friends for more than several years) or observational (i.e. you know me through my blog, we've never met in person, but you've formed an opinion--positive or negative--about me.)

Specifically, answer these questions:

1. What do I like to do? (Doesn't have to be work related necessarily.)
2. What am I passionate about?
3. What do I want my life to look like?

Along with those three queries, add these for extra consideration:

What is important to me?
What am I looking for?

I know they're sort of lame questions, but at this stage, I need to ask them and be serious and honest about the answers. I'm doing that now and will post my reply tomorrow, but I'm interested--from your perspective--how you would answer these for a friend (in this case, me) and if you'd like, for yourself. Sometimes, you're too close to a subject yourself and it helps to have the perspectives and perceptions of others. This is certainly true in my case.

Thanks in advance! I'll be back tomorrow with answers of my own and responses to your answers, which I won't read until after I've compiled my list.


Photo copyright: Passionate: Creating Passionate Users. Click on the graphic to see a larger image or click on the link and read the article and see the image. Don't you love choices?

Buzzkill

I tried to take it easy yesterday so I'd have the energy to attend last night's Pink Martini with the National Symphony Orchestra Pops concert at the Kennedy Center. (More on that in a separate post.)

I did a little cleaning in the morning, but then forced myself to stop at noon so I wouldn't wear myself out. I'd also been coughing horribly, so I decided to do two things: take some of the cough syrup (prometh with codeine) the doctor prescribed the day before and take a short nap. (The aforementioned syrup looks like Jonestown Kool-aid. Still, it tastes better than a lot of that OTC stuff.)

The directions on the prescription say to only take a teaspoon and that's what I did. The stuff worked great on my cough, but the side effects? Oy, the side effects. I'm lying in bed trying to get some rest, but I can't because I'm feeling restless and out of sorts. I start paying closer attention to what parts of me feel jittery and loopy and at one point I realize, this must be what it's like to get buzzed.

Being a non-drinker, I have no point of reference for this phenomenon everyone swears by and claims is the great reason to drink. After today's experience, I am not at all convinced. On top of that, the stuff gave me a stomach ache. If this is what drinking gets you, I think I'll take a pass. I hate feeling all wack-a-doo and out of sync. (If I'm wrong, though, and this just sounds like a bad reaction to a med, say so. Otherwise, pass the ginger ale, please!)

Needless to say, I never really ended up rested and I was a wee bit of a cranky butt when I met up with my mom and sister last night. (Of course, it didn't help that Mom liked my current hairstyle, which is long, drab, limp, and in horrible need of a haircut. But then, she's always liked my hair longer and I've not liked it, mostly because I end up looking like her. Besides, at this length, it has the potential to be very bouffanty, which is never a good thing in my book!)

Screw the prescription! I'm going back to my trusty, ever-faithful Vicks Formula 44 E and I don't care if the doctor does scoff at my layperson remedy. That other stuff just isn't worth it!

False Alarm

Have I mentioned recently that I've been waylaid with the flu? Yeah, I have, haven't I?

Well, I've finally been feeling loads better and yesterday evening I had a spurt of energy that resulted in the following activities: cooked dinner; vacuumed the carpets on the main floor; sorted through three weeks worth of mail and catalogs; collapsed five jillion boxes (I'm not exaggerating there) and carried them down to the recycling bin; and emptied the garbage.

Around 11:30 last night, I crawled into bed and woke up this morning feeling somewhat rested and tackled the kitchen, which included a load of dishes. Then I cleaned the bathroom upstairs, dealt with the guy from Verizon who came to fix some phone issues we've been having, had a shower, and toodled off to Target and Safeway for a few items of need. On the way home from Target, I thought, "I deserve a little treat. I think I'll stop at 7-11 and snag a Slurpee," which is exactly what I did.

Two hours later, I'm home and I feel like crap.

My head aches and I just feel wiped out.

I think maybe I overestimated my wellness.

And I was all ready to start going to the rec center tomorrow to start swimming. Think I'll be putting that off for another day or two. Bleh.

I'm not a fan of flu shots, but after this year's bout of the flu, I'm thinking I'll never go without one again.

Who Told You That?

