When Did I Get So Old?

Just one more quick post, as I'm almost off lunch...

Yes, there are many reasons I'm feeling old a lot lately, not the least of which is that my oldest daughter is TEN and my youngest, my babiest baby, is FOUR. Oh, no, not that. No, what got to me just now was that my LAUNCHcast station played a song by Boz Scaggs, and though I didn't recognize it, I sure did like it. LAUNCHcast also helped me realize, late last year, that I am a Cat Stevens fan. (Who knew?) Harry Chapin. Nilsson. Jim Croce. When did I get so old?

Oh, and if ANYONE can send me the words, or better yet, an audio copy, of "Miss Misunderstood" by the Bellamy Brothers, I will be forever grateful. And more than a little embarrassed.

A Moment of Reverence - But Just a Moment

From Stephen in Norway, who knows my passion for all things corny.

With all the sadness and trauma going on in the world at the moment, it is worth reflecting on the death of a very important person which almost went unnoticed last week.

Larry La Prise, the man who wrote the 'Hokey Pokey' died peacefully at age 93. The most traumatic part for his family was getting him into the coffin. They put his left leg in, and then the trouble started.


(SHUT UP. You know its funny, now pass it along.)

Dollar Bills

At the request of, and in response to, the friend in Kuwait who is a money-man for the Army and just told me how heavy $36,000 in ones are...

I can't imagine how heavy that might be, but I do know the unique power of $60 in ones. Again, drift with me back to the Dorm Room Days. *cue the Wayne's World wavy hands*

I don't recall if it was freshman or sophomore year, but there was a very attractive guy running with our crowd... Hispanic, long curly hair - what Gerardo (of "Rico Suave" fame) might have looked like, had he truly been either rico or suave... also, just one of the nicest guys you could ever meet. Anywho, kind of on a lark, he decided to go perform at Amateur Night at La Bare. Yes, it is what it sounds like. He recruited some of the gals in the gang to come see him and cheer him on, since victory is decided at least in part on audience response. He kept running around the dorms that week, reminding us when and where. Finally, he made one last sweep to make sure everyone was coming, before he headed over to the club. When he approached the group of girls I was with, he asked us if we were ready to go see him dance.

I held up the sheaf of crisp one-dollar bills (sixty of them) that I had gotten from the bank earlier that day, fanned them out in front of me, and stated, "Oh, yes. I'm ready." Poor guy turned about three shades lighter... but he went on, and did an excellent job.

It's hard to go wrong with black pleather pants with tearaway sides.

A Homecoming, and Rivercity

One of my soldiers came home this weekend. After over a year of troop support, it's certainly not the first time that's happened. But it is only the second time it's been an early homecoming. (No, this is not a horribly sad post...) The first was when Jack was injured. I still don't know exactly what the nature of the injury was, but he is alive and well, and home safe. And, thank God, I heard about the injury directly from him, in an e mail that both frightened me and thrilled me - frightened that he was hurt, thrilled that if I had to get news like that, I was getting it straight from the soldier (in a non-spectral form).

Now, Larry is home. Home on a medical... leave? discharge?... I don't know all the details yet, because he and I have yet to talk directly about it, except for a few brief moments on messenger when he still wasn't sure if he was getting sent home. Though I hate to see him in pain, I do love the fact that he's getting to go home a little early. He has a lovely wife who really needed him back... two beautiful children who will be so much happier to have Daddy right there with them... tons of us supporting him who are so relieved he is out of harm's way. When we were in contact more often, it wasn't unusual for him to have to turn off the IMs for a short while because of mortar fire. I can still remember the feeling of my heart leaping into my chest the first time he mentioned an IED going off about 200 feet away from his wall. It really brings things home.

One of my other soldiers... excuse me, one of my Marines, my "baby bruvver" Naterz, hasn't been online as much lately. He calls it... the Corps calls it (and I don't know if the other branches do too) Rivercity. I'm assuming, as in "trouble right here in." Rivercity is when there is a troop death, and communications are shut down until the family can be notified. The Marines as a whole, and especially in his area, have taken a lot of hits lately. It hardly seems that they come off Rivercity for more than a day or two, before he disappears from the boards again. Naterz is so young, only 21 (gosh, I have a nephew only a couple of years younger), and his lovely wife is 18. She has my phone number, she knows she can call me in an emergency and I pray she does.

I suppose part of me knew when I got involved in this, that I would get very attached, very quickly. And the day I lose one - I've accepted the probability that it will happen - I imagine I will react as strongly as if it were family. More strongly, perhaps, than some of my family... But, much like my work these many years past with HIV+ children, I think the reward is well worth the risk.

Come to think of it, I never lost any of my HIV babies. There's hope yet.

Be well, Larry. Stay safe, Nate.

Dancin' in the Moonlight

A song by, apparently, King Harvest. (Are they perhaps one of the many one-hit wonders that abound?) The same song that I heard as I was driving onto campus tonight, a post for my other blog already formulating in my mind. Good news, by the way, as it looks as though I will get a chance next spring to see a friend I haven't seen since high school, and one I'd long since lost touch with until recently. But I digress, as usual.

