Addicted

Imagine that you're addicted to something - I mean REALLY addicted, not just a fly-by-night, "OMG, I'm SO addicted to that new T.V. show" kind of thing. Now imagine that someone told you it was possible to cure yourself of this addiction (I know, I'm starting to sound like a tele-evangelist, but stay with me here - I promise not to ask for money or first-born children). What if you believed this person right from the start? What if it wasn't an imminent truth that you would be addicted to this one thing FOREVER? What if it seemed obvious that you could get rid of the monkey on your back and send him off to a third-world jungle thousands of miles away where he would never again see civilization?

This scenario is exactly the kind of thing I think about when I hear people say, "Once an addict, always an addict." I can't tell you how much it pains me to hear someone say, "Yep, I'm an alcoholic and I'll always be an alcoholic, but at least I can stop drinking." It seems so important that we pathologize addictive behaviors, that we create a complete co-dependency between The Addict and The Great and Powerful Healer, that we beat into the head of this addict the fact that there really is no way to get rid of this thing, this internal drive to over-consume whatever it is that's being over-consumed.

But if you started the conversation out differently, then wouldn't you think more hopefully about the situation? If you (The Addict) were never told that you now had this new title that would follow you throughout your life, wouldn't you be more inclined to believe that whatever problem has beset you is temporary? Wouldn't you believe in yourself more?

Just a thought...

On another (semi-related) note, I'm continually shocked and irritated by people who are addicted to themselves. There are a whole lot of people who seem to think only of their own well-being and I wonder how that happens. Childhood traumas? Other addictions? A refusal to grow up and mature? I'm not sure, but it's sad, the degree to which narcissism has taken over our lives. Especially when people are narcissistic to the detriment of the people to whom they should be the closest.

Perhaps there's redemption even for these folks, though. Maybe at some point they will have that wonderful moment of clarity when the light bulb turns on and everything is illuminated (to borrow the words of a certain awesome writer). I suspect that if that moment comes, though, it will be intensely painful for the person who looks back at his life and realizes just how much hurt he has caused to those people who loved and trusted him the most.

I think this new kind of reality works on the same principle as Plato's cave theory - once the prisoner realizes he is imprisoned by his own inability to see beyond the inside of the cave, once he sees that he's not actually a prisoner but can walk towards the doorway to the outside world, he'll be blinded by the light of that release. And (to borrow the words of another famous icon) I pity the fool who waits until old age to find these things out, because the longer it takes to get to the doorway, the more it will hurt to walk outside.

t.

Nirvana doesn't live here anymore...

I don't know what I was thinking. Somewhere between six years ago and September 2010, I forgot the intense physical and mental demands of yoga and decided I needed to restart my practice.

I must have been crazy. It truly was the longest 72 minutes of my life.

Despite my strong desire to help people, I am not-so-secretly repulsed by most of their habits. Besides being shoved into a smallish, 80-degree room with too many people ready to pray to the yogic gods, I happened to be squished between TWO people with major garlic-breath issues. If you know me at all, you know that I hate garlic - I don't care about the health benefits because I can't get past the smell, especially when it's emanating from someone's pores. (Much to Alex's dismay, garlic has been permanently banned from the Ronda household.) It's more distasteful to me than any blood and guts I may have seen in the E.R. - it's even worse than the liver smoothies we made in Bio lab last week (ask me about that later). So to be shoved between two people who took VERY seriously the prescribed breathing techniques while bending themselves into nine million directions was truly a nightmare.

Add to that the loud gulps of water from the lady down the row, the grunts and moans from people who insisted on pushing themselves too hard, and the RIVERS of sweat pouring down my face, and you've got the 72 minutes from hell, all wrapped up in a neat little Buddha-bellied package.

Here's a secret not too many people know about me - I don't sweat. Never have. Might have something to do with my utter laziness at life and complete unwillingness to push myself to any physical degree. But this class had me begging for mercy. I grew increasingly frustrated that I couldn't hold even the most basic pose for longer than 30 seconds - yet another reminder of how out-of-shape I really am. Of course, that aggravation grew exponentially as sweat got in my eyes, on my glasses, down my back and into places that should never be sweaty.

And that was a GENTLE yoga class.

By the time we got into savasana, I was completely ready to give up on life - guess they call it "corpse pose" for a reason. I was laying there staring at the dimly lit ceiling, listening to the low background music (and the leftover pants from the guy to my right), and thinking deeply...about McDonald's. All I could think about was getting out of that studio and to the nearest Mickey D's for my very favoritest bad-for-me treat - the old standby, Number 11. A fish fillet (surely made of some indeterminate mixture of cheap frozen fish), deeply-oil-soaked fries, and a vanilla milkshake (also of a questionable source). I kept thinking that if I could just get out of there alive and with most of my limbs intact, I was going to spite all of those perfect little yogis by patronizing an ugly old corporate demon who probably chains small children in Malaysia to the deep fryers in an effort to maintain a constant stream of employees to satisfy the ever-increasing cravings of the Malaysian masses for Big Macs and new frozen Frappe-Latte-Chinos.

Yep, I'd get them all.

When we finally got up from being dead for a little while, we sat lotus and did a little mini-meditation thing. That's when it happened - every class ends with a big, loud "Om" moment, during which everyone simultaneously sounds their vocal gong before leaving. I sat and stared at everyone around me, completely wrapped up in their New Age self-importance, and wondered what 15th dimension I'd accidentally tripped into.

You know, yoga's good for people and the teacher whose studio I choose to patronize is wonderful at what she does - you can tell that she believes in it with every fiber of her being. But sometimes it's hard to get past the hipness of it all. People who spend lots of money on recycled-rubber mats and humanely made clothing, but who at the end of class traipse out to their Volvos and Lexuses (Lexi???). There is this element of pseudo-perfection that doesn't seem to jive with the real principles behind yoga. And I despise people like that more than I dislike garlic, if that gives you some hint as to my gut reaction to them.

When I left class, I drove right over to Mickey D's and got what I went for. Sure, I knew it was going to make me feel like puking; I knew I'd regret it later because I'm trying (while not trying at all) to lose weight and feel better. But I still did it because I felt like, after all that jazz, I needed to feel like ME again - the me that doesn't take care of herself and doesn't care. The me that doesn't need to look perfect or have the perfect mat or effortlessly move from pose to pose without breaking a sweat.

The me that will doubtlessly be back in class again next Monday, because THAT me knows this is perhaps the most challenging thing I've done in years and that all that irritation from all those innocent garlic-breathed people is really just a big lesson in patience and focus.

And no McDonald's next time.

t.

Help, I'm married to a spendthrift...

I know, it sounds underwhelming. I can assure you it's not. Follow my lead here...

Over the last few days, I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to rid my mattress of the dog-piss stench that I'm pretty sure has taken on a life of its own.

I tried carpet cleaner (it's not just for carpets, you know). Didn't touch it.

I went to PetSmart and bought a spray bottle full of my very favorite pet-odor neutralizing agent, Nature's Miracle. Although it's certainly proved itself miraculous in the past, it just barely scratched the surface.

In desperation, I dumped more Nature's Miracle on the mattress and mixed it up with a nice big pile of baking soda, which has always worked for me before. Can you guess what happened...or better yet, what DIDN'T happen?

In a last-ditch appeal to save the Stearns & Foster, I asked Alex to try using an industrial-strength carpet machine on the bed - he did. And it didn't work.

I am led to two possible conclusions: 1) My dog has toxic pee and I will obviously need to get a Hazardous Waste symbol shaved into her side, OR 2) The urine has soaked very deeply into the mattress, in which case I will probably have to buy a new one.

Why does this have anything to do with my spendthrift husband?

Well, as wonderful as he is in so many ways, he has far more material needs than I. Yesterday I arrived home at 9pm to find a bummed-out Alex - the elliptical machine we bought from a guy on Craig's List for $100 broke. The whole thing didn't break, but something semi-critical to its operation broke - the display, a wiring harness, whatever the hell is inside those things.

When stuff like this happens, my instinct is usually to say, "We'll get it fixed," or (if need be), "We'll live without it for awhile."

Not so with the Hubster. He wants his elliptical and he wants it NOW.

I understand his pain - he uses the machine on a daily basis and has lost quite a bit of weight over the years through a regular exercise routine. When someone GAVE us an unbelievably nice (and new) treadmill, we bought the elliptical and set up a mini gym, in which he works out all the time. I get the terrible sense of loss he must be feeling at the sudden inoperativeness (inoperability??) of his beloved elliptical.

And yet...for some reason, I'm more concerned about obtaining a mattress on which I can sleep without nightmares of drowning in dog piss or being eaten by the mighty monster living deep inside the foam core under me.

Of course there is also the fact that Thanksgiving is coming up, which means we have to buy plane fare for Syd to get to and from the southern region of the U.S., where she lives most of the time.

And there is this camping trip that hubby arranged as part of our anniversary celebration in two weeks.

Not to be ignored is the tiny little issue of shodding our feet with wearable shoes, keeping a roof high and dry over our heads, and occasionally consuming edibles.

