I was swapping emails with my cousin, Michele, recently. She mentioned my mom - Nana to all in her family - and a visit to her years ago, before she completely lost touch with who we were. Nana had dementia; a particularly slow decline of memory and function. One very amazing detail, however, is that she remembered songs. Songs that were from her childhood or early adulthood. Every word, every note, and even more amazing, she would sing harmony. Nana couldn't remember to get dressed, or eat, or the people in her life - things you would assume were important - but she remembered songs and how to sing them.
It got me to thinking about what I would remember, if anything, if someday I'm in her shoes (once I remember to put them on). Is there anything in my life that is so deeply ingrained in my head and my heart that it will last beyond all else. It hurts me to imagine not knowing Seth or Lacy, or my brothers, but it could happen. I don't want to remember work, or my marriage particularly (maybe the good parts), or how unhappy I was at times in my early life - most of my early life actually.
If there is anything I would remember, it would probably be those things that I shouldn't remember now, but somehow do. Jabberwocky, a poem from Alice in Wonderland that I used as my "talent" in the Jr. Miss Pageant (meaning I had no talent), and other poems I still can recite. All the old Christmas songs, like "Up On The Rooftop" and "Jolly Old St Nicholas"; those songs Nana sung every Christmas to whatever small children happened to be around that year. And one other gift from Nana, and old poem called "Little Orphant Annie". I don't know how many times I heard it while growing up. It can't have been that many, but it stuck. Especially the last part, which has an eerie beauty to it in it's description of an old-time country evening:
Little orphant Annie says that when the blaze is blue
And the lampwick sputters, and the wind goes "wooo-wooo"
And you hear the crickets quit, and the moon is gray
And the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squenched away
You better mind your parents and your teachers fond and dear
And cherish them what loves you , and dry the orphants' tear
And help the poor and needy ones that clusters all about
Or the goblins'll get YOU if you don't watch out!!
I did a little research to see if I could find this poem and it's origins. I was quite surprised. The poem was written in 1885, and was actually the inspiration for both the comic strip and the "Raggedy Ann" doll. The author was from Indiana, and the poem has quite a history, which can be found in Wikipedia along with the full poem.
This poem and others represent the things, other than my family, that I would keep with me if I could choose. You can bet that my grandchildren will hear it, along with several others and, yes, all the old Christmas carols that drive my kids crazy. That is one piece of my mom, Nana, that will last for generations. That is one piece that I can hold on to myself, as long as my brain will let me.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
the best potato pancakes
I recently had yet another birthday. Not complaining at all - I love birthdays. Having a birthday validates my belief that yes, I am still here.
This birthday was special for many reasons. My first in Chicago, my first as a granma, another half-decade milestone. The most special was my big birthday gift.
My gift from Lacy and Jeff was that Lacy came to Chicago alone, and we had our first real time together since my move. Even on my trips to Alabama, we've not had much time together to just hang out. Our usual hours-long trips to Costco and Target and Marshalls and Hobby Lobby or other fun money-grabbing places have been missing, and we've both missed them big much. We had a fabulous time doing nothing but wandering around and shopping. In the afternoon, we visited our favorite neighborhood bar and proceeded to allow the bartenders (who were made privy to my age by Lacy singing Sammy Hagar) to treat us with more than is advisable to drink when you're not done shopping for the day. Let's just say it led to a return trip to Sports Authority the following morning to return a bunch o' stuff. We went to dinner at Cafe Lago, which is a tiny family-owned Italian restaurant just a few blocks away that was suggested by my aunt and uncle (them what know the city well). I got kisses from the owner-in-charge, and it snowed on us during the walk home.
All of that aside, it was a special day in and of itself just by being a Saturday in the city with my baby girl.
One wish I had for my birthday was to have the best potato pancakes ever for breakfast. On my first adult visit-for-fun trip to Chicago, a friend and I decided to find a "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives" place to eat. We came upon Glenn's Diner, known for it's seafood, but also for it's breakfast and cereal selection. (Yes, cereal - you just have to see it). I fell in love with the rich, creamy, yummy potato pancakes they serve with everything. They are almost too rich to eat. I don't think Lacy was as impressed as I with the creamy conglomeration of potatoes, scallions, and who-knows-what-else. They are certainly nothing like the potato patties I grew up on, made from leftover mashed potatoes, egg, and milk. I think it's well worth the trip up to Glenn's just to taste this humble side dish.
