Well, someone finally said it. "Uh, hello! It's time for a new post!" Honestly, I was hoping no one would notice how long it has been. And yet, in addition to feeling a teensy bit of shame, I'm also flattered that I have readers who care.
But anyway . . . I would love to oblige you. It's just . . . well, there is naught to do but admit to horrible writer's block. I honestly don't know what to say.
Perhaps it is a work-related hazard? For a living, I DO stare daily at blank and horribly disfigured Word documents -- hoping to somehow infuse them with life and push them to reach their potential. But that's no excuse for abandoning a perfectly decent blog and faithful readers.
How's this: I'll make this a little more interactive. I'm no autocrat! I'll take suggestions. What would YOU like me to write about? Anything come to mind? Anything?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Majorly Spiralling (Oooh!)
A year and a half ago, I fell hard for these broody Brits who clothed their sexy disillusionment in bouncy, anthemic orchestrations. I mean, really, what red-blooded, tragic young woman could resist such sensitive, arty babes -- uh, boys -- compelling her to head-bob along with them as, over and over, their hearts all broke together in perfect harmony?
So, since the moment they announced they were working on a new album, that things were better than ever between them and they were having the time of their lives, I have dreaded the release of their third album, "Perfect Symmetry." Not that I don't want them to be happy without me -- I absolutely do! But couldn't their music stay miserable?
Well, you can imagine my horrified delight when I got a load of the first track on P.S., which all the reviews are calling "sassy," "disco-rockin'" and "Bowie-esque."
So, enjoy. If you find yourself downloading and listening to it to the exclusion of all other worthy tunes, let's chat.
(Not to mention those white belts and that hair tossing . . . )
Not this one. No, sir-ee.
So, since the moment they announced they were working on a new album, that things were better than ever between them and they were having the time of their lives, I have dreaded the release of their third album, "Perfect Symmetry." Not that I don't want them to be happy without me -- I absolutely do! But couldn't their music stay miserable?
Well, you can imagine my horrified delight when I got a load of the first track on P.S., which all the reviews are calling "sassy," "disco-rockin'" and "Bowie-esque."
AND I LOVED IT! I loved every "Ooooh!"
So, enjoy. If you find yourself downloading and listening to it to the exclusion of all other worthy tunes, let's chat.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
~By Stevie Smith~
We'll Be Loving You (Forever), NKOTB
That was then . . .
This is now . . . (!!!)
Some of you are familiar with my penchant for fandemonium in general, which is why I wanted to share an email I sent last week to some good friends who knew me at the height of a particularly intense period of fandom. (Does anyone else remember the poster, featuring my dreamboats posed atop a ladder, which spanned the entire length and width of my bedroom door?) Good times.
Dear (picture your name here),
I was belly laughing this morning on my way to work. Two radio stations I switch back and forth between during my morning drive were taking calls about the two New Kids on the Block concerts that took place here this weekend (you know the Kids are Boston natives, right?).
It was hilarious. All these women around my age (20s to early 40s) were calling in absolutely GUSHING about how great it was.
"Oh, my God! It was the BEST night of my life!"
"I sat in the __ row, and when they came into the audience, I could practically TOUCH them! EEEEEE! I almost fainted!"
"It was definitely the BEST concert I've EVER been to! They were absolutely a-MAZE-ing!!! I couldn't stop screaming and crying!"
"I love them so much!!!!! They're so hot!!!!!!"
"You should have seen the pregnant women trying to squeeze into their teenage New Kids T-shirts!"
"I wore a jean jacket COVERED with the pins I collected in the 90s!"
"All of the sudden I was 12 again!"
"I only have their cassettes, but I am going out TODAY to buy ALL of their music and an iPod!"
So many exclamation points. I kind of wish I had shelled out the cash to go. Apparently they sang ALL of the classics. Aaahhh, the memories.
One station even decided to play, "You Got It (the Right Stuff)," and all these women called in to thank them.
"Just hearing their songs makes my heart pound!"
"That's just what I needed to get me out of bed and excited about the day!"
Ah, je regret! I guess it might have been worth $60 to be that ridiculous again. (And to see other adult women--some much older and there with their DAUGHTERS--do the same.) Next time for SURE. But I won't be calling in to any radio stations--before or after.
--Mere
Friday, June 13, 2008
Happy Birthday, Baby
Dear Maddie,
I can't believe I met you six years ago today. It's cliche, but true. At the same time it seems like I've always known you and that you've been around such a short time. How is that possible?
I met you the day you were born. I didn't realize on the drive to the hospital how that would boggle my mind forever after, and feel so significant. But as I looked at you, this tiny, tiny little bedroll in a pink and blue hospital cap, I couldn't wrap my head around the idea that only the day before--even a few hours earlier, actually--you were this bump in your mom's tummy that caused heartburn and backaches, and now you were this miniature, pink, sleeping person, with perfect little person parts. It was amazing. I wondered how well you might already know us, and what your late night and early morning had been like before you came. I still marvel that we've been acquainted since the very beginning of your journey.
I've never seen your parents so exhausted, but so happy. When I pronounced you perfect, they smiled graciously--modestly trying to hide the fact that they were already well aware. I appreciated their pretending I had said something totally new and original. But I could tell they had already had the very same thought at least a million times before I arrived.
When your mom asked if I wanted to hold you, I could not contain myself. I don't know if I actually shouted in the maternity ward full of sleeping babies and exhausted mothers, but it felt like I did. While scrubbing my hands and arms with antibacterial gel, my own mother was giving me one of her looks.
I'm still not sure if that look meant that I should know the offer was merely a polite gesture or that I should have refused because I could cause you harm, but it was clear my mom was annoyed that I hadn't declined.
Now, Maddie, it's very important to do what your mother says. I've learned that 99.95 percent of the time we should believe and obey our mothers. However, in this case, I was completely, 100 percent in the right when I smiled and deliberately ignored the look, and took you in my arms.
You were so light! I was afraid I would fumble you, trying to make sense of how tiny you were. When you nestled in the crook of my arm, sleeping peacefully and looking impossibly like a tiny copy of both of your parents, I fell madly in love for the first time.