Back to the song. Dancing in the moonlight. Something I may never have done, and if I have it's been way too long. (In fact, it's been way too long since I've gone dancing, period. I need to do something about that.) So, in fact, is dancing in the rain. Though being late fall now, and this season still being quite warm in Texas, that might be a possibility. The only problem is, to go dancing in the rain really requires other people.

I could probably take my daughters out one weekend night, out to the park near their Meme's house, and dance in the rain. Of course, then I'd have to endure her calling me crazy and griping about it, and then the inevitable phone call later in the week to report sore throats and sniffles (whether or not they actually had them)... And besides, at least one of my daughters is enough of a princess, that she might enjoy it, or she might roll her eyes and have one more reason to think her mother's a little off her rocker. Yes, she is the child I call Poetic Justice - her sisters are Divine Retribution, and Karma.

My best friend would probably go dancing in the rain with me, if the two of us could ever experience the kind of harmonic convergence that is needed to spend any length of time together. Between work and family obligations for her, and work and school for me (she's "family" to my girls, and so could be worked in on that angle), and our own individual issues that eat away at our souls... well, we just can't seem to find the time. Though one of these nights, when things are a little quiet on my end, and it's raining, I will call her to come dance with me...

A man. Now, here's the kicker. There are men in my life I flirt with... men in my life I would have no problem going to the movies with, or dinner, or out for drinks, or any number of social-type things. One man, perhaps, that I trust and care about on the level that I could ask him to dance in the rain with me, dance in the moonlight... but for us, something like that can't be. There are other men with whom I sense that possibility, but it's not solid enough yet that I could ever approach them with it. It is, perhaps, an odd way to measure a boundary, and yet it works as well as anything would for me. My boundaries are like no one else's, I guess.

I have about 8 months left, 8 months of preparation and planning and getting my proverbial ducks in a row, before I make a major change in my life that I think is going to cure what's been more or less eleven to twelve years' worth of stress and strain. There's a line in a Tim McGraw song called "Grown Men Don't Cry." Country music, BTW, is much more than tears-in-my-beer music these days, but it still has its moments, and Tim has been good for a few of those over the years. Basically the line describes a boy clinging to his mother's leg, and she stands there with him, "years of bad decisions running down her face." Well, that's me in a nutshell, folks. They say the definition of insanity, is to do the same thing over and over again and expect different results. I think this time, I may have finally figured it out. I might be breaking the curse.

Keep me in your thoughts, I need all the well-wishes I can get to pull through the next eight months.

Best Ever

So last night on the radio, one of my favorite DJs intros a song by saying it's the best Don Henley song ever recorded. Then he plays "Sunset Grill." Granted, that's a good song, but I wouldn't call it the best ever. I guess more than a few people agreed, since I never did manage to get through on the phone, and he came back on the air afterward and said, "Argue if you will, but..."

Well, first of all (me having just come from my Research class where we learn to be very precise) my question is, what are the parameters? Are we talking about the best song ever recorded by Don Henley as a solo artist? The best he recorded with the Eagles? The best written or co-written by him, sung by the Eagles but not with him on lead? The best song written or co-written by him, sung by the Eagles with him on lead? The best song written or co-written by him, recorded solo? As you can tell, I spend way too much time thinking about Don Henley. And since I don't have any liner notes handy (and am too lazy to look for them online at the mo') I will just give a rundown of several of the best Henley songs ever, whether or not they were written or co-written by him, solo or Eagles.

Eagles:
Desperado - which is overdone, but for a reason, as it is SO good
Best of My Love
You Never Cry Like A Lover
Wasted Time
Hollywood Waltz
Witchy Woman
One of These Nights
Those Shoes
Hole in the World

Don, Solo:
Long Way Home
Talking to the Moon - makes me cry every time. Thanks, Bret.
Lilah
You're Not Drinking Enough
All She Wants To Do Is Dance
Land of the Living
How Bad Do You Want It?
The Last Worthless Evening
The Heart of the Matter
Annabel
Taking You Home
My Thanksgiving
Miss Ghost

Honorable Mention:
Leather & Lace (with Stevie Nicks)
Walkaway Joe - by Trisha Yearwood, with Don doing heartbreaking harmonies

If I had to pick just one... just one song that sums up the best of what he is and does... well, I really can't. But for the Eagles I'd say "Wasted Time," and solo I'd say "Talking to the Moon."

Maybe one of these days I will tell y'all which Eagles album is the best ever. Hint: not Hotel California!

Sacrilege in a Can

I'm Italian. Yes, go ahead, look at the picture again and you still won't see it in my pale skin and freckles, blue eyes and (currently) red hair. There are two reasons for that. First, ol' Gregor Mendel's theories of genetics have NOTHING on my Wilson blood, my mom's side of the family where we tend to resemble each other so much that my own mother has mistaken me for my cousin on more than one occasion - and grandfather has also mistaken my mother for that same cousin. Recessive genes, my hiney - we're all glow-in-the-dark-white, Coke-bottle-curved women. Second, the Italian in my genes is all from Northern Italy, where we tend to be more fair-complected. My nonna, born in "the old country," was pale (though she could tan like I can never hope to) with light eyes and auburn hair. She was from a tiny town called Acquafredda (Coldwater) in the Piemonte region of Italy - the cuff of the "boot." Her husband, my nonno (literal translation of that is "grandfather" but they were actually my father's grandparents) was from Genoa. For all of you Houstonians out there, it's pronounced JEN-oh-uh, not jen-OH-uh.