There was a thread in the comments this week that caused my friend, Phoebe, to ponder a thing or two and then share with me and a couple of friends whether some of our eccentricities and character traits aren't hard wired into us before birth. Further, she wondered whether our spirits don't continue to seek knowledge, then evolve and even change, in spite of what others might say or think about us, or what we allow ourselves to believe from others regarding ourselves. (Is anyone's head spinning yet, 'cause mine is? And did I capture that correctly, Phoebe? If not, let me know so I can dispense with the paraphrasing and just quote directly from you.)

Prior to that and a couple of weeks ago, I continued a conversation with another friend about behavior in corporate culture and why it seems the vultures continue to win while those of us who are just decent, hardworking, faithful employees (in the sense of believing in what it is we're doing and what our employers claim to espouse) continue to get shafted and treated like shit.

Our conversation turned to the influence we allow others to have on us and how their often-false and insecure assessments of our personhood impacts our own self-perception. Often, the result is far less than positive and our sense of self-worth and our ability to contribute effectively and positively is severely compromised.

I followed all of that up with last week's blog entry--pondered by the aforementioned friend, Phoebe--in which I contemplate my belly button and wonder about things like freedom from fear and risk-taking and futility. You know? All the fun existential questions.

I can't say I've concluded much just yet out of those three instances of illumination and conversation (I'm still noodling), but if you have the patience, read on.

*****

Growing up, my mother has always made a point of reinforcing two facts in our lives: first, that she loves us and, second, that we are good people. It's a rare occasion when she talks to us on the phone or sends us an email or sees us in person that she doesn't tell us she thinks my brother, sister, and I are good people.

My mom hasn't always felt the same way about herself, though. As adults, my siblings and I make a point of often telling Mom we love her and we know she's a good person. It's nigh unto impossible for her to believe that because for as many years as she's been alive, she's believed what others have told her about herself. And it hasn't all been positive. She tends to hang on to the negative and often believes she is whatever others have told her.

This led to a conversation we had the other day in which she told me she'd realized after all these years how wrong it was to live her life that way--always a victim, always stuck, playing the martyr. She said to me, "I realized last night that what I've been told I am all these years is not who I am. And then I had to ask myself, 'Who told me that?'" She went on to say that deep in heart she knows the negative things aren't true and, in looking at herself as she believes God sees her, she realized God wasn't telling her she was all those negative things. Her conclusion was, she's no longer going to buy into the negativity (at least, to the best of her ability she's going to try) and when someone tells her she's fill-in-the-blank, she's going to question who the person is in her life who's telling her that, why they would say that, and whether it's even remotely true. She's no longer going to buy their criticism lock, stock, and barrel.

More importantly, she wanted to point out, when people--strangers, friends, family members, and employers--tell one of us we're something we know we're not, we must stop and ask ourselves, "Who told me that?"

*****

I'll switch from we to I now, because I've been thinking about this. I don't always agree with my mom, but her insight (which I'm failing to articulate justly) gave me pause.

I have a former employer who hired me for my professionalism and attention to detail only to then belittle me by telling me it was incomprehensible how I could be so intelligent and not have the capacity to get 100% in my first three or four attempts on compiling and filing an expense report--none of which were ever exactly the same. Or how I could work in publishing for so many years and yet not be able to manage a staff person's calendar. (Of course, she only had to manage one calendar. I had six.) I could continue listing the negative feedback ad nauseum, but I'll stop because I'm sure you get the picture and because that particular job was one in which I intuitively knew I should not work for this particular person, but practicality won out over realism.

My point here is, I could have taken that feedback and interpreted it to mean I'm stupid. There were certainly days when I felt that way and when I believed that. And yet, deep down, I knew I was, and am, intelligent. I knew I was capable. I knew I was intellectually-detailed. And I knew that my value and sense of self-worth did not rest in unforgivable and ill-advised impressions of one person. Especially when that one person wouldn't survive a day doing the kind of work I've done in the past. That said, the same person is a brilliant administrator. Not everyone is cut out to be that, just as not everyone is cut out to be a policy wonk or an editor.