Standing in your mom's hospital room and holding you when you were brand new gave me insight I hadn't gained in multitudes of conferences, devotionals, meetings and firesides. Instantly, seeing you wearing baby-sized copies of your mommy's nose and upper lip, I knew that you are what our lives are all about.
Little, innocent baby Maddies and Ians and Jacobs and Nicholases are why we value God, love and family, friends, honesty, integrity, health and strength, hard work, education, and all other forms of purity. We keep our bodies and minds clean and pure, so when the time comes, nothing in our power will interfere with our babies being as perfect and healthy as you were that day. We live the way we know we should, educate ourselves, and take care of our bodies and our reputations, so we have the tools we need to educate you, take care of you, and give you a name you can be proud of.
Holding you, I thought of a line from a movie that has always struck me, and I felt deep inside how true it really was. Of his ancestors, a man said, "Now, I am the only reason they ever existed." I knew that now you are the reason many incredible human beings--some whose names we don't even know--existed.
So, even though you're so grown up now and we've played Polly Pockets and Barbies and dress ups and hairdresser, I realize that you taught me more in your first day than I will ever teach you, and I'm so grateful for what I've learned from you.
I love you so much. I'm very excited to see you next week.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MADDIE-CAKE!!!
I can't believe I met you six years ago today. It's cliche, but true. At the same time it seems like I've always known you and that you've been around such a short time. How is that possible?
I met you the day you were born. I didn't realize on the drive to the hospital how that would boggle my mind forever after, and feel so significant. But as I looked at you, this tiny, tiny little bedroll in a pink and blue hospital cap, I couldn't wrap my head around the idea that only the day before--even a few hours earlier, actually--you were this bump in your mom's tummy that caused heartburn and backaches, and now you were this miniature, pink, sleeping person, with perfect little person parts. It was amazing. I wondered how well you might already know us, and what your late night and early morning had been like before you came. I still marvel that we've been acquainted since the very beginning of your journey.
I've never seen your parents so exhausted, but so happy. When I pronounced you perfect, they smiled graciously--modestly trying to hide the fact that they were already well aware. I appreciated their pretending I had said something totally new and original. But I could tell they had already had the very same thought at least a million times before I arrived.
When your mom asked if I wanted to hold you, I could not contain myself. I don't know if I actually shouted in the maternity ward full of sleeping babies and exhausted mothers, but it felt like I did. While scrubbing my hands and arms with antibacterial gel, my own mother was giving me one of her looks.
I'm still not sure if that look meant that I should know the offer was merely a polite gesture or that I should have refused because I could cause you harm, but it was clear my mom was annoyed that I hadn't declined.
Now, Maddie, it's very important to do what your mother says. I've learned that 99.95 percent of the time we should believe and obey our mothers. However, in this case, I was completely, 100 percent in the right when I smiled and deliberately ignored the look, and took you in my arms.
You were so light! I was afraid I would fumble you, trying to make sense of how tiny you were. When you nestled in the crook of my arm, sleeping peacefully and looking impossibly like a tiny copy of both of your parents, I fell madly in love for the first time.
Standing in your mom's hospital room and holding you when you were brand new gave me insight I hadn't gained in multitudes of conferences, devotionals, meetings and firesides. Instantly, seeing you wearing baby-sized copies of your mommy's nose and upper lip, I knew that you are what our lives are all about.
Little, innocent baby Maddies and Ians and Jacobs and Nicholases are why we value God, love and family, friends, honesty, integrity, health and strength, hard work, education, and all other forms of purity. We keep our bodies and minds clean and pure, so when the time comes, nothing in our power will interfere with our babies being as perfect and healthy as you were that day. We live the way we know we should, educate ourselves, and take care of our bodies and our reputations, so we have the tools we need to educate you, take care of you, and give you a name you can be proud of.
Holding you, I thought of a line from a movie that has always struck me, and I felt deep inside how true it really was. Of his ancestors, a man said, "Now, I am the only reason they ever existed." I knew that now you are the reason many incredible human beings--some whose names we don't even know--existed.
So, even though you're so grown up now and we've played Polly Pockets and Barbies and dress ups and hairdresser, I realize that you taught me more in your first day than I will ever teach you, and I'm so grateful for what I've learned from you.
I love you so much. I'm very excited to see you next week.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MADDIE-CAKE!!!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Karma is indeed a boomerang
Certain individuals in my office are known for having fun with Photoshop. I will cop to being the mastermind in this instance, but I will not claim the dirty work -- i.e. making light of our fearless commander's judging position by assembling faux Mrs. Massachusetts contestant dossiers -- complete with profile photos featuring high-ranking wing officials' heads on Patriots cheerleaders' bodies.
Lest you fear for my job, I will report that the joke went over famously. Our fearless commander-turned-pageant-judge gave us all high marks and the game officials' biggest concern was who had the best legs, tush, and other salient female parts.
It was almost the perfect prank. Almost.
So, I have been tasked with getting the word out about the annual Military Retiree Day events on base, which I am thrilled about. I'm the proud granddaughter of a World War II veteran, so every elderly retiree is an adopted grandparent. Unless he laps me on the track, in which case he is no family of mine.
Lest you fear for my job, I will report that the joke went over famously. Our fearless commander-turned-pageant-judge gave us all high marks and the game officials' biggest concern was who had the best legs, tush, and other salient female parts.
It was almost the perfect prank. Almost.
So, I have been tasked with getting the word out about the annual Military Retiree Day events on base, which I am thrilled about. I'm the proud granddaughter of a World War II veteran, so every elderly retiree is an adopted grandparent. Unless he laps me on the track, in which case he is no family of mine.
A dear, grandfatherly retired master sergeant interrupted my online New York Times perusal this afternoon (hey, a fulfilled employee is a productive employee!) to give me updated information for an event press release. He was very sorry, but I would have to photocopy of one of the forms. I assured him this would be easy as pie--happily pointing out that with my scanner, I could accomplish that task without even leaving my desk.