So anywho. By blood I am 1/4 Italian, and northern to boot. By upbringing, I am more like your average third-generation Italian-American. And so my lunch today, was sacrilege in a can. For all you laypeople out there, Chef Boyardee. Lord, I can hear my family gasping in horror all the way from Colorado and California... Sorry guys... I was desperate.

In ideal circumstances, you can't even get me to eat spaghetti sauce out of a jar or can. If worse comes to worst, I will use it, but add extra spices and seasonings to make it palatable. A few years ago, when Kris was in dive school, the secretary there asked him what kind of recipes I cooked for him, and he told her, "Mostly Hamburger Helper." I just about popped him one, screaming, "I'm never wasting another damn minute making you my homemade spaghetti sauce again!!!" He had no clue that every time I made spaghetti, the sauce was from scratch. He's lived to eat those words now, though. Sucker.

I make a killer lasagna... roughly 3 lbs. of meat and 2 lbs. of cheese (mozzarella, Parmesan, Italian blend - never ricotta or cottage cheese, with their nasty texture)... sauce that simmers for a minimum of two hours, because you need time for the flavors to blend. On more than one occasion, I've been "commissioned" to make a lasagna for a former supervisor. In fact, one year she paid me a ridiculous sum for lasagna, chicken picatta, cappelini with homemade pesto, antipasti, sauteed zucchini and mushrooms, and a store-bought pannetone for Christmas. One day soon, when my kitchen is all squared away and I have a new ravioli rolling pin, I'll start work on my next big thing... coming up with a recipe for crab-and-portobello-mushroom ravioli.

Great. Suddenly my sacrilege in a can is even less fulfilling.

Eighth Grade Math

You Passed 8th Grade Math

Congratulations, you got 9/10 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Math?

Thanks to the governor for this one, though I contend that I might have answered the other one if I had remembered what the little carat means.

There's A Moon Out Tonight

Strolling onto campus late last night (it is now officially early this morning) I looked up and saw the waning moon. It reminded me immediately of a few nights ago when the it was full, because on the way to dinner with a friend he had pointed out the most lovely harvest moon. Unbidden, the verses came to my mind:

There's a moon out tonight, wah wah wah ooh, let's go strollin',
There's a girl in my heart, wah wah wah ooh, who's heart I've stolen...

Yes, I, the classic rock lover, am hearing in my head some good old-fashioned 50s and 60s do-wop.

You've got to hand it to those guys. Their lyrics are downright banal by today's standards, yet somehow in the way they sang them, they sounded so lovely. Like this one, for example:

Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain, telling me just what a fool I've been,
I wish that it would go and let me cry in vain, and let me be alone again,
The only girl I care about has gone away looking for a brand new start,
But little did she know that when she left that day, along with her she took my heart...

Or the one I used to use as a lullaby for my daughters:

Earth angel, earth angel, the one I adore,
Love you forever, and evermore,
I'm just a fool, a fool in love with you...

There are probably a dozen others that I know all the words to, if I dig deep enough. For now, though, I will finally head off to bed, serenading myself with another old favorite:

You don't remember me, but I remember you,
'Twas not so long ago you broke my heart in two,
Tears on my pillow, pain in my heart caused by you...

Woo HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Never in my life has making a wrong prediction been this much fun! ASTROS WIN IT!! WE'RE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES, BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, off to go celebrate with a friend...

Oh, and just because I'm genetically incapable of short blog posts... Help me out, guys and gals, songs that remind you of/are about baseball?

John Fogerty, "Centerfield," comes to mind... "Boys of Summer" by Don Henley isn't about baseball but that phrase evokes it... What else?

Education Snob

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m an education snob. In my line of work, I come across quite a few people with very little education. The nature of my position puts me in contact most often with the ones who have “barriers to employment.” Most times, this includes limited education, often less than a high school diploma or GED.

I think I’ve always been a bit of an education snob. While my parents never pressured my sister and I to go to college, they also made us aware that they valued education and would support us in the pursuit of it. I’m not sure whether it was mostly their influence or my own, but I never once considered not going to college and getting at least a BA. Of course, when I was growing up (and it wasn’t that long ago, Gentle Reader) a high school education was sufficient to earn a living. A college degree of any kind was money in the bank and endless opportunity. My, how times have changed.

As life went on and I pursued my education, things were changing in the world around me. Three and a half years (and two majors) into my degree, I realized that I still hadn’t found the career I wanted. Right around that time, I foolishly let myself get pregnant, which sped up the dropping-out process by one semester. You see, it would have been four years at that point, and my scholarship was set to run out. My scholarship. Tuition, fees, room & board, book allowance. A four-year free ride that I basically pissed away. I wish I could blame it all on the father of my first two children, but the responsibility for that rests clearly on my own head, and is mostly due to my indecision about a career (though I doubt my parents will ever fully believe that it wasn’t all his fault).