My bottom line point here is, each of us has within us a good person, and maybe even a better person, than what others see or want to believe. Sometimes, the greater hurdle is making sure we see and believe we are that good person.


Photo copyright: D.C. Confidential, 12/07

Is It Just Me, Or...

Is it just me or is everyone a little on the cranky side this holiday season?

We were talking about this last night at the Holly-in-Our Hearts Holiday Hullabaloo here at Chez Tewkesbury. Everyone I talked to said, to a person, that they were having a hard time catching the holiday spirit this year.

I can't finger whether it's a product of day-to-day life that seems to move faster and faster as the years progress, leaving little time or grace to just slow down and enjoy some quieter moments. Or, maybe it's a result of mass marketing and over-stimulation with ads that yell and urgently proclaim "Consume! Consume! Consume! For tomorrow we die!" Perhaps it's this year's holiday calendar which started with Thanksgiving; it felt like it was a week earlier than normal, thereby making Christmas feel like it's also a week earlier than it should be.

I don't know. What I do know is, I wish it was January 1 already, because I'm tired of this year. I've had enough of 2007. In the years of my life, this one was disappointing in so many ways and the most overrated, as far as years go. I'm not trying to be a downer here and I'm not suggesting there haven't been highlights and happy moments. It's just that this year has been underscored by a level of weariness I've not experienced before. Even my most hellish, worst year--professionally, academically, and personally--was better than this year. I'd take September 2000-September 2001 over again any day compared to 2007. (And anyone who knows me and that particular period in my life, knows that's saying a lot.)

Twenty-oh-seven has been the year of merely existing and surviving for me and that's just plain yucky. A friend of mine wrote the other day, "Life becomes lively when I participate instead of watch." That's going to be my mantra for 2008. That's what I'm going to be again: a participant in life. An active, engaged, out-there woman who doesn't hold others back and isn't held back either! (And in truth, the only one holding me back is me. So, I'm gonna bitch slap myself like Cher and snap out of it!)

Adios 2007! Here's looking at 2008...

Third Time's the Charm?

I guess this means I'll have more time for blogging...

Fuck.

Substance Lacking Here

I'm a shallow person--it's true--and I take my shallowness very seriously. Frankly, it's of deep concern to me. Know what else is of deep concern? This whole NaBloPoMo thing. You see, it's sapping my substance--what little I have.

When I post infrequently, I tend to come up with material that's a little meatier and woman-on-the-street. When I post daily, I'm constantly digging for stuff or phoning it in.

I mentioned stockpiling a couple of weeks ago, and while it's a good idea, it's also a lot of work, particularly if you want to be timely and relevant.

The other challenge I have--and I've had this from the very beginning of my blogging days--is, I don't have a specific theme for my blog. I'm not a forum. I don't have a focus. I'm not championing a cause or rallying 'round a flag pole. I'm not passionate about an issue. I'm just writing.

The thing is, I could rally and champion. I have a lot I believe in. For example, here's just a small list of some of the things upon which I could strictly focus:

• Women's rights
• Mormonism and its impact on individuals, community, and society-at-large
  
• Religion and Society
• Gay rights
• Fairness in employment practices
• The erosion of democracy in America
• Recycling and the environment
• Education and the influx of technology on learning
• Ending the war in Iraq/Peace on earth
• Impeaching George Bush and his evil Dick*
  

All good topics, but they each focus on only one of many things I'm interested in and they each only appeal to a subset of people. (By the way--I have a blister on the roof of my mouth from drinking my hot chocolate at a temperature that could only result in this affliction and it hurts, damn it all. See what I mean? Shallow. And easily distracted.)

****

Life could be changing in these parts right after Thanksgiving. I passed the woman selling newspapers at the intersection of Massachusetts and 9th again this morning and thought to myself, I really must stop and talk to her one morning. Perhaps next week...

I greeted Jeremy again the other morning, as I do most every morning. I must remember on Monday to tell him what a lovely smile he has. It's such a pleasure to say hello to him on the mornings he works in the parking garage of the building where I work. I hope he goes to college. I rarely sense things about people, but I sense good things about him and what he has to offer. If I won the lottery tonight, I'd offer him a scholarship.