As Mr. Master Sergeant stood at my elbow, I opened the scanner lid to find . . .
This . . .
staring up at us!
"Oooh myyyy . . . " Mr. M. S. breathed, a mite disapprovingly, I felt.
"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Um . . . oh. Those are, um, the Patriots cheerleaders!" That explained why it was tucked away in my scanner, right? My arched-to-the-ceiling eyebrows and strangely pitchy voice had me feeling a bit like a cheerleader myself. "They always come to Heroes' Homecoming events," I said, my head bouncing in staccato nods. Suddenly the room was stuffy and I felt moisture spring up along my hairline.
"It's not mine!" I blurted.
He mumbled something, fixed his gaze on the cube diagonal to mine as I hurriedly scanned the document, and didn't linger after I'd finished.
Whoops.
Monday, March 24, 2008
You call me crazy; I call me a music connoisseur
The men I love are recording their third album. I've already begun saving so I can join the insane -- or enthusiastic, rather -- women who remain perfectly above board (read: are not groupies in that sense) while indulging themselves in mini-tours. What's a mini-tour? It's when one attends several (often, but not always, consecutive) concert dates by the same band during the same tour. It's especially fun when one goes to several concerts within a four-to-six state radius and continually bumps into other mini-tourists. Not that I would know anything about this. True, I did go to two Keane concerts in as many days, but I WON tickets to one of them. That pretty much obligated me to go, I felt. You know, gift horse and mouth and all of that.
Anyway, here is a comical little update regarding Tom's, Tim's, and Richard's current creative progress. For fun, watch for my favorite part -- where Tom's lovely eyebrows make a special guest appearance. I take small comfort in knowing he'll never be mine by imagining the plucking and waxing we would be subjecting innocent offspring to.
Anyway, here is a comical little update regarding Tom's, Tim's, and Richard's current creative progress. For fun, watch for my favorite part -- where Tom's lovely eyebrows make a special guest appearance. I take small comfort in knowing he'll never be mine by imagining the plucking and waxing we would be subjecting innocent offspring to.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Non-Commital Goal-Making
So, I've had very little willpower this weekend. I'm pretty sure that in the last three to four days I've put away a good two or more 8.5 oz. bags of those devilishly delicious Cadbury Mini Eggs. Actually, my bet is on the "or more." And I won't go into the other sweet and savory delights I've been cramming into my aptly-named cakehole.
Sadly, the discipline drought doesn't merely extend to food. Although I'd hoped to be in bed by 10 -- one might even have called it a goal or aspiration -- I ridiculously started another episode of Grey's Anatomy, assuring myself I would only watch until my horrifically boring story was finished. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? Story finished, seventeen minutes into the episode and 20 minutes into the 10 o' clock hour, I'm thinking I've made a mistake. But will I turn McDreamy and Co. off anytime soon? Not bloody likely.
My point -- assuming I have one besides hoping that confessing my sins will shame me into shunning them forevermore -- is that I need to regain some control. The mere thought of which makes me start wondering what I've got in the fridge, freezer, and my cupboard that just might hit the spot. . .
But anyway -- CONTROL. That's the ticket, unless I fancy wedging myself into size ginormous jeans while trying to see over the dufflebags that are my under-eyes. How is it regained? I'm open to suggestions. By all means, flood the comment section with suggestions. Please.
The only solution I can think of is to list some goals I've been considering today. They're not set in stone, which is to say I'm definitely not ready to commit (oh boy -- another topic for another day!), but I'm thinking about them. Again, (kind and constructive) comments and concerns are welcome. Oooh . . . alliteration.
For the Body
1. Low carbs for the foreseeable future. No bagels, grilled cheese sandwiches, or corn chips at work anymore. Veggie omelets with no cheese and salads with feta crumbles from now on. This should be easier with the ruggedly attractive IMA coming back into the office for a couple of weeks. Maybe pretending to love rabbit food for two weeks will break me of my bad habits. Fingers crossed.
2. Bedtime at 10:30 at the very latest -- with solid efforts aiming more toward 10. No computer after 9. Unless I get home late. This one is negotiable? Maybe 9:30?
For the Soul
1. Pursue voice lessons with Mary. Sing again. Maybe others will hear and enjoy, but that doesn't really matter. Perfection would not be the object; music -- whether rough or refined -- would be the object.
2. Ever-so-slightly related to #1: Sing in ward choir. Not necessarily for the vocal advancement, but for the spiritual involvement, the opportunity to enjoy the company of friends who also love to sing, and the impetus to arrive at church early and adjust to the spirit there rather than skid in at the last moment, hoping to find an empty seat in the chapel.
3. Stop comparing myself to others. Stop hurting myself and holding myself back by comparing myself with others. 'Nuff said.
Sadly, the discipline drought doesn't merely extend to food. Although I'd hoped to be in bed by 10 -- one might even have called it a goal or aspiration -- I ridiculously started another episode of Grey's Anatomy, assuring myself I would only watch until my horrifically boring story was finished. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? Story finished, seventeen minutes into the episode and 20 minutes into the 10 o' clock hour, I'm thinking I've made a mistake. But will I turn McDreamy and Co. off anytime soon? Not bloody likely.
My point -- assuming I have one besides hoping that confessing my sins will shame me into shunning them forevermore -- is that I need to regain some control. The mere thought of which makes me start wondering what I've got in the fridge, freezer, and my cupboard that just might hit the spot. . .
But anyway -- CONTROL. That's the ticket, unless I fancy wedging myself into size ginormous jeans while trying to see over the dufflebags that are my under-eyes. How is it regained? I'm open to suggestions. By all means, flood the comment section with suggestions. Please.
The only solution I can think of is to list some goals I've been considering today. They're not set in stone, which is to say I'm definitely not ready to commit (oh boy -- another topic for another day!), but I'm thinking about them. Again, (kind and constructive) comments and concerns are welcome. Oooh . . . alliteration.
