Signs...

...that you're being a tad over-emotional:

When you see this "commercial" and burst into tears.

Signs you're hormonally over-emotional:

When you think about this commercial after watching a re-run of X-files and burst into tears. Then of course when your man asks "What's wrong" you get mad because he just doesn't get it.

Computer Free

I started my day today at 5AM and ended it near 9PM.

I spent my entire day without once touching a computer. No web surfing. No Excel Spreadsheets. No pulling reports from the mainframe. Nothing.

Not even email.

The last time this happened was when I was locked up with my husband in a small cabin in the wild woods of the Adirondacks.

A completely computer free day.

Well...until I had to chronicle the computer-free day on my blog.

Whatever.

God

I know where it started. I was thirteen, alone, on a Sunday morning. I tied my white tennis shoes at the top of our stairs outside and looked around. Nothing but sun - warm, sky - cool and green. Green for miles. Maalaea Bay to the south, Kahului Harbor to the north. Behind me Haleakala crowned in white clouds around it's majestic summit. In front the West Maui Mountains - Mauna Kahalawai - and it's lush valleys, cool rainforests and the towering Iao Needle. That needle covered in green, soft and inviting. Unattainable and intimidating.

All around me was beauty, perfection, life and the living. Maui pulled it from the sea with his hook, Pele built it to the sky with her fire, Kane made the forests and Lono fed it with the wind and the rain - his peace and prosperity.

And inside I felt it. I felt the green seep into my bones. For the first time in my thirteen years of life I felt happy. Alive. Surrounded and inundated with joy. I felt the beauty of being me, of being a woman alive in the world. I felt the miracle of the beat of my heart and the feel of my skin. Warm sun against my body, cooled by the gentle wind. I could taste the growing things.

That heady smell of flowers that hits you hard. Invades your senses and fills your chest. The prickle in your skin when you can feel the grass grow up, stretching towards the sun. Hear the birds talk, the tree rustle.

Feel the very earth spinning beneath you.

That was God.

I've been chasing it ever since.

Cold

The other day I watched my cat move sleepily from her napping chair towards her napping bed. As she walked past me and my desk she stepped into a long patch of sun shooting warm patterns on the floor. Her hind legs froze, her front legs kept going, but eventually she moved her little body into a contented cat stretch then plopped down to soak up the sunshine and nap right there on the floor.

I envy her. Lately my body has been bent and bowed not just with exhaustion but cold. I’m freezing. All the time. I wake up shivering under piles of blankets in a cold bedroom. I shake through my shower, growling at the two minutes of hot water tease before the pipes fun cold.

I shiver in my clothes. I chatter in my coat. My large house, with it’s white cavernous rooms sucks the heat away. My office pumps cold air onto my cube and I struggle to type emails with gloved hands. Math class finds me trying to curl into a ball under my desk.

I’m cold. And I can’t warm up. It exhausts me. It drains me. I long for that small patch of sun to curl up in. Just a little bit, just to be warm for a few minutes. That’s all I want.

This morning as I was moving myself from my sleeping bed to my cold car, I found my own patch of sunshine. A large, warm , inviting ray of light shining through our front door window. Standing at the foot the stairs I was transfixed. I leaned forwards, watching the streaks of bright yellow light shoot out over the snow covered lawn, through bare trees, over the whole world outside. It called to me. It begged me to stop, to look, to listen. I wanted to touch the light, to lie inside it and soak it up the same as my cat. I wanted to be naked in the light, to feel it's warm arms wrap around me and straight into me. No more bundles, no more artificial fleeting patches of warm, just pure heat. Inside and out.

In my quest to get closer I moved towards the door. Closer and closer I got, my skin tingling to feel that hot touch, those rays of sun scorching my skin, breathing heat and life and energy back into my lungs. Close I got to warm, to light, to wakefulness. Until I hit the door. Cold, hard, uninviting glass. The suns rays refracted in it, splashing colors across my face, but no heat. I turned my head and pressed my cheek against the smooth surface. Light broke through it, painfully bright, it burned into my eyes. But I was cold. The glass was cold, my cheek was cold, my body was shaking with cold. The door held me up, but inside I was frozen, still, and lifeless.

And outside, in that patch of sunshine the snow was frozen and the air was windy.