Since the birthday breakfast, I've been pondering on just what they do put in those pancakes. I decided I would try and come close to their recipe, which I'm sure I won't do, but I think I've come up with a pretty good idea for some fairly bitchin' pancakes of my own. I'm going to shred some Idaho potatoes, mix with some egg, chopped scallions (or green onions, since that's all they had at the Jewel-Osco), salt, pepper, and some evaporated milk, which won't be as rich as real cream. Drop a big spoonful into some oil and butter, and see what comes out. I can't see any way to go wrong with fried potatoes, especially mixed with something to stick them together. I love hashbrowns, and this is just a way to add a little flavor and filling.
Right or wrong, I'll follow up with what the result was. It's sure to be far from Glenn's, but it will be right down the alley of "Lynn's". hahahahaha!
This birthday was special for many reasons. My first in Chicago, my first as a granma, another half-decade milestone. The most special was my big birthday gift.
My gift from Lacy and Jeff was that Lacy came to Chicago alone, and we had our first real time together since my move. Even on my trips to Alabama, we've not had much time together to just hang out. Our usual hours-long trips to Costco and Target and Marshalls and Hobby Lobby or other fun money-grabbing places have been missing, and we've both missed them big much. We had a fabulous time doing nothing but wandering around and shopping. In the afternoon, we visited our favorite neighborhood bar and proceeded to allow the bartenders (who were made privy to my age by Lacy singing Sammy Hagar) to treat us with more than is advisable to drink when you're not done shopping for the day. Let's just say it led to a return trip to Sports Authority the following morning to return a bunch o' stuff. We went to dinner at Cafe Lago, which is a tiny family-owned Italian restaurant just a few blocks away that was suggested by my aunt and uncle (them what know the city well). I got kisses from the owner-in-charge, and it snowed on us during the walk home.
All of that aside, it was a special day in and of itself just by being a Saturday in the city with my baby girl.
One wish I had for my birthday was to have the best potato pancakes ever for breakfast. On my first adult visit-for-fun trip to Chicago, a friend and I decided to find a "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives" place to eat. We came upon Glenn's Diner, known for it's seafood, but also for it's breakfast and cereal selection. (Yes, cereal - you just have to see it). I fell in love with the rich, creamy, yummy potato pancakes they serve with everything. They are almost too rich to eat. I don't think Lacy was as impressed as I with the creamy conglomeration of potatoes, scallions, and who-knows-what-else. They are certainly nothing like the potato patties I grew up on, made from leftover mashed potatoes, egg, and milk. I think it's well worth the trip up to Glenn's just to taste this humble side dish.
Since the birthday breakfast, I've been pondering on just what they do put in those pancakes. I decided I would try and come close to their recipe, which I'm sure I won't do, but I think I've come up with a pretty good idea for some fairly bitchin' pancakes of my own. I'm going to shred some Idaho potatoes, mix with some egg, chopped scallions (or green onions, since that's all they had at the Jewel-Osco), salt, pepper, and some evaporated milk, which won't be as rich as real cream. Drop a big spoonful into some oil and butter, and see what comes out. I can't see any way to go wrong with fried potatoes, especially mixed with something to stick them together. I love hashbrowns, and this is just a way to add a little flavor and filling.
Right or wrong, I'll follow up with what the result was. It's sure to be far from Glenn's, but it will be right down the alley of "Lynn's". hahahahaha!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
a trip to the city
Recently, I was thinking about my first trip to Chicago. Actually I think it was my 2nd trip as I have a vague memory of visiting my Aunt Sis and Uncle Joe when I was a wee tot - I'm not sure. Seems they lived in or near the city in a small apartment. I'm sure they will chime in to verify.