So. I became a wife, which with the right partner is a completely rewarding experience – or so I’ve heard – and a mother, which is no-holds-barred the most important thing I will ever do. Meet my kids, and you’ll know why I say that. Still, things being what they were, I was pretty much the breadwinner of the family, and by that time it was pretty hard to be a breadwinner without higher education. I went back to school when my oldest was about to turn 2 and my now-middle was 7 months old. The following semester, I left their father. It took me a total of three years, two and a half of them as a single mother receiving no child support, to get my BA, all because I knew I could never support them the way they deserved without it. A few months after graduation, I got my first “professional” job. Two and a half years (and one child) later, though, I was laid off. No worries, I thought, because I have a BA and a certificate. I’ll find a job in a heartbeat, especially now that I also have experience.

I was out of work for 11 months. The first six, I was on unemployment, which doesn’t pay much. Luckily, the law that extended unemployment was still in effect, so that took care of three more months. Then it was December, and Grams’ Christmas check saved my butt. Then my tax refund, which wasn’t near as much as I was expecting because I hadn’t worked much that year. I was at the end of my rope, down to my last $200 or so, and frustrated because I saw listings for literally hundreds of jobs I could do – but they all required either a Master’s degree or the ability to speak Spanish. Knowing I had to do something to make myself more marketable, and knowing I couldn’t possibly become fluent in Spanish that quickly, I applied to grad school.

I got my acceptance letter about two weeks after I started my new job. So I had to make a decision again. I couldn’t afford to quit my wonderful new job. I also couldn’t afford not to go after my MSW, just in case I ever wound up laid off again. Sure enough, 13 months later as I was preparing for finals in my second semester, I was laid off again. Thankfully, this time it only took me a month to start working; I had my second interview for the job I now hold, the day after I took my last final. The job which, ironically, puts me in contact daily with people who not only don’t have a diploma or GED, but who honestly don’t see why they need one, or why they can’t get a job that pays $15 an hour without one.

Can you see now why I’m such an education snob?

I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night

In a recent post I mentioned that first week when I moved into the dorms here in Houston, before classes started in my first year of college, and me still a month away from being 18. Some interesting things happened in that week, and I’m in the mood to share.

For one thing, you have to keep in mind that I have always had ridiculously low self-esteem. For a variety of reasons, I entered college completely unaware that I was actually relatively attractive. I’ve never been skinny, but I had a nice shape back then, and I was young, free, and loving life, and it showed. Still, because I had no idea that I was even the slightest bit pretty, it took me a while to catch on to why upperclassmen were so… well… attentive. It started with my next door neighbor. The dorms (excuse me, residence halls!) in which I lived were co-ed by suite, as opposed to by floor. That meant that while the other set of residence halls had girls-only floors and boys-only floors, mine had mixed floors. Each suite was two bedrooms, with two people in each of them, connected by one bathroom. You would never find two female roommates and two male roommates sharing a bathroom, but you quite frequently found a female suite next to a male one. And as you may have guessed, mine was next to a male one (in that case, one of the rare single rooms instead of a suite). On move-in day, I followed the advice that some well-meaning O-team member had given, and left my door open so that people passing in the hall could stick their heads in and say hello. Sometime during the day, a guy stuck his head in and said, “Hi! I’m your new neighbor!” And my response, not realizing what it would sound like, was, “Oh, well then I’m yours!” (Go ahead. Laugh. It’s okay.) What I meant, of course, was that I was his neighbor. But you know horny teenage man-boys… Still, when we got past that little awkwardness, he was very kind and solicitous, offering to walk me to the bookstore to make sure I had everything I needed, take me to McDonald’s so I didn’t have to endure cafeteria food, etc.

In the next couple of weeks, I met a few more sophomores and juniors who were more than happy to show me around, help me with this, direct me toward that, take me here and there and everywhere… proofread my very first writing assignment… give me a massage. Yes. I fell for that. (But he was cute – I think I let myself fall for it.) Still, eventually I wised up, found myself a boyfriend, and got on with what I was there for – education. What, exactly, happened with that is a story for another day.

But there’s one story I wanted to tell here, just because it was so much fun. One small group of upperclassmen took a few of us freshman to a club one night. “Club” is perhaps a generous term. “Dive” would be more appropriate. But it was a dive in a good way – it was meant to be one, made no pretenses about it… Now, as I said, I was seventeen at the time. I have never in my life had a fake ID, either. So this club must have either been one that allowed minors, or they just weren’t carding at all. And I didn’t try to drink; I was still very much a non-drinker at the time. I was just there for the music. That night was KISS Tribute Night. Yes, just what it sounds like, a bunch of cover bands doing KISS songs. It was a blast. My favorite band? One called Cinco Dudes. They did three KISS songs in Spanish. Mariachi-style. Accordion and everything. They did “Sweet Sixteen” (but they did it as “Quinceañera), and, I think, “Beth.” And then they did the song after which this post is named. Yes. “Yo Quiero Rock and Roll Todo Noche.” And here I was, seventeen, blue eyes and long blonde hair, tight jeans, my black leather-and-lace tank top, dancing the night away in some dive in a city 2,000 miles from my home.

Can you see now, why I never looked back?