It was bright, but it was cold. And I just can’t get warm.

Forgetfulness - Billy Collins Animated Poetry

Fun with Text Messages

Somewhere between the beers and the hard stuff our friend got a text message on her cellphone.

“Oh! Oh! I got a message?! How do I open it?”

Despite being somewhat technologically up to date (meaning I have an ipod and knew how to use a mac before they came in five fruity flavors) I'm not a big text-ing girl. The last one I sent was documented on my blog with a picture of the supposed dead body on my porch sometime in October of '06. The last one I received was a few months after that and had to do with the sex of the newest anticipated addition to my familial clan. (He's not here yet, but he's coming soon...) Anyway, I don't do the text thing much. So it was my guy who swooped in and showed her how to open the message.

Both of us were sure it was a text from her daughter – her daughter really likes text messages – to the tune of a thousand dollar cellphone bills – I was sure it was her daughter.

In fact it was some unknown man who had left some semi-inappropriate message about her work attire and the way she used her “desk”. It was cute, she blushed. We giggled. We drank.

The someone in our group suggested we text back.

And boy did we. Between the three of us (and mostly between me and my guy, vicariously living through our unsuspecting 40-something, catholic, suburbanite companion) we got this man to “apparently” lie down on his bed, get naked, and talk about that thing that most women don't really care to talk about and most men can't seem to stop talking about.

In other words, we got dimensions and measure, in detail. And we really didn't need to work hard to get it either. He was pretty forth coming with his -er- desires.

Finally, once we had finished off a few more drinks, and clearly had worked the guy into a lather hot enough to have him suggest “meeting”, we decided that this little cyber-sex encounter (all of which had taken place in a bar, between dances and alcohol) needed to be cut off. But because we were in a bar, there were drinks and we all had our cellphones out we decided to do it in probably the 1) worst and 2) most cliché way available.

We sent him a picture of the two of us women making out with the tag

“No thanks hon, I got all the company I can handle here.”

That brought the end of the messaging and the beginning of a phone call where we discovered we knew the guy. From the office.

I'd like to say that now, sober, well-rested and in the harsh light of day I regret our little cyber-foursome in the middle of the bar. I'd like to say I regret a heavy flirtation with someone I work with in a professional capacity (though really he was flirting with her, he didn't know there were three people on the other end, but most of what was said came from me). However, I'm don't regret it.

Actually, I feel pretty good about it. Was it cruel? Probably. Was it inappropriate? Only because he made it so. Did he have it coming? You bet. Last night was payback for all the times our managers have ever stared at our breasts instead of our face. Last night was payback for all those little nicknames they use for women, regardless of rank. Last night and that quick little put down was a culmination of years – years – YEARS – of putting up with the gropes, glances and comments behind my back. Behind her back. Behind the back of any woman who has the guts to put on a skirt and a little lipstick and brave going to an office full of men who clearly haven't progressed past the 1970's.

Oh hell – the 50's.

Last night our text-companion did what it feels like ever man out there is dying to do everyday at the office: Whip it out, show it off, and gloat.

And last night we said what I feel like every woman wants to do everyday at the office, or at least I do:

“Put it away. It's not that interesting and you still don't know how to use it.”

Guilty Blood

Every time I go to give blood (or platelets), they of course test me for anemia. And every time they do, they take out that horrid little needle and jab my small little finger with it.

It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't always make it a point to say "This is the worst part of the whole thing."

Excuse me, I beg to differ. I think the worst part is that big, horse size needle they then attempt to crush into my un-horse-size arm. Seriously, the thing is huge, they might as well just slice me open and let me drip into a bowl.

And I wouldn't be complaining so much if it wasn't for the fact that I have a little vein that apparently is terribly difficult to find. Oh they know where it is...somewhere in my arm, but usually I get a great big stick, then a few searching pokes through my skin while they circle the needle around and around and around my vein - but never in my vein.

I'm a group effort. Today at the apheresis donation I had no less than three woman come and look at my vein. And prod at my vein. And move the needle around and around my vein.

But not in it.

They're determined though. Determined to suck my blood and plasma and platelets right out. And I'm determined to give it. But what I don't understand is why they have to move the needle all around. After a few tries couldn't we just re-stick? I'd rather have a bunch of holes in my arm than a bunch of scratches inside it.