Anyway, my first trip that I truly remember was when I was 12. I rode the train with my grandmother from Chattanooga all the way to Chicago Heights, where Sis and Joe picked us up. They lived just southeast of Chicago proper - around Gary if memory serves. I was excited about my first (and only) cross-country train trip, but I don't remember much about it other than a lot of countryside.
Sis and Joe had a nice ranch house in a nice ranch-house kind of neighborhood. They had a neighbor who's daughter was a Playboy bunny - Chicago being the home of the Playboy club, that seemed quite a big deal. I have a couple of vivid memories of this trip - one is that my cousin Jackie had a "Creepy Crawler" machine. Now, if you've ever heard Jeff Foxworthy's take on the toys he had as a kid, such as the wood-burning kit and lawn darts, the Creepy Crawler machine should be right up there on the list of "what the hell were they thinking". This was a metal mold that you squirted goo into, plugged it in and waited while it cooked the goo at about 1000 degrees into rubbery squiggley bugs and worms. It was fun! And there is no way you could get away with giving a child one of those today without being charged with child abuse. They've just taken all the fun out of being a kid.
The other memory is of the day that my aunt and grandmother wanted a day to themselves, so they dropped me off at school with Jackie. The school evidently didn't take to kindly to being asked to enlighten me with the wonders of a big-city education. They called Sis to come and fetch me. It was the first time I ever heard the word "asinine" used in a sentence.
Of all those fun memories of my first real adventure in the big world, there is one that really didn't take hold for several years. My 12-year-old mind didn't grasp the gravity of the situation, or that I was smack in the middle of a historical event that would become part of our American history. A trip to the Chicago area would just not be complete without a visit to the city itself. And we planned to drive into town one day, but for some reason, it was deemed unsafe to do so. You see, this was the summer of 1968, the summer of hate which followed the summer of love (1967). This was the year of assassinations and riots, of the Chicago 7, Black Panthers, and the Democratic Convention in Chicago. And I was there - well almost.
I find it somehow fitting that I now live in a city that those many years ago fostered fear and hate among Americans; this city that I now find so warm and safe and peaceful. Gary, Indiana is now not a place I would feel particularly comfortable, but that's the sort of change comes from urban sprawl. It's hard to imagine riots in the streets of Chicago now, but it's not out of the question. We never know when we'll find ourselves in the midst of a "summer of hate", which is why we should always find ourselves in the midst of a "life of love".
I'm sure I never thanked Sis and Joe for allowing me to invade their home for those few days, so thanks, Aunt Sis and Uncle Joe, and cousin Jackie! By the way, you wouldn't have that Creepy Crawler thing tucked away in the attic somewhere, would you? My grandkids and I could have a blast with that!
Anyway, my first trip that I truly remember was when I was 12. I rode the train with my grandmother from Chattanooga all the way to Chicago Heights, where Sis and Joe picked us up. They lived just southeast of Chicago proper - around Gary if memory serves. I was excited about my first (and only) cross-country train trip, but I don't remember much about it other than a lot of countryside.
Sis and Joe had a nice ranch house in a nice ranch-house kind of neighborhood. They had a neighbor who's daughter was a Playboy bunny - Chicago being the home of the Playboy club, that seemed quite a big deal. I have a couple of vivid memories of this trip - one is that my cousin Jackie had a "Creepy Crawler" machine. Now, if you've ever heard Jeff Foxworthy's take on the toys he had as a kid, such as the wood-burning kit and lawn darts, the Creepy Crawler machine should be right up there on the list of "what the hell were they thinking". This was a metal mold that you squirted goo into, plugged it in and waited while it cooked the goo at about 1000 degrees into rubbery squiggley bugs and worms. It was fun! And there is no way you could get away with giving a child one of those today without being charged with child abuse. They've just taken all the fun out of being a kid.
The other memory is of the day that my aunt and grandmother wanted a day to themselves, so they dropped me off at school with Jackie. The school evidently didn't take to kindly to being asked to enlighten me with the wonders of a big-city education. They called Sis to come and fetch me. It was the first time I ever heard the word "asinine" used in a sentence.