****

Thanksgiving was yesterday and I'm trying to be grateful. Not that I don't have things for which to be grateful, mind you. It's just that this has been quite a year and I'm not sure what to give thanks for aside from the obvious stuff. A friend of mine wrote about dreams the other day and I've been thinking about that ever since. What they were, which ones I've attained and which ones I haven't. Why I have. Or haven't. Whether I still believe I have dreams and whether I still believe in my dreams. And what it is that's keeping me from following my dreams.

For someone who's so damn shallow, that's a lot of deep thinking going on there. I'll let you know how deeply I plumb...

****

Another friend of mine recently wrote this: The destruction of my despair is all too familiar, and made mundane by its repetitiveness.

Despite being shallow, this line has stuck with me for the last several days. It is the idea of repetitiveness resulting in the mundane that unnerves me. The idea that somewhere I've reached a point where settling for less than what I know I can achieve is somehow the norm.

Does our despair become mundane because we finally realize and--horrors!--accept that humanity is a letdown and our place in it is less meaningful than we were originally led to believe? Or, have we allowed situations or others to stand in the way of who we are, what we can be, and what we were meant to do?

Where--or maybe when, more appropriately--is it in life that we go from being carefree to being bitter? I told a friend the other day, I miss the come-what-may me. Now I'm just Ms. Crabby Pants.

What I do know definitively is, the repetitiveness, the mundaneness, the quiet, confusing, what-next despair is exhausting. I'm tired. I want to dream again.

More than that, I want my dreams to become repetitive realities of bliss.


* Kudos to my friend, Phoebe, for that line.

What Women Know

While I don't say much about the faith of my upbringing here, I'm going to suspend that for a moment today.

In a nutshell, here's my background:

• I am a woman
• I am a member of record on the rolls of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (also known as the Mormons)
• I grew up in Utah and was active in the church
  
• I served a mission for the church in Europe in the late 80s/early 90s
• I served as a volunteer at the Mormon Temple in Kensington, Maryland, for two years after my mission
• As a graduate student, I studied Religion and Society and wrote my master's thesis on the effect of temple participation in the lives of young adult Mormons
  
• I remained an active participant in the church until about ten years ago when I finally said "Enough" and stopped attending
  
• I left because of three things: 1) I was tired of being a third-class citizen, 2) I no longer wished to participate in an organization that fears honest scholarship, and 3) despite having Jesus Christ in its name, the focus is more on checklists and family and image.

I provide that as preface to establish my credentials (or lack thereof, as some will feel) for why today's content is what it is.

Twice a year, Mormons gather in Salt Lake City, or in church buildings around the world with satellite feed, or in their homes with broadcast access, to listen to their church leaders deliver ecclesiastical speeches expounding doctrine, theology, scripture, righteous living, and historical retrospectives they believe are relevant to the lives of the church's 13 million members. These semi-annual conferences are held the first weekend of April and October.

Several weeks ago, at the semi-annual October gathering, the church's newest Relief Society* president, Julie Beck, delivered her speech at General Conference titled "Mothers Who Know." (To understand the context of this post, you may want to read it.) Beck's talk was meant to extol the virtues that would constitute the ideal for Mormon mothers and women, but the controversy resulting from her words has been the most noted outcome of her talk. In other words, there are many Mormon women of all types and descriptions out there who couldn't agree less with Beck's rundown.

In an effort to bring balance to Beck's lopsided assessment and sweeping generalizations, a group of Mormon women--some very active, others disaffected, some married, others single, some with children, others without, some stay-at-home moms, others working mothers--have banded together and drafted a proclamation called "What Women Know" that is, in my opinion, one of the finest declarative pieces I have read in recent memory.

While most faithful Mormons proudly hang a copy of the Proclamation on the Family in their homes, I will proudly be displaying What Women Know in mine. And to my fellow sisters who brought this together and made this happen, I'm proud to sign my name to it.


* The women's organization in the church. It was suggested by Emma Smith, wife of the church's founder, Joseph Smith, as a charitable organization to serve the temporal needs of the community. Joseph Smith authorized the formation of the organization in 1842 and, with only a brief break in its activities in the late 1840s/early 1850s, has continued to this day.