For the Body
1. Low carbs for the foreseeable future. No bagels, grilled cheese sandwiches, or corn chips at work anymore. Veggie omelets with no cheese and salads with feta crumbles from now on. This should be easier with the ruggedly attractive IMA coming back into the office for a couple of weeks. Maybe pretending to love rabbit food for two weeks will break me of my bad habits. Fingers crossed.
2. Bedtime at 10:30 at the very latest -- with solid efforts aiming more toward 10. No computer after 9. Unless I get home late. This one is negotiable? Maybe 9:30?
For the Soul
1. Pursue voice lessons with Mary. Sing again. Maybe others will hear and enjoy, but that doesn't really matter. Perfection would not be the object; music -- whether rough or refined -- would be the object.
2. Ever-so-slightly related to #1: Sing in ward choir. Not necessarily for the vocal advancement, but for the spiritual involvement, the opportunity to enjoy the company of friends who also love to sing, and the impetus to arrive at church early and adjust to the spirit there rather than skid in at the last moment, hoping to find an empty seat in the chapel.
3. Stop comparing myself to others. Stop hurting myself and holding myself back by comparing myself with others. 'Nuff said.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Which Jane Austen Heroine Are You?
I could not resist this silly quiz. I'm very surprised by the results, actually. I was expecting to be a mixture of Marianne Dashwood and Emma Woodhouse (unbridled emotion meets a well-meaning make-over fanatic). I was afraid I might be Jane Bennett, whom I've always considered excruciatingly dull. I can be very happy, however, about resembling the revered Miss Eliza Bennett. (I've always fancied my eyes to be quite fine, I'll confess.)
And so you have it:
You are Elizabeth Bennet of Pride & Prejudice! You are intelligent, witty, and tremendously attractive. You have a good head on your shoulders, and oftentimes find yourself the lone beacon of reason in a sea of ridiculousness. You take great pleasure in many things. You are proficient in nearly all of them, though you will never own it. Lest you seem too perfect, you have a tendency toward prejudgement that serves you very ill indeed.
Must work on the last part.
If, indeed, it is true.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
You Ask, I Deliver
I really should be asleep. I have a big day tomorrow. I was haunted, however, by the request for pictures in the previous post's comments section. (I do read them. Sincere gratitude to those who comment on my rambles.)
Ever the conscientious journalist, I decided to spare just a moment of beauty sleep (now matter how necessary!) to upload a picture or two. I'll try to post more, provided I can locate my stubbornly missing camera cable-thingy.
This was taken outside my house during the Leap Day party my roomies and I hosted. It was great fun. My dear friends Kim and Adrianne are middle and top girls, respectively. We were attempting one of Kim's famous "jumping photos," but when gravity proved too consistent a force, we eventually settled for a leap-frog theme instead.
It started to snow right as we went outside, giving our shoot a bit of Boston ambience.
This is one of the cupcakes that Brittany and Katie made. Just imagine a few dozen of them together--too cute. Brittany is a party genius. Someday she will be the new Jackie O, except more fun.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Out!
"You know what they say: 'Fool me once, strike one. But fool me twice . . . strike three.'"-Michael Scott, The Office
Monday, February 11, 2008
When I Look at You, What I Always See . . .
The new guy on the shuttle looks a lot like M. I've seen him on every 5 o' clock shuttle for the past month, yet my body reacts to him without my permission every day, at every sighting. As soon as his head emerges from the bus' staircase, my pulse quickens, my eyes widen, and my lungs pull in a sharp, noisy breath. I usually become conscious of his presence and my gaping mouth in the same instant. As I clamp my jaw shut, I notice that I have not yet exhaled, so I let it drop again. I release my breath slowly through my mouth while my mind races.
"What if he looks over here? What do I do if he sees me? Do I look away? Smile? Maybe I should look away now. That might keep him from noticing me. But what if he doesn't notice me? How will I get his attention?"
I'm surprised he never notices (or at least acknowledges that he's noticed) my eyes desperately searching his features in disbelief. I imagine him generous for this.
Inevitably, this man's hair brings me back to reality. It's a bit wild -- long, like M.'s but not as straight or shiny. He has a winsome smile and dimples like M.'s, but his face is wider, his eyes smaller. He's not nearly as handsome. Or maybe he's as handsome to another woman as M. was to me. I'd have to love him to know.
This lasts only a moment, and when I remember that M. is miles and years and heartaches away, I feel silly. I wonder if the man who is not M. sees my daily embarrassed smile and nod, and what he must think of me if he does. Sometimes I feel I should offer a casual, "You look like a man I once loved," as an explanation, but sanity mercifully returns and intervenes.
As I turn to the window both in relief and disappointment, I always wonder how long it will take for my heart to stop racing.
"What if he looks over here? What do I do if he sees me? Do I look away? Smile? Maybe I should look away now. That might keep him from noticing me. But what if he doesn't notice me? How will I get his attention?"
I'm surprised he never notices (or at least acknowledges that he's noticed) my eyes desperately searching his features in disbelief. I imagine him generous for this.
Inevitably, this man's hair brings me back to reality. It's a bit wild -- long, like M.'s but not as straight or shiny. He has a winsome smile and dimples like M.'s, but his face is wider, his eyes smaller. He's not nearly as handsome. Or maybe he's as handsome to another woman as M. was to me. I'd have to love him to know.
This lasts only a moment, and when I remember that M. is miles and years and heartaches away, I feel silly. I wonder if the man who is not M. sees my daily embarrassed smile and nod, and what he must think of me if he does. Sometimes I feel I should offer a casual, "You look like a man I once loved," as an explanation, but sanity mercifully returns and intervenes.
As I turn to the window both in relief and disappointment, I always wonder how long it will take for my heart to stop racing.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Any Questions?
Today's theme song, a la that lovable 90s waif, Ally McBeal, is . . .