Of all those fun memories of my first real adventure in the big world, there is one that really didn't take hold for several years. My 12-year-old mind didn't grasp the gravity of the situation, or that I was smack in the middle of a historical event that would become part of our American history. A trip to the Chicago area would just not be complete without a visit to the city itself. And we planned to drive into town one day, but for some reason, it was deemed unsafe to do so. You see, this was the summer of 1968, the summer of hate which followed the summer of love (1967). This was the year of assassinations and riots, of the Chicago 7, Black Panthers, and the Democratic Convention in Chicago. And I was there - well almost.
I find it somehow fitting that I now live in a city that those many years ago fostered fear and hate among Americans; this city that I now find so warm and safe and peaceful. Gary, Indiana is now not a place I would feel particularly comfortable, but that's the sort of change comes from urban sprawl. It's hard to imagine riots in the streets of Chicago now, but it's not out of the question. We never know when we'll find ourselves in the midst of a "summer of hate", which is why we should always find ourselves in the midst of a "life of love".
I'm sure I never thanked Sis and Joe for allowing me to invade their home for those few days, so thanks, Aunt Sis and Uncle Joe, and cousin Jackie! By the way, you wouldn't have that Creepy Crawler thing tucked away in the attic somewhere, would you? My grandkids and I could have a blast with that!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
big O
It's a rare night in Chicago. Very cold, which is not rare for January, but very clear, which does seem to be rare. I've not seen as clear a night in a long time. I'm accustomed to clear nights in Alabama, when it's not hazy in summertime, or rainy in wintertime. I miss those nights when you can walk outside and look up to see millions upon millions of stars. The kind of night that makes you ponder the vastness of the universe, the improbability that there wouldn't be other planets out there full of life and love and wonderment. Nights where you just know the human tendency to think this is the only orb floating around with inhabitants must be the most insanely selfish, narcissistic notion possible.
Just as insane, however, may be my belief that I have a protector in the night sky. I've believed in him for years, and my belief gives me comfort. It's a childish thought, and I know that. To me, though, it's no different than believing in a gray-haired old man in the clouds who loves humankind, but only those who swear allegiance to him. An all-powerful being that hates and punishes those who prefer to hold to a different theology. But, enough of spirituality and my personal thoughts.
My protector is as old as civilization and known to peoples throughout the ages and around the world. But he's mine, and he's special to me. So, to walk out on my balcony on this cold, clear night, in a city where stars are not visible, and look up to see Orion smiling down on me was an unexpected blessing. I looked, and there were no other stars to be seen. Only the broad shoulders, the belt, the legs I know so well. I've missed being able to see him low on the horizon, coming out to check on me. I've missed greeting him with a "hey there, big O" and smiling, thinking in my fully aware but naive way that he was smiling back.
I can't say why he appeared tonight, and why I've never seen him here before, but I'm happy that he's there, even when I can't see him. It's a matter of trust - much like any religion and it's God; I know he's there even when it's cloudy, or the city lights block him out. I know he's there, and if I want to believe he's watching over me, where's the harm? It's all about what's inside anyway. It's all about self-awareness and holding on to something that makes you feel connected, that makes you feel that whatever you want to be possible, is possible. If you find something that works for you, grab it, and don't let go.
Just as insane, however, may be my belief that I have a protector in the night sky. I've believed in him for years, and my belief gives me comfort. It's a childish thought, and I know that. To me, though, it's no different than believing in a gray-haired old man in the clouds who loves humankind, but only those who swear allegiance to him. An all-powerful being that hates and punishes those who prefer to hold to a different theology. But, enough of spirituality and my personal thoughts.
My protector is as old as civilization and known to peoples throughout the ages and around the world. But he's mine, and he's special to me. So, to walk out on my balcony on this cold, clear night, in a city where stars are not visible, and look up to see Orion smiling down on me was an unexpected blessing. I looked, and there were no other stars to be seen. Only the broad shoulders, the belt, the legs I know so well. I've missed being able to see him low on the horizon, coming out to check on me. I've missed greeting him with a "hey there, big O" and smiling, thinking in my fully aware but naive way that he was smiling back.