Don't misunderstand me - Alex has made many sacrifices over the years and he generally does not go out and buy things for himself, even though I know there are some things he wants more than anything in the universe. He is always careful to place the needs of others first and he does have a good sense of priorities - of course his daughter visiting us for the holidays and of course our traveling anniversary celebration is more important than a new elliptical. Still, it's hard NOT to sense his dissatisfaction with the way things are sometimes, and it's REALLY hard not to feel bad about it. Which then has the residual effect of making me grumpy.

I know there is poverty in the world and Alex and I certainly aren't the face of it - we generally live comfortably within our means. The problem is that for Alex, "within our means" has a slightly different ring to it. He's notorious for "needing" nice things, although admittedly he has picked up some very nifty cheapskate tricks from his feet-on-the-ground, realistic wife. I'm proud of his progress, but I wholeheartedly curse his need to REPLACE rather than FIX things. When I bring this maddening habit to his attention, though, I am immediately labeled with that great scarlet letter - N. For nag, of course.

I don't like being thought of as a nag, especially since if it was up to me, I would buy him everything his gigantic heart desires - he takes care of me well and I can't complain about that. But I sure do wish instead of having that giant N plastered on my chest, I could have a big S, Supergirl-style - S for Savior or Saint, S for Sane or Sensible, maybe even S for Sagacious or Shrewd.

But no. I get the N. Always with the N.

Alex, I love you, but you drive me batty sometimes. I know your dream life includes a lot of nice things around you, but in my dream world there is only you and a piss-free dog and a not-morbidly-obese cat in a small cabin in the woods.

Who needs STUFF anyway?

I have a feeling I'm going to be trying this vinyl-cover-for-the-mattress thing today. And I have a feeling it won't work. Then what? Only time (and money) will tell. I know one thing - if I have to replace this mattress again, I'm getting the cheapest one they've got. AND the vinyl cover.

t.

No, I'm not dead.

I was just on hiatus from blogging for awhile. But, ahhhhh, it's good to be back in the blogosphere, where nothing is as it appears and there is much fun to be had peering into the little windows of other people's lives.

Yesterday was my birthday. I am an indeterminate age, at least to my growing body of students. When I taught my first class at Atlantic Cape this fall, I assured my all-freshman audience that I was indeed old enough to be teaching the class. No one believed me, but rather than entertain a discussion about my actual age, I pointed out that it was irrelevant anyway because someone thought me experienced enough to teach the class and someone thought they were intelligent enough to be in the class, so in our own respective ways we both hold critical roles and age has nothing at all to do with them. Yeah, it was a weasel's way out, but guess what? I adore them and I think they like me pretty well, so in the end it doesn't matter much.

I caught myself reflecting on age yesterday, as birthdays are wont to make me do. It's strange to spend so much time working at a college and to feel so far afield of what students like these days. It wasn't THAT long ago I was one of them, was it? But there's a lot of difference between then and now, I guess, because I can't make heads or tails of guys wearing skinny jeans or girls bringing back the absolute worst trends of the 80s. (Look, kids, I was there and although I will never get tired of The Breakfast Club or Pat Benatar, from what I remember, I can assure you there's an absolutely valid reason that side-ponytails and leg warmers went the way of the dinosaur.) But that's okay because they don't get my pop culture references, which at least in my own age group, are still funny and, dare I say, even a little kitschy. (Can you believe that kids born in the 90s don't even KNOW about She-Ra?! And I will never get over the fact that they don't know about the 50-lb "cell phone" Zach Morris looked so cool using. Don't even get me started on Carmen Sandiego...broke my heart, that one did.)

But then, in the midst of my contemplation, I started thinking about how my parents probably felt the same way as they got older. And maybe my grandmother and her mother did, too. I guess this is what they meant by "getting old."

I don't really feel old. I mean, except every time I sit in class as a too-old pre-med student surrounded by freshmen who wear silly bands and had AP Calculus just last year. But other than that, I'm a spring chicken...

Probably the hardest thing to deal with as I get a little older each day is the fact that I am now THAT woman - not that cute girl in the back of the class who wore a size zero; oh no, not THAT girl...ever again, sadly. Nope, now I'm THAT woman who sits in the front of every class so she can take copious amounts of notes and actually SEE the board. Yes, I'm THAT woman who gets aggravated at the incessant tap-tap-tap of little tiny Droid keyboards all over the classroom, transmitting messages from desperate 18-year-olds making plans with other desperate 18-year-olds to get hung over for class tomorrow morning.

I'm THAT woman who talks about her husband and her stepkid and her dog and her cat and her adorable little suburban house with a green lawn and a picket fence (okay, well actually it's a split-rail, but do THEY know the difference?).

I'm THAT woman who until now didn't really know what she wanted to do with her life but who, now that she's decided, is hyper-focused on making the dream a reality and trying her best to enjoy it along the way. Do you know, I think I might actually be learning to LOVE science? After years of studying soft disciplines like literature and philosophy and counseling, I am actually becoming passionate about molecules and amino acids.

So I guess what I'm saying is that it's hard sometimes to sit with people much younger than me, whose lives are so very different from mine, and think what all those "old" people probably used to think about me:

"Don't be so desperate to have people love you. Enjoy your time on earth without giving your integrity and self-respect to people who don't respect themselves, let alone you. Don't let someone who broke your heart destroy your ego or your joy. Because one day, you'll wake up and find that you've matured, that you're actually a grown-up with grown-up thoughts and a lot less time to worry about what other people think, and that even though you're not that old, you're finally old enough to know better. You might not want a picket fence or a stable life or a dog - you might want a life on the road with a pet iguana to keep you company - but you'll find SOMETHING that you want enough to drive yourself all the places you wouldn't (or couldn't) find the energy to go as a younger person, and all the rest of it - the drama and time wasted and hours spent in misery over some person or other - just doesn't mean what it used to. You might even be happy."

I suppose this might be my way of saying to my elders, "Thanks for all the advice I didn't trust you to give when I was a kid." And I'd probably also agree that yes, 50's the new 20 and you're only as old as you feel and age is just a number.

t.

Lukewarm beer & mediocre mousse

(As promised, Jelly, this one's for you...)

Last night I attended a Longaberger fundraiser to support breast cancer research and treatment - it was their annual Horizon of Hope event, and it's always a good time. For the past three years, my best friend and I have made an occasion of going. We play bingo, we buy 50/50 tickets, we do the auction thing...in other words, we spend a lot of money to lose a lot of different ways.

But I don't think that's why we go. She can correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure this now-annual tradition has strangely become a big part of our friendship. Of course we care about ending breast cancer (doesn't everyone?), and of course we like to throw our support behind Angel, who's a Longaberger consultant and an all-around great gal. I don't believe, though, that either of us is altruistic enough to go with only those two goals in mind.

There's something most fundraisers have in common - the food, typical banquet fare prepared for a small army, is fairly bland; the company one must keep (especially when seated at a table of unfamiliar faces) is questionable; and you are almost guaranteed to lose every dollar you pay for those useless paper tickets they give you in return.

But there is something priceless in sitting next to your slightly tipsy (because you forced a cosmo upon her) BFF and her mom, doubled over in hysterics over the time you called her ten days before her birthday and cleverly teased, "Who's having a birthday today?", only to hear, "I don't know - who?!" in return. (Guess you had to be there - but seriously, it was hilarious. My uncertain response to her response was something like, "Um, yours?") Even when you're very slowly nursing a lukewarm Yuengling and taste-testing a mediocre, only slightly chocolaty mousse, that kind of laughter makes the whole event worthwhile. And of course the fundraisers must know that, because aren't there a million other ways to raise money? Yet, when all is said and done, it's valuable in more than one way to have a bunch of friends sitting around a large banquet room, battling it out over pig-in-a-pen bingo and talking trash.

Why does any of this matter? Well, because sometimes (just sometimes) I have a hard time remembering how Maureen and I got to be best friends. I frequently remember odd situations over which we've bonded - for instance, my favorite green khakis with the giant bleach stain on the ass (she was the only person nice enough to tell me about it...and that was before we even really knew each other). One of my favorite things about her is that she's the kind of person who doesn't give up on friends - she knew probably from the start that I wasn't really the BFF kind of gal. She didn't take offense to the fact that for an entire summer during which we worked together, I sat at a table all the way across from her during lunch because I'm a claustrophobic eater with a large personal bubble. She did, however, gradually coach me to move within easy speaking distance until finally I was sitting next to her at the lunch table.

Maureen is the kind of person who looks at you like "I want a hug" even when she knows you're not the hugging type. She keeps a respectful distance because she knows that eventually, you will have to cave to the unspoken demand. She will patiently wait until you come around to seeing that friendship is about more than being on the same page all the time. At least, that's what she did with me - and I'm not easy to love.

There aren't too many people with whom I would venture to a fundraiser where I am sure to be uncomfortable (you know, the whole personal space thing...), lose all my money, and eat less-than-gourmet fare for gourmet prices. But, Jelly, you know I'd do it for you :)

t.

Crickets, they are a-chirpin'...

I'm an early riser - not by choice, but by biology. Or something like that.

Which leads me to be here, in front of my computer at an obscene time trying to think of the brilliant thing I thought to write last night (but didn't).

Have you ever sat in front of a glaring computer screen and wondered what to do? With the billions of words and millions of pages the inter-web offers, and STILL you can't figure out what to watch or read or play?

My theory is this - there's just too much going on in the world. Things need to s-l-o-w d-o-w-n...it would be nice if everything didn't move at the speed of light so that I always felt the need to be doing or watching or reading or SOMETHING. And yet, I do believe it's impossible this way.