Today we failed to get the vein. Not for lack of trying. I sat on the chair with a great big bag of ice over my newly bruised arm and felt like crying. Not because it hurt that bad, it didn't, but because I felt like I had failed. Me and my veins had failed. We had the best of intentions. My heart, both the pumping one and the metaphorical one, was ready to give whatever I had away. I have plenty of clotting stuff, and bloody stuff, and liquid stuff. I'm ready, I'm willing, if you need it, you should have it.

And I couldn't do it. I kept saying sorry to the nurses. In my head I kept saying sorry to all those people with leukemia. To all those people who are getting ready for surgery and all those people who need their loved ones to get better, to be there for their families.

Stupid thick needle. Stupid thin arm. Stupid vein. Stupid me. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid.

Every time I go to give blood they take out that horrid little needle and jab my small little finger with it.

It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't always make it a point to say "This is the worst part of the whole thing."

No really, the worst part is going through it all, and then failing to give what's needed. Failing all those people who are counting on that blood. That's the worst part.

Engaged!

I'm piling in the car, me and all my stuff. The bag with my lunch, my books, a magazine incase I don't feel like studying, my purse, gloves I haven't put on yet, my hat that fell out of my pocket, water bottle...basically I come with a lot of baggage. And once I'm belted in he turns around and drops a little box, wrapped in a white bow, into my lap.

"Happy Valentines Day!"

I'm already flustered and floored and I haven't even opened it yet. I gush, and fiddle with the bow, wondering if I should wait till we're at my office before I open it. But no, I'm urged, and inside is the most beautiful ring ever. Sparkly and colorful, classic and natural, in other words perfect.

And fancy.

I can't stop looking at it. I'm a girl. I put it on, then I take it off, then I put it on again. It's too pretty. When I wear it, it really is the most beautiful thing about me. It makes my hands look worked, used, plain. But I love it.

I couldn't say thank you enough. I couldn't say it right. My husband bought me a ring. It was such a surprise.

I wear it to the office. Constantly slipping it up and down and around my finger. Giving my right hand preference. I find myself watch my hand more than the computer screen. The gems sparkle just enough to catch your eye everytime. I want to show it off, but I keep my mouth shut, till someone notices. And they do. And then they point it out to everyone and suddenly I'm surrounded by a bunch of women, all oohing and ahhing appreciatively at the beautiful ring. The ring my husband got just for me.

My engagement was short, two days short actually. And it started with a phone conversation.

"I was wondering if you wanted to elope?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really"

"Okay."

And then we did. There were no rings or gowns. No bridesmaids, no rubber chicken, no flowers. Just us and the vows.

But as my friends and coworkers start to get engaged around me I've noticed the little rituals I missed during my engagement. Getting to show off the ring, tell the story over and over, relive that giddy little turn of the stomach that you feel at the moment, and feel the giddy little vibes from your friends. I didn't get that. I didn't think I needed that.

But I'm a girl and I admit, it was fun. It was fun to tell my story over and over. It was fun to hear them coo over the ring. It was fun to pretend I was marrying the man of my dreams.

Call it vain and materialistic. It is. But I don't care. I loved being the center of attention for a minute. I would have teared up the same and been just as giddy over snow tires, but no one would have been as excited. Our office "Mom" wouldn't have called the girls over to coo over my tires. Instead I needed something flashy, something pretty, something special in order to get their attention.

And when I did I loved every second of it. Not just the ring, or the attention on myself. I more liked the fact that I was special for a moment because he is special all the time.

And, I think, I'm the girl he decided to love.

What it's really like to be me

Asking the wrong questions at the wrong time:

During naptime when it is clear that he's juuuuuust about to fall asleep.

"Kitty's nose is cold and wet. Are all furry little animals noses cold and wet?"

"I don't know."

"Is a bunnies nose cold and wet?"

"I don't know"

"What about ferrets? Are their noses cold and wet?"

"I don't know."

"Do guiena pigs have cold wet noses?"

"I don't know."

"Do hamsters have wet noses?"

"I don't know."

"What about mice? Does mouse have a wet nose?"

"I don't know."