I can't say why he appeared tonight, and why I've never seen him here before, but I'm happy that he's there, even when I can't see him. It's a matter of trust - much like any religion and it's God; I know he's there even when it's cloudy, or the city lights block him out. I know he's there, and if I want to believe he's watching over me, where's the harm? It's all about what's inside anyway. It's all about self-awareness and holding on to something that makes you feel connected, that makes you feel that whatever you want to be possible, is possible. If you find something that works for you, grab it, and don't let go.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
happy 2011
Last night as I was watching the birth of 2011, I naturally reflected back to the birth of 2010 and years prior. There are few new years eve's that I actually remember - not because of my intoxicated state and wild party hats and horns (that was just last year), but because they're mostly uneventful for me. The crowning of 2011 will be remembered because of where I am, not because of what I did. And that seems to be a recurring theme.
When I was married, most of my NYE's were spent alone, or sitting at a table watching everyone else kiss while my then-husband was on stage singing Auld Lang Syne. I think only once were we out for the evening that he was not the entertainment, so it was usually a depressing sort of time for me. Mostly, I stayed at home with the kids, knowing that midnight wasn't bringing anything special anyway, so why go to the trouble?
My post-divorce NYE's have mainly been alone, trying to stay awake - or not - counting the evening as a blessing because I didn't have to work the next morning. For most of the past 10 years, the days from Christmas Eve to January 2 have been time off from work, which is always something to be thankful for. This year is no exception - because of unused vacation days, I've been off work since 12/22, and don't return until the 4th. Still, it's not long enough and the days have flown by like birds I've tried unsuccessfully to catch and hold.
The most memorable NYE is 2008-2009, which is the year I quietly cried at midnight while listening to my mother gasp for each breath as she lay dying. I volunteered to spend the evening at her bedside so that my brothers could spend the time with their families. If I'm being honest, I cried not so much for her as for myself, spending what should be a joyous occasion in a hospital with someone who, had she been conscious, wouldn't have known who I was. I was jealous of those who were, as the clock ticked over to the new year, having fun and being loved, surrounded by people who, if they weren't quite coherent it wasn't because life was slowly leaking away from them. It was hard enough to have seen my mother lose the recognition of her family and friends while keeping the vibrant enthusiasm she had for life, but to hear with each struggling breath the tick of the death beetle and sit helplessly by, and on such as symbolic evening, was almost too much. All I could hope for was that father time would take her with him and he passed by, which he eventually did.
This year, as 2010 gave way to 2011, I found myself feeling thankful that I am here, that I know those I love, that I have memories good and bad, that I am capable of new adventures, and that I have more of life ahead of me. I know that it could end at any second, but it's not obviously eminent. My daughter is not at my bedside praying that relief come soon for us both. Rather, I have a new life to welcome into the world in a few months, a year of new experiences ahead, and the hope that all who I know and love will find that 2011 brings much joy and opportunity. My life, however simple, is good. That's all I need to take with me into a new year.
When I was married, most of my NYE's were spent alone, or sitting at a table watching everyone else kiss while my then-husband was on stage singing Auld Lang Syne. I think only once were we out for the evening that he was not the entertainment, so it was usually a depressing sort of time for me. Mostly, I stayed at home with the kids, knowing that midnight wasn't bringing anything special anyway, so why go to the trouble?
My post-divorce NYE's have mainly been alone, trying to stay awake - or not - counting the evening as a blessing because I didn't have to work the next morning. For most of the past 10 years, the days from Christmas Eve to January 2 have been time off from work, which is always something to be thankful for. This year is no exception - because of unused vacation days, I've been off work since 12/22, and don't return until the 4th. Still, it's not long enough and the days have flown by like birds I've tried unsuccessfully to catch and hold.
The most memorable NYE is 2008-2009, which is the year I quietly cried at midnight while listening to my mother gasp for each breath as she lay dying. I volunteered to spend the evening at her bedside so that my brothers could spend the time with their families. If I'm being honest, I cried not so much for her as for myself, spending what should be a joyous occasion in a hospital with someone who, had she been conscious, wouldn't have known who I was. I was jealous of those who were, as the clock ticked over to the new year, having fun and being loved, surrounded by people who, if they weren't quite coherent it wasn't because life was slowly leaking away from them. It was hard enough to have seen my mother lose the recognition of her family and friends while keeping the vibrant enthusiasm she had for life, but to hear with each struggling breath the tick of the death beetle and sit helplessly by, and on such as symbolic evening, was almost too much. All I could hope for was that father time would take her with him and he passed by, which he eventually did.