Game 5

Okay, I'm not a huge sports fan. And I tend to choose my team loyalty by geography rather than by anything significant like team and player records, wins v. losses, or anything else that your average sports-minded man can rattle off in his sleep. Of course, the whole geography thing really worked to my advantage in the late 80s, when my home teams were the SF 49ers (GO NINERS!) and the Oakland A's. Now... well... it's a mixed bag. (Texans, anyone?)

Anyone who follows baseball knows that the Astros lost last night Ninth inning, Cards came from behind with a three-run homer to win it 5-4. According to all the morning radio shows, there is a pall over the city. Me, I didn't watch the game. But I'm not too worried about it. Mark my words. We'll lose Game 6, too. But we'll win Game 7. It will probably be a hard win, a close game. Fans will be on the edge of their seats. But we'll win it. And it will be Roger's game. (Even if the Cards are managed by Tony LaRussa, who was the manager during the heyday of my beloved A's.)

Speaking of that... I do have to tell one little story that I love. Tenth grade, '88/'89 school year... I had long since discovered that once you establish a relationship as a good student and good kid, you can get away with things a little more. Our English teacher let me get away with a lot. That was also the year the A's and Giants were in the series. One day in class, as was the routine, while we were passing up our homework he asked if there was anyone who had not done the assignment. And for a change, I raised my hand. (I was the type to never skip a homework assignment, and I hadn't done it purposely, I had simply forgotten we even had one.) Looking shocked, he said, "Sara, you didn't do the homework?!?!" I looked him straight in the eye, shrugged my shoulders, and said, "The A's and the Giants are in the series - who can concentrate?" He eyed me with wary appraisal for a minute, then shrugged his own shoulders and said, "Can you hand it in tomorrow?" I thought for a minute, then agreed that since there wasn't a game that night, I could probably manage it. I handed in the assignment the next day, and received full credit.

Harris County for Kinky

Just in case you're a Houston-area person who wants to join in the fun: HarrisCo4Kinky-subscribe@yahoogroups.com At least, I think that's how to do it! LOL If you have trouble with it, let me know and I'll try to figure something else out...

The Grammar Police

My mother would be so proud.

You see, when I was growing up, my mother was a stickler for proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Not that she was rigidly against us ever using slang (or using it herself), but she made sure to drill it into us so that when we were called upon to use proper language, we were fully able, and completely comfortable in doing so. To this day, I agonize when I can’t properly express myself without ending a sentence with a preposition – even in cases of “accepted usage.” I could be reading the most engaging book in the world, with fabulous character development, a tight story line, and everything else that goes into a good story, yet if the author makes too many glaring errors, it takes me completely out of the book. I swear, I should be a copy editor. One of the easiest ways to get on my last nerve, is to write “should of” instead of “should’ve” or “should have.”

Now, you must understand, I LOVE MY JOB. I really do. I might have a few bad days, I might be frustrated with certain policies, procedures, and unrealistic performance standards. I may come home with “stupid customer tricks.” There may be a few people around here that I just avoid on general principal. But I really do LOVE MY JOB.

That said. What I don’t love, is reading through other people’s case notes and seeing horrible, horrible affronts to my grammar sensibilities. Some day, when I finally crack up (or win the lottery) I will run through the building buck naked, screaming, “Customers are not ORIENTATED, they are ORIENTED!!! We do not RESEND sanctions, we RESCIND them!!! SUBJECTS AND VERBS MUST AGREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!”

Maybe not naked. I guess it depends on who’s in the building that day.

Moonlight Ride

This post, like my mind, will likely wander a little bit, because there are some separate-but-related things flowing through my mind. Let's see if we can follow the train of Sara's thought through multiple derailments, shall we?

It started with my drive onto campus tonight, as twilight was just beginning to fall, to meet with my group-project-partners. Not a meeting I particularly looked forward to - there is nothing at all wrong with either of them, I get along with them just fine, but I had spent all day working on the project and was not in the mood to dissect it any further. So, hiking across campus toward the library with my purse, heavy backpack, and borrowed laptop, I took a look at the campus for the first time in ages. You see, I've been back here for grad school for the last, oh, fourteen months or so. But all of my classes have been concentrated in one small area of campus. And in fact, when I was finishing my undergrad back in the late 90s, I pretty much stayed in the same few buildings too. So I miss a lot of the prettier areas of what is truly a lovely campus. And that got me to remembering... (doing the little Wayne's World wavy-hands flashback thing)

Back when I started school, the cutoff dates were later in the year. So while my eldest daughter started kindergarten a few weeks before she turned 6, I started a few weeks before I turned 5. That left me as a high-school graduate at age 17, and moving to Houston to begin my college career one month and one day before my eighteenth birthday, lo these many years ago. The first week, classes hadn't yet started, it was time to move in, get settled, get acclimated. And one thing that some of the upperclassmen did (though perhaps not with the purest of motivations) was an unofficial, informal midnight tour of the campus. Just a bunch of us, wandering around campus at midnight, seeing it perhaps not for the first time, but for the first time in that way.

This is really a beautiful campus.

I need to go on one of those walks again, though not alone.