32 Flavors
squint your eyes and look closer
I'm not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am 32 flavors and then some
and I'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
'cause someday you're going to get hungry
and eat most of the words you just said
God help you if you are an ugly girl
course too pretty is also your doom
'cause everyone harbors a secret hatred
for the prettiest girl in the room
and god help you if you are a phoenix
and you dare to rise up from the ash
a thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy
while you are just flying past
I am what i am
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm nobody but I am someone
I'm not trying to give my life meaning
by demeaning you
and I would like to state for the record
I did everything that I could do
I'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
'cause someday you might find you're starving
and eating all of the words you said
I am what i am
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm nobody but I am someone
-Ani DiFranco
32 Flavors
squint your eyes and look closer
I'm not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am 32 flavors and then some
and I'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
'cause someday you're going to get hungry
and eat most of the words you just said
God help you if you are an ugly girl
course too pretty is also your doom
'cause everyone harbors a secret hatred
for the prettiest girl in the room
and god help you if you are a phoenix
and you dare to rise up from the ash
a thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy
while you are just flying past
I am what i am
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm nobody but I am someone
I'm not trying to give my life meaning
by demeaning you
and I would like to state for the record
I did everything that I could do
I'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
'cause someday you might find you're starving
and eating all of the words you said
I am what i am
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm nobody but I am someone
-Ani DiFranco
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Sugar or Spice?
I've been told that I'm a nice person. Some have even said that I'm very nice. I don't say this as either self congratulation or self criticism. Though I have perceived these statements from others as both compliment and critique, I have mostly just come to view them as simply fact. I am nice. There are both better and worse things I could be, I suppose.
I have been desired because I am kind. I have been overlooked because I am sweet. I have at times cultivated, and at others suppressed, my "niceness." Should I be caring, or do I need an edge? Which is more appealing? When is "niceness" an asset, and when is it a liability? These questions have plagued me for most of my conscious existence. Where is the line between "good person" nice and "bland spinster" nice?
I am not saying that I'm never mean. I have been quite mean on several occasions. (Which reminds me, if anyone who reads this knows anyone named Ben Cameron, would you tell him that I'm so sorry? Please beg his forgiveness for me. Seriously--it doesn't even have to be the right Ben Cameron; just do it.) But I am truly never unkind on purpose.
This facet of my personality leads to serious astonishment and bewilderment (and pain, for sure) on my part when someone is NOT nice, and does NOT care about how their behavior affects others. I simply don't understand. It would save me a lot of time and hurt if I could understand this kind of person, but is it possible? Do I really even want to? I don't know that I do.
After spending a year in close proximity to someone who is not nice, I've come to a conclusion. Whether men find "niceness" attractive is irrelevant to me now. I don't mind if people overlook me because I am "too nice." Since I'm prone to extremes, I think I will cling to this side of the spectrum. I'm more comfortable here.
So, to those who have called me nice, thanks for the compliment. To those who prefer edgy, may I introduce you to . . .
I have been desired because I am kind. I have been overlooked because I am sweet. I have at times cultivated, and at others suppressed, my "niceness." Should I be caring, or do I need an edge? Which is more appealing? When is "niceness" an asset, and when is it a liability? These questions have plagued me for most of my conscious existence. Where is the line between "good person" nice and "bland spinster" nice?
I am not saying that I'm never mean. I have been quite mean on several occasions. (Which reminds me, if anyone who reads this knows anyone named Ben Cameron, would you tell him that I'm so sorry? Please beg his forgiveness for me. Seriously--it doesn't even have to be the right Ben Cameron; just do it.) But I am truly never unkind on purpose.
This facet of my personality leads to serious astonishment and bewilderment (and pain, for sure) on my part when someone is NOT nice, and does NOT care about how their behavior affects others. I simply don't understand. It would save me a lot of time and hurt if I could understand this kind of person, but is it possible? Do I really even want to? I don't know that I do.
After spending a year in close proximity to someone who is not nice, I've come to a conclusion. Whether men find "niceness" attractive is irrelevant to me now. I don't mind if people overlook me because I am "too nice." Since I'm prone to extremes, I think I will cling to this side of the spectrum. I'm more comfortable here.
So, to those who have called me nice, thanks for the compliment. To those who prefer edgy, may I introduce you to . . .
Monday, June 04, 2007
Men of Medals
Last fall, I was lucky enough to be able to cover the opening ceremonies for the annual Medal of Honor convention, which was held in Boston. It was truly a privilege to be in the presence of such men. When I saw the blue and gold medals around their necks, I wanted to know every man's story.
Here is where I have been reading about them:
http://dailynightly.msnbc.com/medal_of_honor_recipients/index.html
Edit: I decided to add to this post the commentary I wrote for the base website and newspaper. I was very honored when it was published on the Air Force Materiel Command's site.
10/5/2006 - BOSTON -- On a recent theme park trip with a group of friends, talk of superhero-themed roller coasters evolved into a debate over which of two superheroes was greater. One contingent preferred the hero with super strength who could fly, while another group preferred the superhero who relied on his wits and ingenious gadgets to accomplish daring feats.
Watching a procession of real-life heroes gather before the State House in Boston Sept. 27, however, I realized that the Medal of Honor recipients before me have been more courageous and noteworthy than any comic book creation.
In a time when athletic prowess and box-office success provides justification for bad behavior and celebrity is often confused with accomplishment, these men are the embodiment of the best America has ever had to offer.
As Massachusetts State Senate President Robert Travaglini remarked during the Congressional Medal of Honor Convention's opening ceremony, "The greatest title of all is not 'world champion,' or 'top-selling artist,' it is 'Medal of Honor recipient.'" (Editor's note: "Congressional" describes the name of the convention and does not refer to the proper name for the Medal of Honor.)
I will not soon forget the men who filed past me on the way to their places of honor for the ceremony; some walked easily, others haltingly with the aid of a cane or a steadier brother's hand, and some younger recipients pushed older recipients in wheelchairs. Each recipient wore his Medal of Honor, the highest award given to servicemembers for extraordinary valor in combat against an enemy force.
In the 144 years since the first medals were presented, 3,460 medals have been awarded to members of the U.S. Armed Forces for valor above and beyond the call of duty.