This year, as 2010 gave way to 2011, I found myself feeling thankful that I am here, that I know those I love, that I have memories good and bad, that I am capable of new adventures, and that I have more of life ahead of me. I know that it could end at any second, but it's not obviously eminent. My daughter is not at my bedside praying that relief come soon for us both. Rather, I have a new life to welcome into the world in a few months, a year of new experiences ahead, and the hope that all who I know and love will find that 2011 brings much joy and opportunity. My life, however simple, is good. That's all I need to take with me into a new year.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
ahhhh...two days of peace
It's been just about exactly 8 months since I left my job in Huntsville and ventured to the big city. I have so enjoyed living here that I know it will be very hard to leave whenever I do move back "home" to Alabama. My enjoyment, however, has been in 2-day per week pieces. The other 5 days of each week are less than stellar, and put such a damper on the whole experience.
To say I haven't exactly enjoyed my job is somewhat of an understatement. There have been times in the past 6 months or so that I've actually tried to calculate what it would cost me to leave it. If I leave the company within a year of relocation, I have to pay back the cost (prorated). The benefits with Navistar are really good, and beginning 2011 I will have 4 weeks of vacation per year. 4 weeks. Hard to beat.
There's also my lease on the condo which is locked in through April. And I love it, and I love living here. So what to do? Actually, what I did a couple of months ago was sit down with my boss and tell him straight up how unhappy I was. He was sympathetic and understanding and willing to do whatever I felt it would take to make things better. It all boils down to a couple of points: a) I was never given a job description, and I was never truly interviewed for the position in particular, and b) I am completely and utterly not qualified for the job. I had no knowledge of the area that my job covers, but felt tremendous pressure to know it and do it and be perfect from day 1.
My predecessor is still with the company, and actually just moved to a different position in the same department, yet, I got no help or guidance from him of what I should be doing and how. And to top it all off, I was not the only one who was new to the department - my immediate boss came in at the same time from another division, and was learning the ropes, and my counterpart in the department was also new to her position and very young and green and struggling.
After my discussion with the bossman, he learned some things that helped make sense of the situation. One was that my predecessor did not have any help or knowledge of the job when it was thrust on him, so he had to learn everything the hard way, and thought I should too. Gee, thanks. Another was that he really had no idea of my background or what I expected, and assumed that I had been interviewed and chosen for the job based on qualifications. Wrong. I even said I didn't want it, but was enticed by the promise of being involved in other areas also and broadening my knowledge. That had not happened because I also was short one person on my staff.
All of those things jumbled together have made for a tough time, and something I've really not wanted to document or discuss - but it is part of my experience here, and I want to document at least something about the whole of my experience. Things are better - with time, I've learned more and am feeling more comfortable with the tasks set before me. I've had support from my boss and from others who know my work and capabilities. And hopefully I can work toward restoring my reputation and status within the company as a valuable asset, which I feel has been tarnished (unfairly) by my slow start.
At the very least, I now feel I can manage through the remaining time that I'm here, however long that may be. The coming new year may bring many changes and opportunities, and I just need to take as much advantage of them as I can. It's hard some days to drum up any level of excitement about going into work, but overall, I can do it. Besides, they actually pay me pretty well and have given me this chance to step outside my comfort zone and test myself. Everything about it can be a positive for me going forward...as long as I treat it as the adventure it is and not take it too seriously.
Plus, I have those two wonderful days each week to relax, recharge, and release the frustrations of the previous 5 days. Weekends are a gift from the gods to combat the demons of work.
To say I haven't exactly enjoyed my job is somewhat of an understatement. There have been times in the past 6 months or so that I've actually tried to calculate what it would cost me to leave it. If I leave the company within a year of relocation, I have to pay back the cost (prorated). The benefits with Navistar are really good, and beginning 2011 I will have 4 weeks of vacation per year. 4 weeks. Hard to beat.