The last thoughts I had before falling asleep last night: I need to write a living will and I need to get new life insurance policies and I need to fill out new direct deposit forms and I need to eat breakfast (apparently at 9:30 at night) and I need to throw everything away because it's all too much to look at anymore and I need to tell my husband I love him before I fall asleep and I need to play with my cat more often because he's too fat and possibly unhappy and I need to buy those two things I forgot when I went food shopping today and I need to find a new novel to read and I need to start looking at that biology textbook and I need to pick up my prescription from CVS and I need to clean the house and I need to...STOP MOVING. I need to do nothing for awhile.

I need a vacation.

t.

Airing out our grievances

August 18, 2010

Dr. XXXXXXX
Cross Keys Animal Hospital
2071 North Black Horse Pike
Williamstown, NJ 08094

Dear Dr. XXXX,

On August 16, my mother brought her 3 ½-year-old boxer, Molly, in because of very strange behaviors she was exhibiting, including inexplicably urinating around the house, stumbling, failing to recognize family members, losing her appetite and the ability to drink, losing her nerve function and possibly her eyesight, and becoming confused about where she was. You did blood tests and said that if they came back clean, there was a chance the dog had either a behavioral problem or brain cancer, the latter condition being somewhat common in boxers.

We waited 24 hours to get the blood test results back and when they were finally relayed to my mother over the phone, a vet tech suggested that the problem was behavioral and that my mother should hire a trainer. When you eventually called her back yourself, you acted as though you were completely unfamiliar with Molly’s case and made the same suggestion. By that time, Molly’s symptoms had worsened considerably. The problem was clearly NOT behavioral and she was clearly NOT in any shape to be transported to a vet hospital in the city and left there.

The service my parents received from you at Cross Keys Animal Hospital was despicable. If you had bothered to listen to what my mother was telling you, you may have been able to make some real recommendations rather than jumping from one extreme to another, especially since you were Molly’s primary vet and could have easily looked at her charts to see some of the other unexplained medical issues she’d previously encountered. In fact, if you had listened to the especially troubling symptom that my mother repeated to you over and over (completely colorless and odorless urine), you probably would have reached the conclusion that we did – her kidneys were failing. If you had bothered to actually speak to my parents this morning when they went through with the incredibly difficult decision to have Molly euthanized because she could no longer eat, drink, see, or stand well, you probably would have thought twice about your previous diagnosis. Since you didn’t seem to take it very seriously when my mother talked to you on the phone, perhaps seeing just how pathetically downhill Molly’s quality of life had fallen would have made you take a second look.

I’m sure you’re wondering what my objective is in writing you. It is simply this - I have lived and worked around animals my entire life and never have I witnessed anything so ethically unsettling as how you treated my parents and their dog when they needed expert advice and compassion the most. Molly was our family dog – she was an incredibly special part of my parents’ lives and those of our extended family and it was very hard to see such a young animal suffer so needlessly.

It was no easy decision to have Molly euthanized, but ultimately none of us believed that she deserved to suffer the debilitating effects of whatever she had anymore. When my parents brought her into your animal hospital, a vet tech took the dog, asked if they wanted to be in the room with her (they did not), and took her away. No vet ever spoke to my parents – not you, not any of your colleagues.

I do not blame you for Molly’s death, but I do blame you for treating my parents and our family pet with so little compassion and respect.  Perhaps you are overworked or have achieved some degree of burnout in your career as a vet, but in either case, there is no excuse for being so detached from an extremely time-critical situation that required your attention. Given that the AVMA’s code of ethics is largely based on the Golden Rule, I would ask you the following question: How would you have felt if you’d been treated with little compassion or respect when a member of your family was in critical condition and time was of the essence?

I hope you will think of that the next time someone puts the life of his/her dog in your hands and you are too tired or burnt out to give them any real consideration. As it is, no one in my immediate or extended family will ever make the mistake of visiting your office again. I’m sure that won’t eat into your profit margin too much, but I hope it eats into your conscience a little.

Sincerely,
Tara N. Ronda

A little zen, anyone?

I don't know why but I've suddenly got my zen-ishness back again. I read a very interesting blog post yesterday about the things we do to distract ourselves from the issues at hand - eating/gaining weight because somehow we don't feel like good people, reading a bunch of stuff just to read it and NOT do something else, hanging out online to feel a sense of social cohesion we might not feel in "real life."

All true for me.

So as I was reading, I was thinking, "What's so bad about being alone?" Nothing, really. I'm a pretty cool cat with some interesting thoughts - why can't I just dive into my brain and sit with it for awhile? Why do I (read: we) feel the need to be constantly on the move?

Funny that I should have this mini-revelation now, when I've just formalized my fall schedule and it leaves little "me" time, even to the imagination. Between working, teaching, doing the pre-med thing, and volunteering at the hospital, my week is beyond full. Whatever spare time there might be will be at least partially devoted to the hubster, the BFF, and the animules. Where do I come in?

Still, I think I like my schedule. I like the busy-ness of it because it means I will be at my most productive. I find it distracting NOT to have a busy schedule - then, it's easier for me to sit on my duff and wait around for someone to light a fire under me. But if I'm in a constant state of motion, the slowdown doesn't happen.

Which will eventually catch up to me, as it does every semester.

So how will I balance it all out? I think there are a couple of answers to that...

1. I'll be mindful of everything I do and try to enjoy it, even when it's unenjoyable.
2. I won't waste time on non-productive activities, like procrastination.
3. I will view personal time as productive, too - so when I feel like reading Alice in Wonderland, I will. No questions asked of myself.
4. I don't know how it will work, and I'm okay with not knowing how it will work.

This is just sort of a stream-of-consciousness blog today, but my schedule reminds me of how much I dislike when people dislike what they're doing. Observe your coworkers and you'll know exactly what I mean - how many of them look suicidal and/or homicidal? Probably more than you want to admit. How many of them are grumpy or rude? Quite a few. On the one hand, I suppose you should be compassionate to the fact that not everyone gets to do what they love. But on the other, it's a shame no one taught those people to love the work they do, even if it's not ideal. Because every interaction with another human being is a blessing of sorts. You never know what you might take away from a brief conversation...or even from learning that you dislike certain types of people.

And best yet, you never know what a positive impact you might have on someone who isn't having such a great day, just by being nice.

Zen is such an overused term, but maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it means that people know what they're striving for, even if they don't know how to get it. I think it's everywhere, though.

I've learned that my zen is peace of mind, created by making food from scratch, spoiling myself with a good juicy nectarine instead of McDonald's fries, spending that half-hour from 4 to 4:30am (before hubby is up) listening to the crickets and then falling back asleep. Sometimes it's strange things like getting an amazing deal on something I've waited to buy for months, or sitting at the hospital reception desk on a quiet Sunday night when no one is around but the security guard.

When that peace of mind is gone for awhile, I appreciate it all the more when it comes back.

t.

Accentuate the positive

Guess what? Two negatives make a positive in more than math.

A few minutes ago I started eating my celery with peanut butter, which I fully expected to hate, and I realized that it's not actually that bad. I don't like celery and I don't like creamy P.B. (I mean, REALLY - peanut butter is supposed to be CRUNCHY...), but together, they're bearable and even, dare I say, kind of tasty.

In contemplating my new discovery aloud, my office-mate pointed out that NEG + NEG = POS in a lot of areas. Her example: A lot of people like the beach (even grumpy old me), but how many people like the isolated elements? No one likes the sticky, salty humidity or getting sand all up in their whoosy-whatsits, but you put that sea air and the sand together and you've got yourself a fun time. Go figure.

So now I'm sitting here thinking about other ways I can accentuate the positive by adding the negatives. Take, for example, one of my major pet peeves: stupid people with driver's licenses. Add the first element ("stupid people") and the second element ("driver's license") and you end up with a sum that proves your superiority to two-thirds of the world's population. Who can't see the positive in that?

I think I like this new equation. In fact, I see this resulting in a good number of experiments (possibly videotaped for my readers' viewing pleasure)...

t.

As yet untitled...

I am a fan of Lady Gaga. I did not used to be a fan of Lady Gaga. In fact, when my BFF had a Lady Gaga-themed party (to which I didn't go because there was 10 feet of snow on the ground and I was busy puking my guts up), I was very unclear as to why she would waste her time doing it. The kookiness of L.G. continued to elude me until, weeks after said BFF burned the CDs for me, I finally allowed myself to listen to them. It took a few days of playing and replaying them, absorbing the beats and deciphering the lyrics, before I got it.

I'm not a diehard fan, but I have a healthy respect for the young lass with a seemingly endless supply of freakish headgear. I don't find her particularly beautiful, although I'm pretty sure I'd sell at least half my soul to have a body like hers. No, she is not attractive to me in the typical sense. But she does have an attractive energy and sense of self.

Why am I thinking about this just now?

Well, this morning I was listening to my daily dose of Preston & Steve and they were discussing the forthcoming Vanity Fair article about L.G. Since MMR is most definitely NOT a pop station, they were a little critical of her, especially the whole quote about losing creativity through sex. They drew the very common comparison between her and Madonna and went on to discuss the crazy head accoutrements she's fond of wearing. It made me think...and here's the conclusion I arrived at.