Clarence Sasser, who received his medal for bravery during the war in Vietnam, presented a wreath in front of the Robert Gould Shaw and 54th Regiment of Massachusetts Infantry memorial in honor of Sgt. William Carney. Sergeant Carney was a Civil War hero and the first African-American to receive the Medal of Honor; some of his descendents were in attendance.
Boston hosted 68 of the 111 living recipients last week for their annual convention, the largest gathering ever of Medal of Honor recipients.
These men, who defied death while defending their nation and protecting their brothers in arms, have lived long and full lives.
The oldest living Medal of Honor recipient, John L. Finn, recently turned 96 years old. It has been nearly 65 years since he earned his medal while defending the Kaneohe Bay Naval Air Station during the first attack on Pearl Harbor, Dec. 7, 1941.
The average age of the men gathered in Boston last week -- veterans of World War II, and the Korea and Vietnam wars -- is 74.
Boston is only the second city to host the convention twice. In Oct. 2001, Bostonians traumatized by the events of September 11, warmly welcomed the Medal of Honor convention. Nearly five years later, the convention honored Boston with its return.
"Your presence in this city adds to its luster," Massachusetts Senator Travaglini said. "Your presence here is moving, and this nation is still grateful for the sacrifices you made long ago."
Massachusetts House Speaker Salvatore Dimasi hailed each recipient as the greatest of his own generation.
"A few years ago, Tom Brokaw coined the term, 'The Greatest Generation,' to describe those who fought honorably in World War II. In each generation there is exceptional greatness -- something inherent in the American fighting spirit. You embody this spirit.
"Thank you for the examples of honor, and courage and sacrifice that you have set for every generation of Americans."
The men who sat before me in front of the State House Sept. 27, looking surprised that on-lookers were so enthusiastically taking their pictures and rising to applaud them, may never have had a hit record or sneakers or theme park roller coasters named after them, but they are the true American superheroes.
They have set standards of true selflessness, sacrifice and courage for all Americans -- military and civilian -- to aspire to, and they give us hope that in our struggles, we might act as bravely.
I was so grateful to stand, and in some simple way, honor these men, for as Massachusetts Lt. Governor Kerry Healey said, "[They] are the reason that this truly is 'the land of the free and the home of the brave.'"
Here is where I have been reading about them:
http://dailynightly.msnbc.com/medal_of_honor_recipients/index.html
Edit: I decided to add to this post the commentary I wrote for the base website and newspaper. I was very honored when it was published on the Air Force Materiel Command's site.
10/5/2006 - BOSTON -- On a recent theme park trip with a group of friends, talk of superhero-themed roller coasters evolved into a debate over which of two superheroes was greater. One contingent preferred the hero with super strength who could fly, while another group preferred the superhero who relied on his wits and ingenious gadgets to accomplish daring feats.
Watching a procession of real-life heroes gather before the State House in Boston Sept. 27, however, I realized that the Medal of Honor recipients before me have been more courageous and noteworthy than any comic book creation.
In a time when athletic prowess and box-office success provides justification for bad behavior and celebrity is often confused with accomplishment, these men are the embodiment of the best America has ever had to offer.
As Massachusetts State Senate President Robert Travaglini remarked during the Congressional Medal of Honor Convention's opening ceremony, "The greatest title of all is not 'world champion,' or 'top-selling artist,' it is 'Medal of Honor recipient.'" (Editor's note: "Congressional" describes the name of the convention and does not refer to the proper name for the Medal of Honor.)
I will not soon forget the men who filed past me on the way to their places of honor for the ceremony; some walked easily, others haltingly with the aid of a cane or a steadier brother's hand, and some younger recipients pushed older recipients in wheelchairs. Each recipient wore his Medal of Honor, the highest award given to servicemembers for extraordinary valor in combat against an enemy force.
In the 144 years since the first medals were presented, 3,460 medals have been awarded to members of the U.S. Armed Forces for valor above and beyond the call of duty.
Clarence Sasser, who received his medal for bravery during the war in Vietnam, presented a wreath in front of the Robert Gould Shaw and 54th Regiment of Massachusetts Infantry memorial in honor of Sgt. William Carney. Sergeant Carney was a Civil War hero and the first African-American to receive the Medal of Honor; some of his descendents were in attendance.
Boston hosted 68 of the 111 living recipients last week for their annual convention, the largest gathering ever of Medal of Honor recipients.
These men, who defied death while defending their nation and protecting their brothers in arms, have lived long and full lives.
The oldest living Medal of Honor recipient, John L. Finn, recently turned 96 years old. It has been nearly 65 years since he earned his medal while defending the Kaneohe Bay Naval Air Station during the first attack on Pearl Harbor, Dec. 7, 1941.
The average age of the men gathered in Boston last week -- veterans of World War II, and the Korea and Vietnam wars -- is 74.
Boston is only the second city to host the convention twice. In Oct. 2001, Bostonians traumatized by the events of September 11, warmly welcomed the Medal of Honor convention. Nearly five years later, the convention honored Boston with its return.
"Your presence in this city adds to its luster," Massachusetts Senator Travaglini said. "Your presence here is moving, and this nation is still grateful for the sacrifices you made long ago."
Massachusetts House Speaker Salvatore Dimasi hailed each recipient as the greatest of his own generation.
"A few years ago, Tom Brokaw coined the term, 'The Greatest Generation,' to describe those who fought honorably in World War II. In each generation there is exceptional greatness -- something inherent in the American fighting spirit. You embody this spirit.
"Thank you for the examples of honor, and courage and sacrifice that you have set for every generation of Americans."
The men who sat before me in front of the State House Sept. 27, looking surprised that on-lookers were so enthusiastically taking their pictures and rising to applaud them, may never have had a hit record or sneakers or theme park roller coasters named after them, but they are the true American superheroes.
They have set standards of true selflessness, sacrifice and courage for all Americans -- military and civilian -- to aspire to, and they give us hope that in our struggles, we might act as bravely.
I was so grateful to stand, and in some simple way, honor these men, for as Massachusetts Lt. Governor Kerry Healey said, "[They] are the reason that this truly is 'the land of the free and the home of the brave.'"