There's also my lease on the condo which is locked in through April. And I love it, and I love living here. So what to do? Actually, what I did a couple of months ago was sit down with my boss and tell him straight up how unhappy I was. He was sympathetic and understanding and willing to do whatever I felt it would take to make things better. It all boils down to a couple of points: a) I was never given a job description, and I was never truly interviewed for the position in particular, and b) I am completely and utterly not qualified for the job. I had no knowledge of the area that my job covers, but felt tremendous pressure to know it and do it and be perfect from day 1.
My predecessor is still with the company, and actually just moved to a different position in the same department, yet, I got no help or guidance from him of what I should be doing and how. And to top it all off, I was not the only one who was new to the department - my immediate boss came in at the same time from another division, and was learning the ropes, and my counterpart in the department was also new to her position and very young and green and struggling.
After my discussion with the bossman, he learned some things that helped make sense of the situation. One was that my predecessor did not have any help or knowledge of the job when it was thrust on him, so he had to learn everything the hard way, and thought I should too. Gee, thanks. Another was that he really had no idea of my background or what I expected, and assumed that I had been interviewed and chosen for the job based on qualifications. Wrong. I even said I didn't want it, but was enticed by the promise of being involved in other areas also and broadening my knowledge. That had not happened because I also was short one person on my staff.
All of those things jumbled together have made for a tough time, and something I've really not wanted to document or discuss - but it is part of my experience here, and I want to document at least something about the whole of my experience. Things are better - with time, I've learned more and am feeling more comfortable with the tasks set before me. I've had support from my boss and from others who know my work and capabilities. And hopefully I can work toward restoring my reputation and status within the company as a valuable asset, which I feel has been tarnished (unfairly) by my slow start.
At the very least, I now feel I can manage through the remaining time that I'm here, however long that may be. The coming new year may bring many changes and opportunities, and I just need to take as much advantage of them as I can. It's hard some days to drum up any level of excitement about going into work, but overall, I can do it. Besides, they actually pay me pretty well and have given me this chance to step outside my comfort zone and test myself. Everything about it can be a positive for me going forward...as long as I treat it as the adventure it is and not take it too seriously.
Plus, I have those two wonderful days each week to relax, recharge, and release the frustrations of the previous 5 days. Weekends are a gift from the gods to combat the demons of work.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
okay, i'm not 20 anymore...
If I'm still 20 in my head, why will my body not just give in and go along with it??
Last Saturday was the SEC championship game between Auburn and South Carolina. Being the Auburn alumni and fan that I am, the game was an exciting time as we try to make the National Championship game for the first time. Now, ever since forever, it's been my little tradition to jump around and sing the fight song when Auburn scores. Never have given it a thought. Seth and Lacy are very familiar with my little dance and have seen it numerous times, even joined in on occasion (but mostly laughed at me).
For some bizarre reason that is beyond me, providence took offense at my dance and choose at that moment to remind me that this is not proper behavior for a grown woman of a certain age. I heard a loud pop or snap or crack that definitely wasn't Rice Krispies. At the same time felt as though I'd been shot in the back of my leg. I've never actually been shot, but I'm pretty darn sure that's how it would feel.
Of course, I'm down, wondering what the hell was that, and not believing that something actually tore in my leg. I've always heard that you can hear when a tendon snaps, so my immediate thought was my Achillies, given that it was at the base of my calf. Actually, after visiting an Orthopedist on Tuesday, learned that (evidently) I ruptured my calf muscle, basically where the tendon connects to the muscle. This was the doctor's expert diagnosis, although he took no X-rays, did no MRI, and actually did little but look at my leg which looks like a normal leg. I'm trusting that, given he is a specialist, he knows whereof he speaks.
So I acquired a contraption that looks like a Stormtrooper boot, and was told to wear it for, oh, 3-4 weeks. The tear will heal on it's own. How we know this without some sort of closer examination, I'm not sure, but I have to trust that it will heal and all will be well again in time for the National Championship game, when I will refrain from my traditional dance. I am in luck, however, that it is my left leg, and I gave up on manual transmissions a couple of years ago, so driving is not a problem.