Lady Gaga is a symbol. Sure, on the surface she represents the sort of standard drug- and sex-infused pop music with which our radio stations seem to be disturbingly preoccupied. But if you listen closely, you see and hear more. Rather than a mindless repeat of the earlier superstardom enjoyed by the likes of Madonna and her brethren, you are actually witnessing the rebirth of a genre in the form of someone who appears genuine in her self-confidence and lack thereof, her vulnerability as a young star, her passion for hedonism...and her willingness to admit her weaknesses.

See, what I got from listening to L.G.'s music over and over again was an open mind and the ability to release myself a bit from a self-imposed Victorian sensibility that bothers even me. I am someone who likes things to be right because they are supposed to be. I need no other reason to criticize someone than because what they say and/or do violates the natural order of things. I have an exceptionally strong distaste for people who break the rules. Granted, I like to break rules myself - but not the ones I see as universal.

An example: I hate when I send out invitations for something and no one RSVPs. Yes, it's a little rude and yes, it creates some confusion for me. But even more importantly, that's what RSVPs are FOR! It bothers me to no end that people do not use the cards for their intended purpose. This neglect ruins the order of things - why have RSVPs if no one is going to use them?!

Similarly, for weeks after receiving the L.G. CDs, I wouldn't let myself listen to them because in a weird way, I am a prim and proper gal with prim and proper ideas. I dislike people who are shameless about who they offend and how they portray themselves. It bothers me when I believe that someone has no self-respect because isn't that what makes humans different from animals, after all?

In fact, though, there are different kinds of self-respect. What I have found by repeatedly listening to and analyzing L.G.'s music is that the universe doesn't always need order. Sometimes it's okay to break outside your comfort zone and be a little bold. And anyway, who am I to judge?

The truth is that I judge myself as harshly as I judge others, and it's completely counter-productive. So thank you, Lady Gaga, for showing me the light.

However, I do not expect to change completely. I still don't like Snookie and I still think she's an overtanned troll who went crazy with the Bump-It.

The end.

t.

"Go forth and rant, young grasshopper..."

That's what she said..."she" being the better half of the PB&J duo that is Tara and Maureen. I was a little peeved about some things and she advised me to make a blog post out of my dis-ease, so that's what I'm doing.

First it was the library overbuild - if you are a non-Stocktonite, you will have no idea what that means. Well, simply put, it looks like this: you demolish an outdoor, nicely sunlit patio in front of the library-wing entrance and replace it with an "eco-friendly" new wing with exposed, recycled steel beams.

Then, it was the plowing down of these beautiful, massive oaks to make way for a spiffy new college center, which for some reason is pictured in the plans as having a bizarre head-shot of Shakespeare in one of the front windows.

A few weeks ago, it was the unveiling of an upgraded, "more aesthetically pleasing" website with pictures of shiny, happy students galavanting about under trees (some of which are no longer here because of the nice new college center).

And now, at my most delicate moment, when I have been pushed to the very limits of discomfort at realizing just how much my beloved school has changed over the years...the bookstore. The hallowed aisles, once lit with scathing fluorescent bulbs and filled to the brim with junk food into which I could drown my professional sorrows around 3-ish every day, are now carpeted and surrounded by dark wood shelves, professional racks of clothing, and...gulp...INFORMATION desks. It looks more like a Barnes and Noble than the old Follett bookstore. And this, my friends, is the last straw.

There is nothing wrong with getting a makeover once in awhile, wanting to look good for all the new freshmen that will eventually traipse through your halls, admiring your interior (need I remind you to get your mind out of the gutter?). But this is not a makeover - this is a chemical peel followed by a facelift followed by a full-body transplant.

All because we can't be happy with what we have.

The transformation of my old stomping grounds and current workplace is merely a reflection of society at large. Except it usually doesn't cost many millions of dollars for people to get nipped and tucked...but I digress.

I find it disappointing and sad. I suppose I'm an archaic old relic who hates change. More than that, though, all these "improvements" have done nothing more than turn Stockton into a run-of-the-mill state institution. We look pretty, run inefficiently, and find more and more ways to prostitute ourselves to the public for a few bucks.

When I came here 11 years ago, this school meant something. It was on a beautiful tract of land which, while not entirely untouched by progress, still offered unmarked walking trails through the woods, places undiscovered (or unmarred by discovery) that you could find and claim as yours. As soon as you got on College Drive, you wondered how far you were from civilization as you drove...and drove...and drove until you found the parking lots.

Now all the trails have signs with arrows because everyone's afraid to leave the beaten path. The entrance is paved over, making way for a large traffic light for the many cars that will travel down Vera King Farris Drive (meh...far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but...). New freshmen won't wonder where the parking lots are - first they'll pass the newly paved "back" roads going into the woods, then they'll pass the LED sign that tells them where they are (and the newly planted grove of trees that will never make up for all the ones chopped down), and finally they'll see the huge blue building with the ospreys and the school seal screaming the new-ish school colors. The parking lots are bigger and there are no longer rustic old wooden signs with yellow painted words directing you where to go.

And if the students happen to come in from the other side of campus, they'll see signs along the edge of the campus that tells them where they are. They'll pass the new "sports complex" - fake green fields and shiny new bleachers ready for action. Eventually they'll pass all the new-new and old-new housing complexes.

Somehow, through all this development, we became New Jersey's Green College. I think, though, that the green stands for something else. The trees left behind after the massacre aren't really green so much as they're covered in the sawdust from all their fallen compatriots. But there are more classrooms and parking spaces and places to eat...there will even be a large food court in the new college center, expanding the already plentiful ways students can become obese on campus. Yep, the green sure will roll in...

I miss the old school and my old friends and the old way of doing things. At least things mattered back then...now we're just another school in the crowd. I'm thinking about writing the Stockton Bible - you know, to memorialize the old times. I envision a section somewhere around the middle (let's call it Tara 9:6) that will go like this:

"For unto the Pinelands, an urban university will be born, a paved paradise will be given to us; And the fate of South Jersey will rest on Its shoulders; And Its name will be called Extinguisher of Poverty, Mighty Institution, Eternal Ivory Tower, Prince of Capitalism." (If you'd like to see the original verse, feel free to hop on over here. Call me a spiritual satirist, if you will.)

Fearless

Here's how I found out I'm no longer afraid to live. Last night, my mischievious little husband told me about a series of break-ins happening around our neighborhood. I say mischievious because I think he likes to see me squirm sometimes - in other words, he thought by telling me about this new development, I would flip out.

Not one to disappoint, I did flip out a little, thinking about ridiculous possibilities like What if they break in during the day and let the cat and dog out? What if they break in at 2am and my insomniac self is hanging out in the living room watching infomercials? What if they decide to take all of our ::GASP:: food?!?!

Mid-mini meltdown, however, I realized my heart really wasn't in it. I was just acting out my typical response without really thinking about it - in other words, it was an automatic response.

I then proceeded to disappoint my husband by saying, "Oh well, we don't really have anything worth stealing anyway." Because in my head, what I was really thinking was Wow, I have actually managed to quit my unhealthy attachment to all our STUFF. The chief concern in my mind was the safety of my pets (and of course my hubby). I'm not too worried about me, though. I have a feeling that if someone knocked on my door at 2:30am (which is how the intruders approached their first victim's house), I'd just invite them in for coffee. What's the harm in being kind to common burglars? Either way, they're going to take my stuff...at least if I offer them coffee, I have a far lesser risk of ending up unconscious on the floor. Who's gonna turn down free caffeine at 2:30am when they clearly have to stay awake long enough to finish the job and evade the police?

Still, why wasn't I bothered by the thought of someone invading my home, privacy, and sense of safety? Shouldn't I be more concerned about losing my precious iMac and way-too-large T.V.? But all I could think about was what a burglar's face might look like if I was waiting at the door with a mug of coffee and some cookies. Like waiting for Santa Claus, right? Except instead of a white beard, red suit, and sack in his hand, you're facing some dudes in ski masks, possibly armed, sacks in hand for a whole other reason. Wouldn't that just completely throw them off if I welcomed them, asked them to come in and take what they wanted? That's why I've got insurance, right? (Though I'm not so sure our insurance company would want to fund the replacement of stuff I essentially gave away.) Anyway, what could they possibly steal that would mean anything to me to lose?

I slept pretty good last night, despite my best attempts at reliving that awful, gnawing fear I've lived with forever. I did have nightmares about burned cookies, though...

t.

Redemption at Bobby Dee's Casino

The blue neon "Redemption" sign dangles over the cashier's counter at the back of the arcade, behind the machine that sucks up your hard-won tickets and spits out a receipt you will ultimately trade in for a cheap plastic water gun or rubber ball.

It surprises me. As we parade up to the counter to redeem the $14.85 earned through an hour of game-playing and quarter-wasting, I look up and all of a sudden...BAM! There is this crazy blue sign. The synchronicity is funny in a humorless sort of way - really more sad than anything. Still, the sign is there and I can't help but think it's meant for me, the many thousands of other Wildwood visitors be damned.