"Are mouse hamsters wet?"

Silence.

"Oops. Oh, I suppose only when is rains in mouse hamster land..."

"ARGH!"

Yeah, I know. I don't know how people deal with me either.

But Don't Trust Borders

Saturday rolls around. I'm up. I'm out of bed. I'm ready to go.

Go now...now now please...let's go now!!

Four hours later my husband is finally considering putting on his socks.

Despite the delays I manage to get to our local Borders on the appointed "Harry Potter Sticker Day". One Day Only. Come in on Saturday and get a sticker. Only on our "Harry Potter Sticker Day" We had to stop for lunch first, and lightbulbs, and the traffic sucked...but I made it. I waited for three days to reserve my book and - you know - get a sticker.

This was better than Christmas.

By the time we got to Borders I was basically running through the doors and straight to the info desk. I stood in line patiently, nearly growling at every person who I perceived was trying to get ahead of me - even when they actually just wanted to check out the half price romance books.

Finally, I get to the bubbly blonde who is more than happy to take my reservation for Harry Potter number seven.

She takes my name.

She writes down my address.

She takes my phone number.

And my cell phone number.

And my work number.

And she askes me if I've ordered anything in the last six months.

Then she chit-chats with her manager about some display thing.

Then she asks me if I've ordered anything in the last six months - again.

Then she waits while my reciept prints out.

Then she tells me about the price and discounts and yada-yada-yada.

All the while I'm jealously eyeing her "Ask me about Harry Potter! and our new stickers TODAY!" badge.

She hands me the receipt and there is a quick, awkward moment of silence.

"Um, could I get a sticker?" I ask, sweetly, if not a little anxiously.

"Oh, we don't have any...they haven't come in yet."

I don't know how I didn't break down into full toddler mode right there, but somehow I managed to thank her politely and walk away.

Inside I was throwing a full blown temper tantrum.

I WANT A STICKER!!!!!!!!

We spent the rest of the day going grocery shopping and supplies shopping and gag-me computer store shopping. My husband bought me a new mouse pad...but it was no sticker.

The weekend sucks.

And Borders sucks more.

Trust Snape!

Did anyone know that Microsoft finally released Vista? Finally?

Yeah, neither did I.

But I do know that today is the first day you can reserve yourself a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - the seventh and final installment of the Harry Potter series. I also know that on February 3rd at Borders you can reserve your book (or reserve online and go to the store on February 3) and get a free sticker.

That's like way cooler than Vista right?

As soon as I found out about the sticker...I've wanted one. I want a sticker. I want the special, fancy Harry Potter sticker. I will wake up early on Saturday and bounce around from the front door to the bedroom until my husband FINALLY wakes up and FINALLY gets dressed and FINALLY gets ready to go.

Cause I want a sticker.

And I don't care if they look at me funny. I don't care if I'm the only one in line for the sticker who is taller than 4'5''. I don't care that I am not twelve-years-old.

I want, I want, I want!

Now all I have to do is decide which one I want:

Trust Snape

or

Snape is a very bad man

Oooooh, decisions, decsions.

Danny Sullivan

Danny Sullivan is a former racing car driver who won the Indy 500 in 1985. He's the only man to have spun in the Indy 500 and still win the race.

I didn't know about this till tonight. It's a little tidbit I'll probably never need.

But the real disturbing part of this trivia is how I learned about it. My computer professor, my very-much-older-than-me computer professor, was making fun of a Danny that happens to be in my class. During his not-so-funny-taunting he mentions that Danny Sullivan was the only man to win the Indy 500, even though he spun his car.

"Of course though, maybe you all don't remember it since that was in 1985..." he said.

"Before our time I think." I proffered

And it is. Though I was three years old at the time, three year olds aren't known for their interest in the Indy 500.

Then Danny opened his mouth:

"Yeah, I was born in 1988 so it was really before my time."

1988?!?!

When the heck did I stop being the baby? When did I go from being that young-punk-kid with the funny quips about ageism and the ignorance of youth and become - dare I say it - and adult?

1988...I was in college before this kid started high school.

And now we're in the same class.

I just did a 360 - hope I can win like Danny Sullivan.