Too Old For This

I have the hiccups.

When I was a kid, the hiccups were kind of fun. Oh, sure, they hurt a little and they were one of life's great mysteries, but they could also launch you into fits of giggles. Finding a solution to end the spasms was an opportunity to experiment. Remedies ranged from standing on your head and holding your breath to ingesting tablespoons of sugar laced with pure lemon juice.

Now that I'm older, though, hiccups suck. Plain and simple.

They leave me breathless. Sometimes, they cause me to choke, which then leads to a simultaneous coughing fit. Worst of all, they really, really hurt. And they're still a fucking mystery.

I mean, they aren't a mystery in terms of what they are. They're a mystery in terms of how I acquired this current round. All I was doing was sitting here at my computer eating a couple of corn tortilla chips and sipping a drink. I paused to sneeze and, voilà, hiccups. The real bugger is, I'll sit here and hiccup away for the next who knows how long and then, without any fanfare, they'll just stop. As if nothing happened.

Case in point. I just stepped away for a few minutes at the end of that last paragraph to put some potatoes in the oven to bake, came back upstairs, sat at my computer looking for a picture in my iPhoto library, and just now noticed my hiccups are gone. Where did they go, when did they leave, and how did I miss saying goodbye?

Whatever. The fact remains, I hate hiccups. I'm too old for this crap.

Know what else I'm not the right age for right now? Arthritis. That's right. Inflammation of the joints. I have it in the middle finger of my right hand where my finger meets the knuckle in the top of the hand. Not fun, let me tell ya. Not fun at all. It's become so painful, I'm probably gonna have to suck it up, see the doctor, and get a cortisone shot. Ever had one of those? Fun, aren't they? Might as well just fill a hypodermic with peanut butter and shoot it up.

And speaking of peanut butter, you're never too old, but maybe too young, for that. My latest thing: make toast and butter it, then spread one side with a thick layer of peanut butter and the other side with a thick layer of Nutella. Yeah, that's good stuff. Even better is to make the aforementioned concoction with a sandwich grill. All the joys of childhood with all the maturity of a grown-up palette.

Now that my hiccups are over I can go back to enjoying my Dr. Pepper previously in progress without fear of squirting it out my nose. Thanks for listening.


P.S. Why do we say "I have the hiccups"? Shouldn't it just be "I have hiccups"? Or is it just me who says it incorrectly and gives it a definitive article?

Top 10

I'm stealing this one from a friend, who shall remain blameless! She did this the other day to help her, as she put it, "out of a funky rut." Boy, do I know and appreciate that feeling. Sounds like a groovy 80s song, too, doesn't it? Funky Rut. Hm. Maybe not.

Okay, so today's top ten happy places and happy thoughts for happy people.

10. My grandfather. When we were kids (hell, even when we were adults), he'd pull our hair, twinkle his eyes and say, "Are you hoppy, hoppy, mugwump?" Of course, being kids, we'd roll our eyes and say, "Yes, Grandpa. I'm happy." I miss him and wish he was here to ask me if I'm hoppy.

9. I have a pok'corn popper that I pop my pok'corn in. One of my favorite sounds is the "voice of popcorn," as my Finnish roommate once said. That always makes me happy.

8. Tonight, I can stay up as late as I like and do all the crossword puzzles I want.

7. I'm getting my hair cut tomorrow and boy do I need it. Just the thought of hacking off all this hair makes me happy.

6. Sleeping in a bed with flannel sheets and a toasty, roasty down comforter can be happy thing on a cold night.

5. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens... Oh. Sorry. Um, Julie Andrews makes me happy...?

4. I'm going out for pumpkin pancakes at IHOP tonight with Bee. Yum!

3. I get to post another blog entry. Woo hoo!

2. Being up early this morning and watching the sunrise. I like the early quiet of dawn.

1. And the happiest of all happy happiness: It's Friday! Thank God!

Survivor

In a very unsolicited moment this past week, I learned a valuable lesson about myself: I am a survivor.

Many of you don’t know this about me, but seven years ago I shared a pivotal piece of information about my life with my family. I grew up in a highly conservative religious setting and my personal revelation clashed with their theology. The result was two years of hateful rhetoric and estrangement that was incredibly painful and quite damaging. It was a period fraught with bitter irony because the faith tradition in which I grew up places a heavy emphasis on the importance and eternal nature of families.