I don't like the tackiness of the boardwalk or the tourist-trap shops. I can't stand throngs of people pushing you every which way as you trudge across the boards, occasionally tripping over a nail that needs to be pounded back in, carrying a 40-lb bag of beach goodies that will probably not get used. I especially don't like the humidity of the salt air, how it makes your skin sticky and your hair frizzy. The only thing I like about going to the boardwalk is the promise that eventually, I will get to go on the beach. I don't go in the ocean any deeper than my ankles because I can't see the bottom and I know there's a killer jellyfish waiting for me somewhere under there. But I like the wet sand and the white-capped waves that go haywire when a storm is coming.

A storm is coming today, only I don't know that it's going to be both weather- and marriage-related.

Everyone knows I hate the boardwalk, but I go anyway because Syd and Alex enjoy the rides and the bizarrely entrancing foods like Chipstix and pistachio fudge. But I make no secret of my distaste for the whole scene, which makes me feel worse because at some level, I know I am not-so-secretly trying to ruin their day together.

Things get worse when the two of them trudge off to Mariner's Landing, leaving me in a shop where I am searching for a non-tacky headband to pull the sweaty hair back from my forehead. I think he's waiting outside when really he and his kid have gone off to ride the rides, thinking nothing of my impending panic at having to search the entire boardwalk for them. I am angry and I get progressively angrier with each circuit around the pier. No Alex, no Syd. They don't care that I'm carrying around a bag full of flip-flops and beach towels.

I finally take a break on a bench in the center of the pier, under a pergola that barely spares me from the sun. I can see the bathroom, I have water, I have crackers, and best yet, I have the keys to the truck and all the money. I think things are fine.

But after five minutes, I get angry again and start another circuit around the pier. 

Of course, we eventually find each other but I can't hold my anger back and ream Alex out for giving me a mild anxiety attack. When all is said and done, I've wasted a precious 20 minutes of the time we have with Syd cursing at my husband in the middle of the boardwalk. I stop mid-yell, think for a second, and apologize for flying off the handle. In the hopes that I can redeem myself a bit, I follow them down the boardwalk like a sulking puppy, still carrying the beach bag.

Bobby Dee's Casino is on a corner, the address a simple 3600 Boardwalk painted in small letters on the side.  Alex and Syd are happy again and ready to spend some cash on a few games that will pay out nothing but cheap orange tickets and maybe a few brass-colored tokens. But if they're happy, then I'm happy because I am still trying to work out how I'm going to save the remainder of the day. I am repentant for my outburst and repentance for me usually takes the form of silence.

In the end, when Syd is ready for her mini-shopping spree, I see the sign and stop dead. It makes me think of the word redemption and what it means in the context of a boardwalk arcade.

What does it all mean?! 


Does it mean anything?


To be continued...

It's complicated...

In the last few weeks, I've noticed that quite a few of my Facebook friends have changed their relationship status to "It's complicated." I want to preface the following soapbox speech by pointing out that I love and respect all of those friends and I do not intend to insult you with my witty comments. So if you find yourself getting insulted, buck up and think long and hard before you send me hate emails.

That said, what the hell is wrong with you gals?! (And yes, of course, it's mostly gals who wear their hearts on their profiles.)

Here's the thing...I've had LOTS of those "it's complicated" relationships. More than I care to admit, actually. But when all is said and done, I think it's a whole lot of camel spit, maybe because of my many egregious dating sins. When I think back on those halfhearted love affairs, there are only a handful of personality types that have caused me grief - and let's not neglect to take responsibility for our own flaws, too.

The Pushover: He would do anything for you, but you just can't find it in you to respect him. It's awfully hard to dump someone who's so nice.

The Egomaniac: You would do anything for him, but he just can't find it in him (or see beyond his own face in the mirror) to respect you. It's awfully hard to let go of someone who treats you like dirt.

The Liar: You're waiting with baited breath for him to redeem himself OR you tell yourself it wasn't that big of a tall tale.

The Cheater: He likes girls...and girls...and girls. Where do we even begin here?!

The Secret Homosexual: He tells you he likes girls...hell, he probably believes he likes girls. But guess what? He likes your short hair for more than one reason.

What it seems to boil down to more often than not is our fear of being alone or of losing all that time we might have wasted with someone who wasn't really in it for the long haul. That's valid. But here's what I think.

There's no such thing as a complicated relationship. You either love him or you don't. You either trust him or you don't. You either respect him or...you get the picture. And all the same must go for him, too. There is no in-between when it comes down to brass tacks, ladies. These simple statements are core reflections of who the two of you are as a couple, and if you're missing one or more of the essential relationship components, you might as well move on. Because if you think you're going to regret wasting time when you dump him next week, you're really going to regret it in a year...or a decade.

There is, of course, such a thing as relationships with complications. Emotions are complicated. I don't always ::GASP:: adore my husband. Today I had a camera shoved down my throat by a trigger-happy doctor, I had a wicked allergy attack when I got home, and my sunburned knee still doesn't move right...and yet hubby thought it was okay to take his kid to a demolition derby without me. Sure, he asked me if I was alright with it at first and, like the kind and loving wife that I am (read: manipulative and fickle), I said it was perfectly fine. And as soon as he left, I moped around the house thinking how much it sucked to take care of myself.

But at the end of the day, complicated emotions work themselves out. There should never be the threat hanging over your head of losing the relationship because of a disagreement or pouty moment. And when I think of all those "it's complicated" moments in my own life, I don't recall one of them in which I was confident that no matter what, it would all be fine in the end. Even as a happily married woman, I can't always be sure that everything will turn out alright - there's no reason at all that my relationship is more likely to succeed than a decent cohabitation. The difference is that at every turn, I know we have those three critical elements of a good relationship and that if ever one of them disappears, we will mutually agree to go our separate ways. There is no threat looming at the end of every argument, but rather the comfort of knowing that we will do our best to keep things moving along in an orderly fashion.

Wake up and smell the coffee - you don't need "complicated" in your life! And if he insists you can't survive without it (i.e., him), then get the hell out of Dodge and find yourself a real cowboy.

*The preceding opinion applies equally well to men in "complicated" relationships. No need to be sexist here.

At Home in America

Someone planted a flag in the middle of Malaga Lake. I don't know how long it's been there (it was living here before I was), but I'll bet if you measured it from each side of the lake, you'd find that it was smack dab in the middle. That just seems like the thing to do. If you're going to put a flag in the lake, might as well do it right.

It's a little past the dam where the water runs down into a concrete bowl and bubbles out the other side of the bridge into a shrinking forest on route 40. I see it all every day on my way home from work.

For awhile I wondered why someone would put a flag in a lake. I suppose it's one way of being patriotic...then again, does drowning the Stars & Stripes count as patriotism? Maybe it was some fisherman's idea of declaring his Americanism to the world (or at least to Franklin Twp). Or maybe one of the homeowners that lives along the lakeshore wanted a good way to predict a flood and couldn't find a long stick ("When the water gets up to the first red stripe, it's time to evacuate, Ethel.")

I'm not really sure.

It used to bother me that it was there. I don't particularly like the American flag. I know how dreadfully un-patriotic that sounds but I actually mean it to be quite the opposite. From the time I was old enough to recognize political showmanship, I recall seeing people wave that flag like it meant the world couldn't stop them. Don't get me wrong - that sense of self-efficacy and power could be a good thing. But I suppose I've only ever really noticed the bad sides. The flag seems always to be hanging in the background when people claim democracy as the only true method of governance, or when they're pushing citizens over the border into Mexico because they have brown skin and accents. In truth, the flag is one reason I'm glad that my half-Puerto Rican husband doesn't look Hispanic - at least I can be sure he'll never have to face the discrimination the flag is often used to justify.

Yes, my feelings about Old Glory are complex.

When we moved here and I saw the flag in Malaga Lake, I wondered if this was the neighborhood for me. I'm always a bit leery of communities where the flag-waving sentiment seems especially strong. I worry that they'll come for me next, especially once they realize I was the one who took the Sawzall to the tall, white, self-constructed flagpole that used to stand in our front yard.

On the other hand, every day when I drive down route 40 and past the lake, I find myself searching for the flag. Sometimes it stands out like a giant among Lilliputians; other times it blends into the lake so well you wouldn't even notice it. One day I didn't see it at all and I found myself wondering in a semi-panicked way what happened to it. Did someone take it out and if so, why? Did it finally sink into the muddy abyss of the cedar water? The lake didn't seem unreasonably high, so it couldn't have drowned completely...

Then I saw it, hanging limp in the middle of the water, no breeze to blow it out and make it wave at the rush-hour traffic. I actually found myself breathing a sigh of relief...and then I wondered why it would have bothered me so much if the flag had permanently gone missing.

I don't have any real answer to that, other than to say I have a like-dislike relationship with the American flag (love-hate is far too strong a phrase in either direction). When I think about its storied birth at the hands of a local seamstress (still unsubstantiated by historians, of course), I'm reminded of how much I loved geography and history in elementary school, especially when we got to visit Philadelphia and march the cobblestone streets arm in arm. It seems to me that all old buildings should have a flag draped in the window or hanging over the front stoop.

But when I think about how often it's been waved as a harbinger of war and hate, I cringe. And when I see it plastered on someone's bumper, I find myself believing that whoever is driving that vehicle must be a conservative nut who approves of the U.S.A.'s short-sighted and narrow-minded foreign policies. I know my assumptions aren't always true, but still, there is this gut reaction that I can't seem to shake...