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Eyes Open
I recently "celebrated" an auspicious personal anniversary. It has now been over a year since my heart--along with my views on God, faith, obedience, love, loyalty, family, eternity, and especially my own infallibility--quite suddenly shattered, leaving not even fragments, but mere dust behind.
I recently mentioned this to my mom, who tried to distract me. I don't blame her. She was the one who carefully swept up the still-pulsing dust, sure it would become useful once again, and endured the staring shell who ruined parties, sputtered unanswerable questions repeatedly through sobs, and finally decided that life could only resume thousands of miles away from the painful epicenter.
I don't know if I was able to convince her how vital it was for me to remember that devastating time--not just to wallow, which was inevitable--but also to marvel at how drastically that experience has altered and continues to alter me. I have always believed that true change is indistinguishably gradual, that the soul must be gently prepared for it to take root, and that instantaneous transformation is rare. I have since learned that just one experience can cause a myriad of instantaneous changes--across vast stretches of time--it simply depends on the instant.
A year ago I couldn't see my way out of the carpet, in which I thought, and hoped, I would smother and drown in the salty expressions of my grief.
Today, I sit at a desk thousands of miles away. I am a new woman with the same face. There are gaping holes in my patched-up heart that ache often, but it no longer pulses so violently, and it is no longer dust. Changes are less cataclysmic, and have become barely noticeable again.
I'm grateful for the strength I've been given. It was not my own. My understanding of mistakes and forgiveness has grown and deepened. Miraculously, my view of myself is better, and also worse, than it has ever been. I am the sadder, but wiser girl. I see now why even heroes have flaws that utterly destroy them, if they refuse to change. I know now that what doesn't kill us, does, in fact, make us stronger.
But I don't know if I will ever agree that it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.
I recently mentioned this to my mom, who tried to distract me. I don't blame her. She was the one who carefully swept up the still-pulsing dust, sure it would become useful once again, and endured the staring shell who ruined parties, sputtered unanswerable questions repeatedly through sobs, and finally decided that life could only resume thousands of miles away from the painful epicenter.
I don't know if I was able to convince her how vital it was for me to remember that devastating time--not just to wallow, which was inevitable--but also to marvel at how drastically that experience has altered and continues to alter me. I have always believed that true change is indistinguishably gradual, that the soul must be gently prepared for it to take root, and that instantaneous transformation is rare. I have since learned that just one experience can cause a myriad of instantaneous changes--across vast stretches of time--it simply depends on the instant.
A year ago I couldn't see my way out of the carpet, in which I thought, and hoped, I would smother and drown in the salty expressions of my grief.
Today, I sit at a desk thousands of miles away. I am a new woman with the same face. There are gaping holes in my patched-up heart that ache often, but it no longer pulses so violently, and it is no longer dust. Changes are less cataclysmic, and have become barely noticeable again.
I'm grateful for the strength I've been given. It was not my own. My understanding of mistakes and forgiveness has grown and deepened. Miraculously, my view of myself is better, and also worse, than it has ever been. I am the sadder, but wiser girl. I see now why even heroes have flaws that utterly destroy them, if they refuse to change. I know now that what doesn't kill us, does, in fact, make us stronger.
But I don't know if I will ever agree that it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
I'd rather you were alive than a Hero
We have yet another fallen hero landing on base tomorrow.
We received the first service member's remains in February--on what was supposed to be the day of her engagement party, just a few days after she would have returned home from her third and last tour, had she lived. She was exactly my age and, like me, was an only child. Her body was escorted from Iraq by her fiance, also a service member; her parents stood at the flight line on the coldest day of the year and watched the honor guard load their only child's flag-draped casket into a hearse. I have since lost count of those who have begun their final journey home here. Tomorrow I will stand -- either at the flight line with members of my office, or on the sidewalk along the procession route with other base personnel -- in the driving rain, if the forecast can finally be trusted, with my hand pressed to my heart.
I can't shake the feelings of horror and wrongness about all of this. I am learning that I don’t care enough about some people, because I desperately want others to live—I guess that’s what my opposition means. I want this to be over—whatever happens over there when we leave. In increasing moments, I really don't care what happens over there anymore. I want young people with bright futures to stop coming to this base in caskets. I don’t know how earlier generations stood this—I look at those grieving families and can't help thinking the price is much too high.
When I was a teenager, I used to marvel at this Jewish proverb that said every time a life ended prematurely, a whole universe was utterly extinguished. I believed this because I hoped it meant that even I had immortal value. As an adult, I know it to be true. In the past three months, I have seen the end of too many universes, and it’s really getting to me.
I'll always remember Capt. Jennifer J. Harris
Food for thought: an article by Andrew J. Bacevich, a retired Army colonel and professor at Boston University.
We received the first service member's remains in February--on what was supposed to be the day of her engagement party, just a few days after she would have returned home from her third and last tour, had she lived. She was exactly my age and, like me, was an only child. Her body was escorted from Iraq by her fiance, also a service member; her parents stood at the flight line on the coldest day of the year and watched the honor guard load their only child's flag-draped casket into a hearse. I have since lost count of those who have begun their final journey home here. Tomorrow I will stand -- either at the flight line with members of my office, or on the sidewalk along the procession route with other base personnel -- in the driving rain, if the forecast can finally be trusted, with my hand pressed to my heart.
I can't shake the feelings of horror and wrongness about all of this. I am learning that I don’t care enough about some people, because I desperately want others to live—I guess that’s what my opposition means. I want this to be over—whatever happens over there when we leave. In increasing moments, I really don't care what happens over there anymore. I want young people with bright futures to stop coming to this base in caskets. I don’t know how earlier generations stood this—I look at those grieving families and can't help thinking the price is much too high.
When I was a teenager, I used to marvel at this Jewish proverb that said every time a life ended prematurely, a whole universe was utterly extinguished. I believed this because I hoped it meant that even I had immortal value. As an adult, I know it to be true. In the past three months, I have seen the end of too many universes, and it’s really getting to me.