Flowing into the next thought... There's something I don't do as much anymore, and really should. But between the cost of gas and some very bad memories now associated with the island, I don't go to Galveston the way I used to. No, it's not about the beach -having grown up in California, the beach at Galveston is little better than a joke on a good day, a downright insult on a bad one. Instead, it's about the water. You see, I'm a waterbaby at heart. Where I grew up was not by the ocean really. My city was on the bay, but I lived on the far side of town from it, and it wasn't the same as the ocean. (In fact, the Naval Shipyard where my dad worked was there, and I just didn't spend much time around there.) But still, for some reason, I have an affinity for water. I think better when I'm near water - ocean, lake, river, it doesn't matter. When I really need to think about things, I used to drive down to Galveston at night (this was especially good when I had a car with a moonroof) and just park at the seawall, not even get out, but just watch the waves rolling in and crashing against the shore. I would just go to Clear Lake instead, which is closer, but I have bad memories there too. I'm slowly but surely running out of bodies of water from which to seek comfort.

My other traditional sources of comfort have been taken from me as well. I used to love to just drive and drive until whatever was on my mind, had processed itself thoroughly. Now, with the price of gas and my mounting bills, that's just not a viable option either. And with no hot water at the house, I can't even take my trusty two-hour baths. A pint of Ben & Jerry's, while sometimes necessary, is a luxury I can't really afford anymore, not without doing even more damage to my poor abused, neglected body. I need to get out of here for a while. My weekend in DC was a wonderful start, but it wasn't enough. I need a real escape. The odds of that happening before 2006, however, are not so great. So I guess for now, I'll just blog my way to some semblance of inner peace, and see how long I can hold off the demons this time.

Cool

Listening to the radio on the way to work this morning, I heard Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.” You know, the one with the creepy-spooky scream at the beginning? I still remember my mom telling me how she heard it on the radio once late one night during a storm when my dad was out on a TDY, and how it freaked her out. So anyway, this morning, listening to it, an odd thought struck me (as odd thoughts are wont to do). How many bands on the planet, other than Zeppelin, can get away with such… well… strangeness? I mean, that’s not your typical rock-and-roll scream (for that, just look toward Roger Daltrey on “Don’t Get Fooled Again”), that’s a… primal howl, more or less. And then I thought about how few bands other than Zeppelin could get away with including references to classic literature:

T'was in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair.
But Gollum, and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her, her, her....yeah.

Off the top of my head, the only other artist I can think of who could get away with it, is Sting, who referenced Vladimir Nabakov (of “Lolita” fame) in “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.” Some singers/bands/artists would sound stupid and pretentious trying to make those kinds of references. From Robert Plant and Sting, though, it just sounds… cool.

Who is undeniably cool? Eric Clapton – undeniably cool. Carlos Santana. Pete Townshend.

You know who else is undeniably cool? Bass players. It’s always the bass players. Mario Cippolina, the undeniably cool bass player in one of the world’s unabashedly NOT cool bands, Huey Lewis and the News. George Harrison, the coolest Beatle. (George Carlin says the wrong two Beatles died first.) John Taylor, the babe in Duran Duran who was my first musician crush. Well… except Shawn Cassidy, who my mother always called Shawn Crappity. And except for the Bay City Rollers. Hmm…. Maybe I’d better not go down this road LOL it’s quite humiliating. Back to bass players. Good old John Entwhistle, may God rest his soul. Yeah. Bass players are cool.

20 Things

Got this e mail that’s been floating around, and since I think it’s a fun one, I’ll bite.

Here are twenty random and/or little-known facts about me. Now send twenty about you back to me, and to anyone else you want to play this little game.

1) I learned to read when I was three years old (and apparently I’ve never really stopped – I’m the kind who will read the back of the cereal box if that’s all I happen to have handy).
2) I’ve had problems with ear infections for my entire life.
3) I lack training, but apparently have excellent raw talent in the healing art of Reiki.
4) George Harrison is my favorite Beatle.
5) Despite many “brothers” and “sisters” in my life, I only have one biological sibling, my sister Michelle – but she’s as good as twenty normal siblings!
6) I once dressed up as a lawyer for Halloween. It was the scariest thing I could think of.
7) I’m afraid of clowns. But I used to collect porcelain pierot clown dolls.
8) My grandfather made his living for many years as a professional musician, playing with the likes of Buck Owens and Bob Wills.
9) I love to listen to the Gipsy Kings
10) I don’t like beer or wine.
11) I am possibly the only Italian on the planet who doesn’t like onions and peppers.
12) I have blue eyes, but what my “real” hair color is these days, is anyone’s guess. (I suspect gray.)
13) I don’t know my children’s social security numbers by heart – but I know the social security numbers of their fathers.
14) My only trip outside of the US has been a day trip to Tijuana when I was 11 years old, with my parents.
15) I’m a sucker for a man with strong forearms.
16) I went to Catholic school for 12 years – and yes, it generally is.
17) I believe in angels.
18) I think I look just like my mother… but I think I have my father’s smile, which he got from his father, who passed away long before I was born.
19) I am a caffeine addict.
20) I’ve had plenty of crushes and plenty of boyfriends, but I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over my first real love.