So then why did I panic when I thought the flag was gone forever from the lake? I think it's because it has grown to be a fixture in my life, a welcome sign that tells me I'm only minutes from home. It's probably also because I want very much to like the sight of the Stars and Stripes, to pledge allegiance to it as every student in America must do on a daily basis.

But in fact, I can't or won't. I resist because I don't like to be bullied into things and all too often, I think the flag has been used to bully us into action (or at least into a declaration of intended action). That is not the America I want to know or take part in, although it looks as though I have no choice.

So until I feel free of the undue pressure to conform to this "national" standard, I wonder if I will ever actually be at home in America.

A Lightning Strike

you know before she gets to you
that she is coming
fury winding itself up, her breath
the wind
pulling and pushing

she pounds her fists into your back
leaving cracks
paper-thin and skin-deep
along your spine
and you know you should turn and run
away from this storm
but instead
you pull closer into her center

you think
this is it
the hurricane, the flood
that will trap you

in the mud building castles
up around your knees
this is the moment you
don't want to live

you pull your shoulders up
hold steady
plant yourself still deeper in
and wait for the scream
that doesn't come with her

the light is blinding but
blinks out faster than it struck
and when all is said and done
you are nothing more
than air

--------------------

I haven't written creatively in such a long time, I fear I'm a little rusty. But the other day I was driving home from work and felt compelled to draw a metaphor that I'll leave to your interpretation.  I often think I'm a much better narrative / creative nonfiction writer than anything else, but I suppose it doesn't hurt to experiment. At the very least, writing poetry and flash fiction (before it WAS flash fiction) are the strongest roots of my creativity.

Do you know how I learned I was a writer? Besides all the used-up notebooks and worn-down pencils, I mean.  It was all the times that I was inspired by something mundane in such a way as to become almost completely distracted by it. As I get older, these moments are much more infrequent, but I still have them occasionally.

What I enjoy the most about writing is both the urgency and the patience in it. What I mean to say is that when inspiration strikes, it builds in my brain as language, words that kind of sway almost so that I can see them in front of me. There is this need to write them down but I know whatever is coming won't be right until I leave them be for awhile. It often starts slowly, a few lines that usually mean the start of something new; within days, the few lines build into deeper concepts that eventually take on a life of their own. By that time, I've thought so often about these words that I've memorized them in a particular order almost unconsciously created. Then, and only then, does writing come easy.

It's an amazing process.

When the cure is worse than the disease

I don't take care of myself very well, which is why I waited so long to rid myself of this sinus infection that I ended up in the E.R. on Saturday. Not a nice way to spend an afternoon, but it certainly could have been worse - we were there for a little less than two hours and I left feeling better than I did when I got there. Except now I'm taking super-strength antibiotics that are making my feet drag and my tummy slosh.

I have found that the effects of the illness are pretty much the same as the effects of the "cure". I'm cranky when I don't feel well, regardless of the cause. I feel like running over babies in strollers, but I have not yet gotten to the point where I would run over puppies. Also, there's a small chance that my decision to speak only minimally to my husband is not ACTUALLY because he's an ass - a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

So I suppose what I'm really saying is this - I am in a poor humor these days, either because I thought I was a superhero and could single-handedly destroy this sinus infection with no medical intervention, or because I detest feeling sick and am growling at the world much the same way that a rabid wolf with a tummy ache would. I'll let you decide that.

In the meantime, I'm biding my time at work, thinking about that poor unfortunate soul who has to meet with me in 1.25 hours and contemplating how close to home I can get before I make myself carsick.

Sometimes I think I've got enough material here to make a good stand-up show.

Today's life lessons

1. Some people are bound to suffer their entire lives. Thank Gautama I'm not one of them - unless you consider endless allergies and stuffed up sinuses suffering, in which case you should do a little chant for me.
2. Teaching is a learning experience. Just make sure you're not in a classroom full of mind-numbing morons.
3. Pet insurance is expensive. But not as expensive as having a reckless nutjob for a dog and an overweight cat who are UN-insured. There's a chance, however, that this life lesson will change - it depends on whether or not Obama goes for the pet healthcare proposal I sent him. DOWN WITH NON-COVERAGE OF PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS - at this point, birth itself appears to be a pre-existing condition.
4. No matter what happens, it ALWAYS pays to stand up for yourself. Sure, it may cost you your job, but in the end you get to walk away pride intact and there's got to be SOME way to make your pride pay the bills. So, for example, if someone tells you that you lack the authority to make solo decisions and that they expect your full cooperation in the future, it's okay to defend yourself sarcastically in such a way as to force the opposing party to bend down and kiss your cheeks.
5. Yard sales are hard work. I don't know this for sure, but judging by the fact that we've been putting ours off for two weeks, I'm guessing it's true. And poster board is no longer five cents a sheet. Shocking, I know.
6. You really are as stupid as you act. You've driven in Jersey, right? Enough said.
7. It's totally possible to have an infinite amount of snot in your head. In which case it's much cheaper to stop buying tissues and just use your sleeve instead.
8. There is a direct correlation between the number of figures in a person's salary and that same person's inability to make coffee. Larger salaries seem to indicate incompetence at a variety of levels. Coffee is but one tiny (but important) example.
9. People with too much time on their hands are prone to using the E.R. as a diversion from boredom. As evidenced by my experience on Tuesday, when I'm pretty sure only two of the few dozen patients actually needed to be there.
10. Honesty is the best policy...unless it will get you in trouble. In that case, just lie. There's no sense ruining your own day, too.
11. It's possible to clean a desk off with minimal effort. Just heap everything on someone else's desk - when it needs to come back around to you, it generally will. Until then, kick back, relax, check Facebook...whatever.
12. No means no...except when it means yes. Some people have this uncanny biological ability to filter nos into yeses - I think it's in the eardrum.
13. Being a pest usually pays off. I'll do a little bragging here - after my scathing letter and emails to Sallie Mae, I finally got a response that resulted in an automatic deferment of all loans due and an apology. I'm still switching lenders, though :)

t.

Why doesn't it just rain?

Not that it hasn't already, but the way I feel today, I'm thinking it should just keep on raining until something interesting happens.

Ugh! Do you ever wish you could go back to a former life? Everyone has one...I think I might have had like 30 already. Sometimes being happy is just BORING. Of course, life always seems a little more boring once Syd goes home - she's kind of like a twister that just keeps going, sucking up everything in her path, spinning the world around and around for fun, then spitting it back, leaving it an exhausted shadow of what it once was. I meant that in a good way.


I think maybe I'm just feeling my age now and who wants to do THAT? I don't want to be mature and make good decisions - I want to be completely immature and make bad decisions, using youth and ignorance as an excuse.

I have a terrible feeling I'm going to accomplish nothing today.

The story of us: How a boy & his kid changed my life

Alex and I met on a blind date on December 1, 2006.

At the time, I lived in a small cabin in the middle of the Pine Barrens - I had been a self-proclaimed hermit on a dating hiatus for about a year and I enjoyed living alone. Thankfully, the apartment got cold in the winter and one completely serendipitous day, I called a guy about delivering some wood for my teeny-tiny fireplace. The morning he and his wife showed up to drop off the wood, it was pouring and dreary outside, I was hungover, and my knee was swollen to twice its size from a mystery bug bite I got the night before. I wasn't looking my best by any means and in truth, I was waiting for them to make the delivery and leave so I could take myself to the E.R.

For some reason, though, I invited them in for a drink - and to make a long story short, she asked me for my phone number because she wanted me to meet a family friend. She thought I was a nice girl. Was I crazy for giving it to her? Definitely. But I certainly never expected it to turn into anything.

Weeks later, on Thanksgiving in fact, she called me to ask if I'd like to come over for dessert and meet Alex, the family friend. I thought there was great potential for an incredibly awkward situation if we didn't hit it off, so I lied and said I was hours away at a family member's house - in truth, I was only blocks away at a family member's house. The next week, Alex called me and asked me out - I had never been on a blind date before and it made me nervous, so we arranged to meet in a public place for dinner. On December 1, we had our first date. Not taking into account the fact that my first words to him were, "I'm so sorry I have short hair!", we had a far better time than I expected - so good, in fact, that I was completely freaked out by how nice he was. (In my head, the hair was going to be an issue because I imagine that most men appreciate long, flowing hair.) I was trying to figure out why someone would divorce him and lots of potential flaws crossed my mind that night.

That line of potential flaws (none of which turned out to be real) kept me from returning his calls for the next two weeks. That and the fact that he seemed a tad too perfect for me. Finally, he left me a frustrated message that he claimed would be his last. I don't know if it was the chutzpah I heard in that message or something else I couldn't put my finger on, but that night I finally called him back and the rest is history.

It was quite awhile before I met Sydney, partly because she lives several states away and partly because we were trying to be gentle about it. The first time I saw her, Alex had just brought her home from the airport and she was standing in her bedroom unpacking. She looked at me warily, smiled, and said very quietly, "Hello." We went to a Phantoms hockey game that night and I remember very distinctly that she sat on one side of Alex and I sat on the other. I thought how very symbolic that was - that we were both now being forced to share this important guy.