I'll always remember Capt. Jennifer J. Harris
Food for thought: an article by Andrew J. Bacevich, a retired Army colonel and professor at Boston University.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
We Now Interrupt The Regularly Scheduled Big Dig Muckraking . . .
For those of you who have been craving a good bedtime story, I give you the following masterpiece. I am currently interviewing illustrators.
http://www.hanscom.af.mil/hansconian/Articles/2006Arts/07072006-09.htm
http://www.hanscom.af.mil/hansconian/Articles/2006Arts/07072006-09.htm
No, Wait! Don't Stop Reading!!
Thank you to everyone who made my birthday so special. It was hard to be away (and not swimming) on that day, but so many of you remembered that I had a wonderful day anyway. The cards, packages, and telephone calls were so thoughtful.
There are some that I was not able to talk to, although I spent hooouuuuurrrsss on the phone. Don't think for a second that I don't love you. We had a small party near Harvard Square, but I was so happy to get your messages when I came home.
I have been really stressed at work--over half of the office went on vacation AT THE SAME TIME, so we remaining grunts were in charge of ALL content AND editing for two weeks (20 pages of newspaper each, thank you very much!). I actually ended up calling in sick one day, which I hated to do, but this tired, sweaty body just plain gave out. I am gathering strength, but I pretty much collapse once I get home. I really hope you understand that my silence and lack of updates is not personal in any way. I'd like nothing better than a good chat--as soon as I have the energy to talk and laugh!
That said, I read your blogs faithfully. They help me relax and giggle after a long day. What did I smile about before the Hutchison, Slothower, and Crawley blogs? More is the point, how did so many adorable children end up in the same family? None of them are my children, so I think I can say that without being considered a braggart. Right? Right?
Speaking of which, CONGRATULATIONS, CRAWLEYS!! I only heard about the big event on the very day, but I was with you in spirit. I am so happy for you and your darling little man.
Thanks for reading my blog which has no pictures. That will change very soon, however. If you want to know why, just ask my mom.
Well, it's back to the grind for me. Thanks again for all that you do and all of your support.
There are some that I was not able to talk to, although I spent hooouuuuurrrsss on the phone. Don't think for a second that I don't love you. We had a small party near Harvard Square, but I was so happy to get your messages when I came home.
I have been really stressed at work--over half of the office went on vacation AT THE SAME TIME, so we remaining grunts were in charge of ALL content AND editing for two weeks (20 pages of newspaper each, thank you very much!). I actually ended up calling in sick one day, which I hated to do, but this tired, sweaty body just plain gave out. I am gathering strength, but I pretty much collapse once I get home. I really hope you understand that my silence and lack of updates is not personal in any way. I'd like nothing better than a good chat--as soon as I have the energy to talk and laugh!
That said, I read your blogs faithfully. They help me relax and giggle after a long day. What did I smile about before the Hutchison, Slothower, and Crawley blogs? More is the point, how did so many adorable children end up in the same family? None of them are my children, so I think I can say that without being considered a braggart. Right? Right?
Speaking of which, CONGRATULATIONS, CRAWLEYS!! I only heard about the big event on the very day, but I was with you in spirit. I am so happy for you and your darling little man.
Thanks for reading my blog which has no pictures. That will change very soon, however. If you want to know why, just ask my mom.
Well, it's back to the grind for me. Thanks again for all that you do and all of your support.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Just Call Me Lois Lane
I'm feeling empowered today. Not only am I now a published reporter for a small, military-based newspaper (the Hansconian, if anybody wants to google it), but I am also published on a small military-based online newspaper.
That's right, folks. All two of you may now access my glamorous and important news reporting right from your screens!
I was going to thrill all with a Fed-Exed hard copy, but now I need simply post the links for the masses who are following my big city life. (I will happily provide hard copies by special request, however. Don't be afraid to ask.)
So, without further ado:
First, we have a serious subject--Investment fraud
http://www.hanscom.af.mil/hansconian/Articles/2006Arts/06232006-10.htm
Next, a little fun on public transportation in Boston . . .
http://www.hanscom.af.mil/hansconian/Articles/2006Arts/06232006-09.htm
It is modest but honest work, and I have to say that the first two weeks were difficult. Apparently, newspaper readers don't like reading articles written in three-part theses and air-tight assertions. They don't even like commas where I used to put them. It is proving difficult (but not impossible) to completely overhaul my writing style.
One difficult thing that I absolutely refused to do, however, was cover the following article. I refused to even read it, as I had observed all the other proof-readers quietly reaching for tissues to dab at their moist eyes and sniffly noses. R.I.P. Jordy.
http://www.hanscom.af.mil/hansconian/Articles/2006Arts/06232006-07.htm
Love to all (meaning Mom and Aunt Hilda--my faithful readers). Thank you for your love and support.
That's right, folks. All two of you may now access my glamorous and important news reporting right from your screens!
I was going to thrill all with a Fed-Exed hard copy, but now I need simply post the links for the masses who are following my big city life. (I will happily provide hard copies by special request, however. Don't be afraid to ask.)
So, without further ado:
First, we have a serious subject--Investment fraud
http://www.hanscom.af.mil/hansconian/Articles/2006Arts/06232006-10.htm
Next, a little fun on public transportation in Boston . . .
http://www.hanscom.af.mil/hansconian/Articles/2006Arts/06232006-09.htm
It is modest but honest work, and I have to say that the first two weeks were difficult. Apparently, newspaper readers don't like reading articles written in three-part theses and air-tight assertions. They don't even like commas where I used to put them. It is proving difficult (but not impossible) to completely overhaul my writing style.
One difficult thing that I absolutely refused to do, however, was cover the following article. I refused to even read it, as I had observed all the other proof-readers quietly reaching for tissues to dab at their moist eyes and sniffly noses. R.I.P. Jordy.
http://www.hanscom.af.mil/hansconian/Articles/2006Arts/06232006-07.htm
Love to all (meaning Mom and Aunt Hilda--my faithful readers). Thank you for your love and support.
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