Deep Sick

Around this time of year when everyone is catching the winter flus and colds you start to see a lot of blog posts about the humanity of the common bug. Long winded essays on the common threads we shared in kleenex and sudafed abound. A lot of people choose to point out the way even the greatest titans can be laid low by the same bug that afflicts the poor. Some point out that the simplification of a sick-life (one where you spend your thinking-time thinking about getting some juice and nyquil) is a welcome relief opposed to our over-thinking, over-working, over-reaching exsistence in this cold western civilization.

And it's all bull.

There is nothing profound in getting sick. There's still less pro-founded-ness in being sick. There is nothing beautiful and deep in the way my nose has become more blocked than the Holland Tunnel at rush hour - and sounds worse too.

There is nothing attractive or comforting in my need to slam my face on the desk of my cubicle every twenty minutes just to feel the cool plastic-covered particle board on an otherwise burning cheek.

There is definitely nothing humanizing in the way I consider not washing my hair in the morning just cause I don't have the strength to standing in the shower that long. If anything that makes me go back a few steps on the evolution ladder.

No the only deep thing about being sick is the deep pile of tissues I'm amassing and the deep piles of work I'm avoiding.

So ther....achoo.

I can do Maths, me! Pt. 2

Amount of time spent in Math class at community college each week:

3 hours

Amount of credit hours the computer thinks I spent in Math class at community college each week:

4 hours

Amount of hours worked at real job each week:

45 (on average)

Amount of time suggested by computer for studying for Math class at community college:

8 hours (2 hours per credit hour)

Amount of time suggested by teacher for studying for Math class at community college:
16 hours (8 hours per class meet)

Amount of time that actually exsists between work and other classes at community college for studying for Math class at community college:

2 hours (Lunch time on Wednesday, Lunch time on Thursday)

Wait...that doesn't look right either...

I can do Maths, me! Pt. 1

Tuition cost at Community College for Math class:

$344 (at $86 a credit, for 4 credits)

Book costs for Math class at a Community College:

$535

Amount of money you spent on the books that you didn't spend on the tuition:

$191

Wait...that formula has gotta be wrong...

Excel-lent Secretaries

"So I've been sending this report out now for two years right..." my fellow 'admin' starts while we're going through the quarterlies.

"...and no one has said a word about it. I subtotal it by person and leave the detail in it, so they can pull it up if they need it."

"Of course."

"Well today, after two years, I find out that they've been complaining to Boss Person about not getting any detail in the report at all."

"What sort of detail were they looking for?"

"The kind that's in the report, they just didn't know you had to click on the plus sign to expand the report."

"You mean the great big button next to their name in excel?"

"Yeah, that one."

"That's okay. My group still hasn't figured out how to open multiple tabs in the same worksheet."

"You mean they can't click on the word at the bottom of the screen?"

"Yep."

"Yep."

Barenaked Ladies-In The Car

Not that there is much to this post, but yesterday I finally went on iTunes and bought a bunch of CD's (as opposed to making my husband do it for me). And now every CD in my car's six-cd-changer is a Barenaked Ladies CD (Stunt, Everything to Everyone, Barenaked Ladies are Me (two cd's), Barenaked for the Holidays, and Jane). And yes, I have listened to this song a total of 15 times today. And that's saying something because my drive to work is only 8 minutes long...

How 'bout this weather

Not that I have to point this out to anyone, but it's kinda warm. And someday, when our civilization has been destroyed and replaced with the new one they'll go through all the thousands upon thousands of blog posts from our era and pin-point that it was the winter of '06-'07 that started the beginning of the end.

Because it's the middle of January and I just took out the trash (down our 250ft driveway) wearing a tank-top and slippahs (that's flip-flops to you non-hawaii people).

And I didn't shiver once.

Okay, that's all I had to say.

Apple

We were at the Apple store. Drooling appropriately at the cool toys and sterile white-ness of the iPod church when I pulled him aside to look at the mac notebooks. They were white, cute and sitting in a little row of three, just begging to be typed on and fiddled with - which of course we immediately did.

I was having fun for a few minutes - navigating away from some dorky myspace page and surfing my way over to google when someone interjects - okay yells

"I was using that computer! That's mine!"

I turn around to look at, and then because I had to, look down at a short kid and his slightly taller friend standing there, glaring at me (up at me) and looking as menacing as someone who is probably fourteen years old could. (And that's actually fairly menacing.)