It was a difficult game to sit through - everything he did with me, she did with him. When he held my hand, she grabbed his other hand; when he offered me his soda, she asked for a drink, too. I understood that it was a defense mechanism, a child's way of saying, "He's been mine longer than he's been yours." But when I stole the hat off Alex's head and reached around his back to give it to Syd for safe-keeping, the ice started cracking. That night, she got a bad nosebleed in the back of Alex's old truck and we bonded even more while I tended to her dripping nose and later when I tried to get the blood out of her white coat.

Syd and I, like Alex and I, have had our ups and downs, but to be fair it was a smooth transition compared to what it could have been. We have always included her in important decisions - we asked her permission to get married and we included her in the planning. Though she couldn't go house-hunting with us, we considered her needs in every single house we checked out, even though she only stays with us three or four times a year. Still, there is always a subtle hint of competition when it comes to Alex's love and attention - it's not easy to share.

But here's what I see now: my husband and my stepdaughter rocking out (rather badly) to Guitar Hero in our home, where we all have a defined place. Sydney, who is now almost 11 and already five feet tall, sleeps in a purple (technically "orchid corsage") bedroom that she helped paint, with posters that she tacked up and her giant suitcase in the middle of the room. The cat sleeps with her instead of me now and when she comes to visit, the dog greets her before she greets either of the people who take her out and feed her. She helps me bake cookies around the holidays, we go camping and adventuring in the summer, and she mentions to me things she doesn't tell her dad. (Some things are the same, though - she still calls me T.D., a nickname she made up two years ago that stands for "Tara Doodle". And though she hated it when I first started calling her Sydney Bean, she now expects and, dare I say, even likes it.)

She's growing up so fast. Today when we canoed in the lake at the end of our street, she and Alex paddled...and we didn't spin in circles! She was too big to play on most of the playground equipment in the park across the lake. And, of course, her vocabulary has advanced to include words like "hell" ("What, T.D.? It's a place, isn't it?") and "crap" ("Well what else am I s'posed to say when I'm aggravated, T.D.?").

When all is said and done, she'll probably be at least six or seven inches taller than me. One day, she'll be more interested in boys than in us (she already has a "boyfriend"); she'll want to stay home, where her friends are, in the summer; she'll get a job and start driving, go to college, and maybe meet the love of her life. She'll suffer losses and celebrate big wins, and maybe she'll find out all the things her dad and I have known for a long while but have tried to protect her from. She'll love us and hate us and be completely indifferent towards us and she'll do all the things that we (unfairly) did to our parents.

In the end, "step" means whatever you want it to mean - in my case, being a stepmother has been a life-changing challenge that makes me view the world in an entirely different light. My actions all have long-term impacts on Syd and her generation and my words carry weight that I will often not predict. I'm not the center of her world in the way that her parents are, but my actions matter enough that sometimes the lessons she learns here travel back home with her. Her words and actions matter enough to me that sometimes I learn things from her that no one else could teach me.

One thing's for sure - I think I'm always going to be T.D.

I had a moment...then the cat saved the day (and my husband)

So I just finished reading this ridiculously good book - seriously, I didn't know authors even wrote this good anymore!  (If you ever want a good read, look up Carlos Ruiz Zafon - read The Shadows of the Wind first and then The Angel's Game, which is the one I just finished.) The end was really bittersweet and because I spent 531 pages with the very engaging characters, I naturally had a visceral reaction. Alex came home from his hockey game and I was BAWLING - not just a few tears, but a complete, all-out bawl-fest, snot and everything. Of course at first he thought something was really wrong, so I was trying to explain but every time I started talking I started bawling again - it was just so friggin' sad!!!  So when he finally figured out what was going on, he stared at me without blinking for a few seconds, then went out to his truck to bring in his gear. If you're missing the Y chromosome like I am, then you'll understand - his reaction pissed me off. No, I'm not just a hormonal female - I am, in fact, a passionate lover of good literature and I can't help it if I become completely immersed in a book. I won't apologize for it, either. So there.

I made one more unsuccessful attempt to get across the gravity of the novel in 500 words or less...and he rolled his eyes and went to take a shower (which was a blessing because he stunk like...you guessed it, nasty hockey gear).  Agitated as I was, I yelled through the bathroom door, "Well if YOU knew anything about passionately loving someone, you would understand!" Probably unfair given that he's a very good hubby who never neglects to remind me that he loves me. But I wallowed for awhile about how no one would do for me what the novel's hero did for the love of his life (despite the fact that she married his best friend).

I grumped around for awhile and still a little weepy, I sat on the floor where my cat was beckoning for a belly rub. As I indulged him, I looked him right in the eyes and he looked intently back at me as if to say, "Don't worry mom, I understand." Which is why animals make the best soulmates in the world. In the midst of their humans' bizarre reactions to literature and other seemingly inane stimuli, they understand that we are merely experiencing primal emotional instincts. That's what I think anyway, but I'm not the cat whisperer or anything so what do I know?

t.

A better kind of letter

June 2, 2010

Cedar Brook Animal Hospital

223 Cedarbrook Rd.

Sicklerville, NJ 08081

To the very friendly staff:

I LOVE YOU GUYS! Please allow me to elaborate.

Last night, I brought my big fat cat in for an annual visit and shots – my dog has already been to see you but this was a first-time visit for Sangha, who doesn’t generally take kindly to strangers. I was kind of nervous about changing vets because I’ve always taken him to the office where I adopted him, even though they nickel-and-dimed me until my wallet screamed for mercy.

No fewer than five staff members at CBAH interacted with us and I waited almost no time at all to see the vet. Everyone was super friendly and genuinely interested in my odder-than-odd feline. When his records were faxed over from the other vet’s office, both the tech and the vet reviewed them carefully with me. Once I mentioned that Sangha was allergic to allergy shots, the doctor made (and quadruple-highlighted) a note on the top of his chart so that he’s never accidentally given that medication. Even the vet he had been seeing for over four years forgot about his allergy every year, remembering only when I pointed out to her that I couldn’t afford another kitty-E.R. visit in the middle of the night.

Additionally, you’ve saved me big-time money – not only did you point out that since he’s an indoor cat, he only really needs to get shots every three years, but your office visit was really reasonably priced. Sangha’s previous vet had me buying him special food (from her, of course), special oil for his coat, flea/tick medicine (even though he has never willingly been outside), etc. Since I’m such a sucker for that cat, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

Sangha’s life wasn’t easy before he adopted me – he was thrown out of a moving car because his “owner” no longer wanted him and when I got him, he was skinny and a little whiny. Of course his life since then has been spent in the lap of luxury, where he can be lazy and have intelligent conversations with someone who has learned feline lingo. He’s not so much whiny now as he is content to head-butt his family members when he wants attention, smack his dog in the face to remind her who’s boss, and talk about food.

Needless to say, we’ll be back for our annual visits. Thank you again!

Sincerely,

Tara Ronda

PS: Sorry about the shedding – he’s a hairy beast. Perhaps you can use it to create a little office cat that greets the patients or something J

A letter (and yes, it really is in the mail)

June 1, 2010

Sallie Mae, Inc.
ATTN: Correspondence
P O Box 9500
Wilkes-Barre, PA 18773-9500

Dear Sallie Mae,

I hate you. Please allow me to elaborate.

I have unfortunately been a customer for just about ten years and I would like to offer some evidence of your complete incompetence as a lender and manager of student loans. I am extremely frustrated and disgusted with the way that you provide “customer support.” I have critical questions about my existing student loans and there appears to be virtually no way for me to get them answered. Case in point: 

1. I sent an email. You ignored it. Or you just never got around to it because of what I’m sure is the sheer volume of students you’re “servicing.” 
2. I called. Your genius automated system has several notable limitations and was unable to answer what I thought were some pretty basic questions. (Really, is it too much to ask that you have one or two human beings staffing the phone once in awhile?) 
3. I didn’t bother writing a letter because I don’t have the luxury of time to wait for a response via Pony Express, which now that I think of it might have actually been faster than trying to reach you via email and phone.

Let’s face it – you’ve been on a downward slope for quite awhile and my friend, you are NOT in the business of teaching snowboarding lessons. The way I see it, you’re making a pant-load of money off of my debt and I deserve to be treated with courtesy and respect, not ignored when trying to get answers about the loans that I will be repaying for the remainder of my natural life. I have spent an unforgivable amount of my workday trying not to throw my phone AND my computer out the window. The only recourse I had was to write you a disgruntled letter – sad that it’s come to this, when we’ve got so much technology, don’t you think?

It is unfortunate that you care so little for your customers. So unfortunate, in fact, that you might as well consider this a Dear John letter. You’re not the only loan company in the sea, so I intend to consolidate elsewhere and make all our lives a little easier. I have worked in higher education for years; hence, I encounter lots and lots of students whose entire future is likely tied up in unscrupulous loan companies like yours. I also love writing angry letters to the editors of my favorite publications – what’s the point of writing a sappy love letter to an editor, after all? I’ll be sure to spread the good word of our breakup.  

Sincerely yours,

Tara N. Ronda

P.S. - If you haven't yet seen the Sallie Mae's Incompetence blog, I highly suggest it - it makes for some gooooood reading: http://www.imjosh.com/salliemae/.

Pies in the sky...and other tales

REASONS I AM INSANE
1. A teeny tiny little part of my brain actually thinks I can get into medical school.
2. An even teenier tinier little part of my brain thinks I can SURVIVE medical school, residency, and all that debt.
3. Although only .002% of my brain thinks I can do this, I'm still pushing ahead with a plan that is most likely unrational, unrealistic, and just plain dumb.