Flirt

I often joke that my daughters were born winking at the doctor. That’s not too far from the truth; they are all born flirts. No surprises there, as both respective fathers are terrible flirts, and of course, I am their mother. The poor things never stood a chance.

Still, I sometimes wonder why I am such a flirt. It’s been pointed out to me before, that I tend to take on a different tone of voice when I’m speaking to men as opposed to women. (The fact that I don’t differentiate between attached and non-attached men when using said voice, can sometimes cause a little tension.) Sometimes, I catch myself saying something that could be interpreted the wrong way (or the right way, to my chagrin) and finding myself unable to back out of saying it. Take last night.

There is a very attractive guy in one of my classes, and somehow, somewhere along the way this semester, we’ve wound up sitting together, and working together in small-group assignments. Last night, however, was the first time it was a partner assignment. Just me and him, sitting together and talking about our respective projects. Mine, of course, has a military component to it, and he said something along the lines of, “I think I remember you saying your husband is in the military, right?” I quickly corrected that I have many friends in the military, but my “husband” is only my husband on a technicality, and he’s definitely NOT military material. Actually, my first statement was that my husband was irrelevant. I can’t bring myself to lie and say I’m not married, since legally, I am. Still, “irrelevant” tends to sound like I’m just unhappy in my marriage, as opposed to being out of it, for all practical purposes, for almost 8 years. So as I’m tripping over my words to correct and explain, I realize that I must sound like I’m trying desperately to convey my single-ness. (Which, you may recall, is also not the-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth.) So. Remove foot from mouth, and lead the conversation back to the task at hand.

I am also one of those people who has a soundtrack to my life, and always has songs running through my head. This time, the one I was thinking of was one I’d heard several times during the day, because my Windows Media Player just kept bringing it up on the random shuffle. I made the comment, as I have often in other situations, that it’s difficult to concentrate on anything when there’s a song running through your head. Even as I heard the words coming out of my mouth, I was cringing inside. Because of course, the natural response to a statement like that is, “What song is that?” And of course, that was his response as well. I blushed, said it was an old song and he’d probably never even heard it, and then, mumbling at how it might have come across, said, “Kiss You All Over.” I mean really... honestly… if a man made a comment about having a song on his mind, and then said that was the name of the song, I would think it was a clumsy attempt at a come-on. Hopefully, though, the ensuing conversation about music deflected that. And I found out we like some of the same stuff, so there ya go.

I also resisted commenting on just how beautiful his eyes are, so I think I’m okay.

Now if I can just keep myself from, accidentally-on-purpose mentioning to him that I have a blog, he will never read this, and then might never know what a total hottie babe I think he is.

Stick-Polishing Day

I'm a huge fan of the books by Robert Fulghum. They're collections of essays and stories, and you're probably familiar with the one that prompted his first book, "All I Really Need To Know I Learned in Kindergarten." His stories are typically warm, funny, a bit nostalgic, a bit spiritual... my kinda thing.

I've been stressing a lot lately, over a lot of things. A wonderful friend reminded me just a few minutes ago, that I do have a lot of stress in my life, more so than most people. And it brought to mind one of the Fulghum stories I had read, many many years ago. I'll paraphrase it for you.

Sometimes there's just too much going on in life, and not enough going right. There are some days when you just wish you could stop, focus on one thing that you know you can do well, and do it. Fulghum suggests that everyone should have one day in their lives when The Powers That Be approach him or her, and relieve him or her of all duties, responsibilities, and tasks for that one day. Instead, s/he is given a stick. A medium-length stick, not too skinny but not too fat, and a rag, and some polish. That person's only job, for the entire day, would be to polish the stick. Nothing more, nothing less. Just polish the stick. To the best of his/her ability, to be sure, but still. Just polish the stick. At the end of the day, a small ceremony to honor the accomplishment. A proclamation that never before, in the history of the world, has a stick been polished in quite that way. A certificate of achievement, perhaps, or just a literal pat on the back for a job well done. But something. Some acknowledgement that one simple, seemingly meaningless task, has been done and done well.

I want my stick day. My day when I leave work and not worry that I haven't done something for someone that I should have, not worry that my job is in jeopardy now that the one person I knew for sure was on my side, has transferred. My day when I look at my daughters and know for certain that everything I'm doing to try and build us a better future, will really succeed, and that there isn't any irreparable damage being done in the interim. A day when I know there is a light at the end of the financial tunnel, when all of my utilities are turned on and paid up at the same time. My day when someone (who isn't my parent or sister!) tells me that yes, I am worthy, and yes, I count, and yes, my presence on this planet makes a difference. Someone to tell me, "Sara... ya done good."

Affirmation. I want affirmation. Of me, as a human being. Is that too much to ask?

I bid you adieu; I'm off to finish some homework, and then see if I can find a stick to polish.

Take the Kinky Pledge!

Okay, folks, I promise this blog isn't gonna become all about my favorite gubernatorial candidate... but our efforts have entered a new stage today. If you're a Texan who is interested in pledging to forfeit your vote in the Republican or Democratic primary, and instead be one of the over 45,000 signatures we need to get an independent (and kick-ass) candidate on the ballot, get in touch with me and I'll sign you up. And if you want to debate his merits with me, or hear why I think he's such a great candidate, I'd be happy to accommodate you as well.