All-in-all, I'm okay with the injury. Not much I can do but be okay. I'm very thankful that it was not worse, as it was enough of a chore to tend to myself living alone and hobbling around the house. And thank you, Target, for having Bertolli frozen dinners on sale the week before. Without that "buy 4, get one free" deal, I would have had nothing but mac n cheese and field peas to eat. I did have to reuse my last coffee filter a couple of times, but at least I had coffee. That could have been a major disaster!
So, after over-doing it a bit the rest of the week, I'm determined to take care of the leg and listen to my body and not think I'm superwoman. I can't make it go away, or heal any faster, but I can delay the healing by straining it as I've done a few times. Beside, I have a couple of good books, ingredients for some taco soup, and the forecast is for rain-turning-to-snow. I have the city out my window, plenty of on-line Christmas shopping to do, yarn to knit, card games to play, and enough peace of mind to be happy doing any of these things.
I seriously doubt I would be able to manage that kind of contentment at 20, so I guess there's a bonus to being "of a certain age". It brings an ability to enjoy, even relish, simpler things and having time or occasion to do them. As long as the 20-year-old in my head doesn't start trying to take over, I'll be fine.
Last Saturday was the SEC championship game between Auburn and South Carolina. Being the Auburn alumni and fan that I am, the game was an exciting time as we try to make the National Championship game for the first time. Now, ever since forever, it's been my little tradition to jump around and sing the fight song when Auburn scores. Never have given it a thought. Seth and Lacy are very familiar with my little dance and have seen it numerous times, even joined in on occasion (but mostly laughed at me).
For some bizarre reason that is beyond me, providence took offense at my dance and choose at that moment to remind me that this is not proper behavior for a grown woman of a certain age. I heard a loud pop or snap or crack that definitely wasn't Rice Krispies. At the same time felt as though I'd been shot in the back of my leg. I've never actually been shot, but I'm pretty darn sure that's how it would feel.
Of course, I'm down, wondering what the hell was that, and not believing that something actually tore in my leg. I've always heard that you can hear when a tendon snaps, so my immediate thought was my Achillies, given that it was at the base of my calf. Actually, after visiting an Orthopedist on Tuesday, learned that (evidently) I ruptured my calf muscle, basically where the tendon connects to the muscle. This was the doctor's expert diagnosis, although he took no X-rays, did no MRI, and actually did little but look at my leg which looks like a normal leg. I'm trusting that, given he is a specialist, he knows whereof he speaks.
So I acquired a contraption that looks like a Stormtrooper boot, and was told to wear it for, oh, 3-4 weeks. The tear will heal on it's own. How we know this without some sort of closer examination, I'm not sure, but I have to trust that it will heal and all will be well again in time for the National Championship game, when I will refrain from my traditional dance. I am in luck, however, that it is my left leg, and I gave up on manual transmissions a couple of years ago, so driving is not a problem.
All-in-all, I'm okay with the injury. Not much I can do but be okay. I'm very thankful that it was not worse, as it was enough of a chore to tend to myself living alone and hobbling around the house. And thank you, Target, for having Bertolli frozen dinners on sale the week before. Without that "buy 4, get one free" deal, I would have had nothing but mac n cheese and field peas to eat. I did have to reuse my last coffee filter a couple of times, but at least I had coffee. That could have been a major disaster!
So, after over-doing it a bit the rest of the week, I'm determined to take care of the leg and listen to my body and not think I'm superwoman. I can't make it go away, or heal any faster, but I can delay the healing by straining it as I've done a few times. Beside, I have a couple of good books, ingredients for some taco soup, and the forecast is for rain-turning-to-snow. I have the city out my window, plenty of on-line Christmas shopping to do, yarn to knit, card games to play, and enough peace of mind to be happy doing any of these things.
I seriously doubt I would be able to manage that kind of contentment at 20, so I guess there's a bonus to being "of a certain age". It brings an ability to enjoy, even relish, simpler things and having time or occasion to do them. As long as the 20-year-old in my head doesn't start trying to take over, I'll be fine.
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