I instantly pulled out my rapier wit and divine eloquence to respond to this rude little hooligan with a

"Oh...okay?"

Fortunately, my guy was a little quicker on the uptake.

"What did you just say?" he shot out.

"I was using that computer. I was on it." I'm sure there was some big word mixed in there too like 'fuck', or 'fucking' or something equally useful, but I was too busy attempting to recover myself from my startled cod-fish impression to notice.

"Really, were you standing there? Were you buying it? Because I didn't see you..." He went on. Clearly more articulate than my pitiful "Oh". And for a moment, I ignored the conversation and was struck by the fact that he was protecting me. Defending me. It was such a surprise, such a shock. He could have been sitting on a white horse, with a big sword and chopped their heads off while sweeping me off my feet and riding me to safety and I wouldn't have been more affected. It was a warm feeling. It tingled straight through me, starting at my chest and moving it's way down. I wasn't paying attention to the boys, in fact I forgot they existed for a moment. All I can remember is the way he stood with his feet planted just so and his shoulders back. The way it looked like his muscles were tightening and how my touch felt on his arm. I remember looking at his lips, pursed just so, the way they do when he's passionate about something. The way I've seen a million times, usually when he's angry with me.

Then I heard the gravel in his voice and I looked back at the kids who had at first started out tough, taking that offensive step back to plant themselves and eventually lunge. Then quickly taking the defensive next step which clearly showed a fast submission. Why don't I notice these things normally? Why did I see them now? What was so familiar about them. It was as if I was watching a nature show and someone was narrating the play by play. Now the dominant male will circle in order to convey that this is his territory...

But it wasn't a wolf cub who I was looking at. It was a scared kid who threw up his hands and tried to escape while I turned to my wolf man and did the typical wolf woman thing. I put my hand on his shoulder and said softly "It's okay."

Before I could concede the computer the kids had fled and the two of us headed for the exit, and he held my hand.

Wrong Daughter

I have a sister. She's older than me. Older by about 13 years. She also looks startling like me. Or I look like her, since I'm the younger one. We don't talk a lot, or at all, and we only see each other on rare family get-togethers. But every time we do see one another, we tend to look the same. Same hair styles, same hair colors. Same clothing choices. We also have the same eerie addiction to yummy hand lotions and other potions you find at Caswell Masey. All this despite not actually having lived together at all.

Regardless, we are pretty similar. And to add to our weird genetic link we also were both given names starting with "K". Hers is a semi-indian name (Native American name) while mine is a semi-scottish one. They don't sound alike, or look the same on paper. They aren't similar in sound. The only similarity is the letter "K".

You would think with the way my parents easily confess that they are scatterbrains, they would name their two daughters something completely different. Like Susan and Maryann or Padra and Carly. Something that's not easily mixed up. Something that would be distinctive based on each distinctive girl. But they didn't. Instead I grew up most of my life being called my sisters name - regardless of the fact that my sister moved out of the house by the time I was four.

It did offer some amusement for me at times. I do remember being bellowed at by my Father while he repeatedly called me by her name. Likewise, my Mother liked to give me compliments, that were always a bit tainted because she used my sisters name to offer them. And in my most bratty teenage years I got a lot of mileage out of a rueful stare and a coolly uttered:

"You have the wrong daughter."

The mileage on that one ran a little thin after awhile though. They may have been yelling at me using the wrong name, but they definitely meant to be yelling at me.

Once I moved out it got better. It's harder to call someone the wrong name when you're writing a letter or making the effort to call on the phone.

Well, harder, but not impossible. Especially for my Mother, as evidenced by the last two voicemails I received on my cellphone today:

Message 1:
"Hi K******, I'm just calling to let you know that the doctors didn't find anything wrong, so it's all done. Talk to you soon. Love Mom"

Message 2: (Following right after)
"Hi Kathryn, I'm just calling to let you know that the doctors didn't find anything wrong, so it's all done. Talk to you soon. Love Mom"

Message in Reply:
"Hi Mom, it's me. Glad to hear you're fine. By the way, call K******, she didn't get your message. Trust me."

Love your daughter: K-A-T-Y