THINGS I WISH SOMEONE WOULD HAVE TOLD ME ABOUT HOME-OWNERSHIP
1. When things break, you have to fix them. Otherwise, they're bound to get worse.
2. You have to mow your lawn on a regular basis or it gets very scary walking into the backyard, where just about anything could be hiding.
3. Even though it's awfully nice to sit on your ass doing nothing all day, you won't get many opportunities to do that when the washer, dryer, and dishwasher are all full at the same time, the floors need to be mopped, and the spiders in the corner of the ceiling are living the high life in their mansion webs that seem to be getting bigger.
4. There are some things that should never...EVER...be put in the dishwasher.
5. The roof will only last so long...and when that goes, the septic system and well will both jump on the bandwagon, too.
6. Wheelbarrows with three wheels are much more useful than the crappy kind with one wheel on the front - but they're too expensive so you'll have to make do with the crappy one.
7. Don't get too comfortable getting comfortable. If you get used to it being 72 degrees in the winter and 62 in the summer, you'll be expecting that kind of luxury all the time - nope, better to wear layers...or nothing at all if given the right circumstances.

An update

1. Have decided to go into the pre-med program where I work - it's easier, will allow me to adjunct at ACCC, and requires less driving than the other programs. It's also A LOT cheaper.

2. Finally realized that I need to get a social life again. I've been such a hermit for so long, holing myself up with my dog, cat, and husband (granted, not an entirely bad thing), but I had a blasty blast at the concert last weekend. Which made me realize I need to get out more. How sad is that?

3. I've lost some weight...or at least some inches. I'm almost back to my pre-married-life skinny. It helps that I'm not eating chocolate nonstop anymore. Whew! - it's good to be fab again :)

4. I'm crazy in love with my house. Sometimes I have these moments when I'm standing in the living room thinking, "OMG, we're actually homeowners!" It's definitely cool to know that you've worked for what you have, you can paint the walls whatever color you want (even...gulp!...orchid corsage), and the plants are yours to kill...er, water...at will.

5. Related to the wonders of homeownership, I often worry that we'll end up bankrupt and homeless one day. Not a problem I had with renting. Hubby works in a construction-type field and has been seriously klutzy over the last couple of years - half the time, not even at work. Like a few weeks ago, he pulled his MCL playing hockey (he's a goalie) and I panicked 'cause all I could think was, "How long is he gonna be out of work THIS time?" I need to get him insured :)

6. It's HUMP DAY!

t.

A little self-reflection...

After five days of being down with a cold, I'm bouncing back up and suffering only the residual effects (mostly a sore nose). My state of mind, however, could use a little boost so I thought some self-reflection might do the trick.

Over the last 24 hours, I finally came to the conclusion that life is not worth living when it's situated only within the frame of someone else's view - that is to say, if someone else is holding MY camera and taking the picture on which I base my actions, something needs rearranging. Here's a (completely hypothetical, of course) example:

• Let's say that I have worked somewhere for, oh I don't know, about nine and a half years and during that time, I've found it next to impossible to get the financial support I need to do the job I'm being asked to do. Then, imagine that about eight and a half years into that job, the institution for which I work hires one or two OTHER people to do jobs very similar to mine and pays them about 1.5 to 2 times what I make annually. You can imagine my (completely hypothetical) frustration when I see that resources are being poured into two new positions that recreate the wheel on which I've been steadily devoting my energy into shaping for nearly a decade, because I know that with 1/3 of those resources, I could have brought my work to a new level, thereby impacting many more people in a positive way. The frustration would (hypothetically) eat away at me, wouldn't it? It would probably make me feel run down, unappreciated, ineffective, and in some ways worthless - but ONLY if I viewed myself through the lens of the person who made those decisions. I would probably go through a phase in which I blamed the wrong people and pettily denied their right to their jobs, although they had done nothing but defer to me time and time again because at least they recognize that what I'm doing is valuable. But I would only be making the situation harder on myself if I allowed this situation to shape my response to my coworkers, friends, and place of employment. I would effectively be denying myself the right to be as happy as possible and get as much done as possible with what I have.

Good example, right? For me, it demonstrates just exactly how powerful someone else can be when you lend them your camera - even worse, when you outright give them your camera, let them do the shooting, and then hang their portraits up on the wall, where you can admire them day after day after day. You'd lose a little of yourself in the process, wouldn't you?

I've finally matured enough to accept the fact that some things can't be changed and certainly won't be changed by allowing myself to become a bitter, unhappy old coot. This, I think, is what the Buddha meant when he talked about mindfulness. This must have been what the monks who self-immolated during the Vietnam War knew all along - that you can immerse yourself in a truth so deep and encompassing that it surpasses the physical pain of living in the corporeal world, a pain that is caused by nothing more than allowing your camera to get into the wrong hands. They must have known that the wrong-intentioned world powers who were so hungry for personal gain that they would sacrifice the good of the whole were not real and could, in fact, be denied by demonstrating their un-realness.

A little too esoteric, perhaps...it's early on a Monday morning and I've probably had too much coffee. Still, I think there's some truth to the idea of just letting go of the many insidious ways I've allowed other people to get in my head and under my skin. I guess I'm reclaiming my head and my skin as my own - not a bad way to start the week :)

All those "urgent" voicemails that people left while I was laid up in bed for three days last week, all those hundreds of emails that gathered in my inbox...not critical. And in fact, while I was reading an issue of Oprah's magazine - oh, smirk if you must - there was an interesting article about this New Age-y woman named Byron Katie, who counters every self-important question with four of her own, the first of which is, "Is it true?" Thus, if I closely examine the initial thought that all these people who leave multiple messages and send multiple emails really need me, I will most likely find that it's not true. No one will die without me. And it feels pretty good to admit that.

I guess the trick is to balance your own peace of mind with the needs of others so that you don't completely devalue what someone else finds important. But at the same time, people are just so self-important, aren't we? We really believe that there's no one else who can do the job like we can, that each of us is a "unique snowflake" (Fight Club, anyone?).

Well, short of the left parenthese on my keyboard, which does not seem to be working and poses quite the problem when I'm trying to type a treatise like this one, I don't need anything just now and no one needs me. Ain't it a beautiful world?

t.

Decisions, decisions...

I'm home sick today - what I thought was a nasty bout of allergies was actually the hints of a cold...I think. Not a head cold, more like a bronchitis type of thing (though I hope it's not that bad). So I've been working a little from home and now I'm thinking even more about some new decisions I have to make.

CONUNDRUM #1: If you read my FB profile at all, you know I was accepted into LaSalle's pre-med program. Very exciting...but a little bit of a bummer because I just realized they only offer daytime courses. (DUH! That's definitely the kind of thing I should have looked at before applying.)

• PROS: It's a good program at a great school that happens to be close to the city's best teaching hospitals. Plus they have some really good experiential learning opportunities that would definitely add to the credibility of my med school app.
• CONS: I'd be missing a significant amount of work (because there's almost no way to make up those missed hours since the classes are typically 3-4 days). And it's definitely a lot of drive time.

CONUNDRUM #2: Still haven't heard back from Stockton re: acceptance or rejection into their pre-med program. I think they'll accept me, but even if they do, more decisions to make.

• PROS: I work there so I'd get a decent tuition discount, plus fitting classes into my schedule wouldn't be too difficult. I like the faculty and because I wouldn't spend a lot of wasted time driving, I'd have more time to study. (On a side note, I recently got an adjunct teaching position with Atlantic Cape Community College in Atlantic City for the fall, which wouldn't really be feasible for me if I were traveling to and from Philly all the time.)
• CONS: Inaccessible to Philly hospitals where I could get great learning/volunteer experiences. Also, being a student where I work has posed some challenges in the past - it's awkward to be sitting in class with your own students and my student personality is VERY different from my work personality.

CONUNDRUM #3: I've recently been rethinking my decision to apply to Drexel's Evening Post-Baccalaureate Pre-Med Program. I still have some materials to get in but I keep second-guessing myself.

• PROS: It's a great program within an actual School of Medicine, not to mention the fact that it's also near all the city hospitals. It's an evening program designed for the full-time working professional like me, and the curriculum is right up my alley. It's a straight two-year program with a basic course structure and all the courses are specifically for students in the program, so I wouldn't be taking undergrad courses like in the other programs. Plus, I can easily add undergrad classes into the mix for areas in which I feel a little weak (like anatomy and physiology).
• CONS: It also requires lots of driving (although probably not as much as the LaSalle program) and is more competitive to get accepted into, which means that I may wait and wait for a response only to find out it's a NO. Not that this is a huge con, but it's also situated in a very M.D.-focused school as opposed to the D.O. focus I'd like to take, so I'm unsure if there would be any inherent conflicts there.

Ultimately, I believe you make what you can out of your own education - it doesn't necessarily matter if you're not accepted into the best and most expensive program available to you, as long as you work hard and GO AFTER opportunities rather than waiting for someone to hand them to you. So I suppose wherever I end up will be where I'm meant to be and because of my commitment to this goal, I'll get a good experience wherever I go. But there is still the question of whether time and money should be my focus or location and experience should be my focus, because I don't think I'm going to get both, no matter where I end up.

Ideas?

t.