Eventually, I took a job in D.C. and moved back to the area. My parents and siblings live in Northern Virginia, but I approached being in their vicinity with great caution. I consciously chose to live in the city proper as a means of putting a little physical distance between us. I’ll admit, too, the idea of having the Potomac and a bridge separating us also helped me feel a bit secure—like I was living in a castle surrounded by a moat with a drawbridge as the only means of entry. In other words, not so far away that it was impossible to see them, but not so close that it was convenient.

Over the last five years, I’ve worked very hard to build some semblance of an adult relationship with my family members. They have continued to worship in their religion “according to the dictates of their conscience” and I have respected that. I choose not to participate in the faith of my upbringing and I have asked for, but not always received, reciprocal respect for my choices. My lack of activity in church is a point of disagreement for my family, but it is one I choose to largely ignore.

This past Friday, my brother participated in a series of religious rituals that constitute a rite of passage for faithful members of the church they attend. These rites represent milestones for each individual; their equivalent would be like attending hajj as a Muslim or visiting Lourdes or the Vatican as a Catholic. The purpose is meant to raise the participant to a higher plane within the faith and distinguish them as “one of the washed.” (I wrote my entire master’s thesis on this, by the way.) Just as a Muslim becomes known as a hajji and is elevated in status within the Muslim community, so, too, are Mormons elevated in status once they have been “endowed” by participating in temple rituals.

I knew my brother was preparing to participate in these rituals and I respect the importance and significance they hold within his faith community. I may no longer participate in those rituals myself, but I respect them for what they mean and the sociological role they play within the community of believers (see aforementioned note about thesis.) Regardless of my lack of participation, I was genuinely happy for him.

So, where am I going with all of this?

As I mentioned, this past Friday, my brother participated in these rituals, but chose not to include me by failing to call me and tell me he was going to the temple for the first time. While I am not able to physically go with him, due to my lack of active church participation, I would at least like to have known so I could tell him how happy I was/am for him. As it was, I found out after the fact, which left me pissed. I’m still not clear on why he didn’t tell me beforehand, as he has yet to call me or email me and set up a time to talk. What I do know is, I was incredibly hurt and angry at having been deliberately shunned.

I’ve spent the bulk of the weekend being emotional—angry one minute, weeping the next, baffled in general, sick to my stomach in particular… Name the emotion, I’m sure I’ve covered it in the last 96 hours. I was suppose to have my family at my house yesterday for Sunday dinner, but I canceled. I just didn’t have the energy to make the kind of effort I put into my cooking and entertaining. My heart was burdened with other things and any cooking I would have done would have been poisoned by the effect of their actions.

But last night, I had an epiphany.

I’d raged and ranted. I’d even hit a wall (note: hitting things is a bad idea. Your hand will really, really hurt, especially if what you’re hitting is almost 100 years old and made of plaster and lathe.) I’d cried and lamented. I’d thrown my anger around at myself, for thinking I could have a relationship with my family after being estranged; at my family, for so deliberately doing something they knew was wrong and would be hurtful; at the church, for indoctrinating their members in such a way that something like this could even be possible and might even be seen as acceptable.

Eventually, I dried my tears, blew my nose, and realized I am a survivor. I had been through this range of emotions and conflict before with my family and, while I was bloody and bruised previously, I wasn’t broken. I managed to get through the horrific rhetoric and hatefulness and still live. This weekend was horrific and hateful again, but I pulled through and I’m going to be okay. I still love my family, but I’m much clearer on the parameters of my place in their life. As a result, I’ll be modifying my parameters regarding their place in my life.

My therapist often use to say two things to me during those years gone by. First, “you are not broken.” And second, “I know you feel icky now, but you’re not always going to feel this way.” This weekend was pretty icky, but somehow I’ve arrived on the other side of it a bit more impervious to meanness. I’m still angry, but I’m not seething with bitterness. I’m glad I’m not always going to feel this way. More than that, though, I’m glad that I can not only survive, but thrive.