I'm psyched, y'all.

Get Kinky in the Capital!

Friends,

You're probably gonna think I'm crazy. Then again, if you're counted among my friends, you already know I'm crazy and we can dispense with the preliminaries.

I'm writing to tell you why I've decided to throw my support and my... umm... somewhat limited but nonetheless earnest resources behind the best political candidate I've run across in a while. Yep. I'm jumping on the Kinky bandwagon, and doing my best to help elect Kinky Friedman as governor of Texas in 2006. As he himself puts it, "Why the hell not?"

But why? Why the hell? Well, if you visit http://www.kinkyfriedman.com/ you can read his platform yourself. One of my favorite parts? That he is dedicated to real education reform for Texas. Some of you may remember that I once planned on being a schoolteacher, until I realized what a horrible mess the Texas educational system was and that I wanted no part in it. He plans to go right where he needs to for plans on reforming the system - the teachers.

You can watch the first KinkyToon right here, and see some of the other reasons I think he can - and really should - win this election: http://www.kinkyfriedman.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=102 But first, he needs to get on the ballot. And this will be the most challenging, and possibly most rewarding, part of the whole process. He needs to get more than 45,000 registered voters' signatures on a petition in just 62 days after the March primaries. And if there's a runoff, he'll have half that time. Added to that, petition signers must not have voted in either primary. He is urging voters to stay away from the polls with a campaign called "Save Yourself for Kinky." I've pledged to forfeit my right to vote in the Democratic primary, in order to help Kinky make it. (Honestly, it's really a matter of paper or plastic anyway!) Why would a socially conscious, reasonably intelligent, and politically active/aware voter do such a thing?

BECAUSE I BELIEVE HE NOT ONLY STAND A CHANCE, BUT DESERVES ONE. And I believe he's Texas' only real chance at change.

As the year goes on I'll learn more about what I'm going to do to help. Meanwhile, I urge you to suspend disbelief for a minute (if you can do it in the movie theaters, you can do it here!) and take a look at the web site. Look at who he is, what he stands for, what he's trying to do. And consider joining me up here on the Kinky bandwagon.

The view is mighty fine.

Much love,
Sara

Thanks, Ma!!!

The things my mother sends me! LOL

http://www.chickenhead.com/stuff/peephole/index.asp?name=

Pardon me, but your breasts are buzzing...

(Warning, this one is a little... ummm... PG13?) I'm in the school computer lab right now. Ergo, I can't have the ringer turned on for my cell phone. I have to have it set on vibrate - which means, I have to have it somewhere, where I will notice if/when it goes off.

These pants have no pockets.

Setting it on the countertop would make the vibrations almost as loud as if I left the ringer on.

So my cell phone is nestled in the span of lace that webs between the cups of my bra.

You really couldn't tell to look at me; my breasts are of a size that, at least in this kind of shirt, the fabric stretches across without clinging to me, creating a little pocket of space where the small phone can remain hidden. It's fine. Just as long as nobody's looking when I go to answer it.

Last week I was at work, wearing a dress with no pockets. I do keep my phone turned on at work, in fact it's on almost 24/7, just in case I get a phone call from Kuwait, Iraq or Afghanistan, where sometimes my boys call at odd times stateside because it's their only option there. So I had the phone tucked into its hiding place. Fridays are also the days that those of us with cubicles in the back, have to come sit on the front line and assist our co-workers. The cubicle walls on the front line, when seated, do not reach my shoulders.

So I was with a customer, with my phone in its strategic location. It didn't ring, no, I could have ignored that. No, instead I was trying to do a calculation that would impact a customer's participation with us, only the computer I was on mysteriously didn't have a calculator function on it.

What did have a calculator function? My cell phone.

Trying to look as nonchalant as possible, I discreetly slipped a hand down the front of my dress, withdrew the phone, and flipped it open to begin the mathematical operation. Lord, I hope the cameras didn't report THAT back to the home office. I'd have a lot of 'splainin' to do!!!

The Great Teddy Bear Caper

When Hurricane Miah and I made our plans to move into our own place, we went apartment-hunting. We came back to the dorms on the first day, exhausted but thrilled. We hadn’t found an apartment yet, but we did find one of the essentials to quality living. Namely, the stereo system.

It was perfect. Radio, cassette decks, a 5-CD changer, and even a turntable. (For you younger folks: CDs used to be called “records” or “albums” and came in the form of large, unwieldy disks of shiny black grooved vinyl. They were played on a “turntable” which was an exposed circular platform that spun around at different speeds – records came in 33 1/3, 45, and 78 rotations per minute. These “records” sometimes had distortions such as sound fuzz and feedback, which can’t really be described if you’ve never heard them. Go ask your parents to dig one out for you…) So, without yet having a home in which it would reside, we bought the stereo system and hauled it back to the dorms in her little Ford Tempo. She was living at home at the time, where it would not have been wise to store it just yet. Parents can be so picky about impulse purchases!!! I was living in the dorms in a fairly small, and already full, room. But across the hall, our good friends Spencer and Nelson had a fair amount of free space. With a little gentle persuasion (okay, maybe more like manipulation) we got them to agree to house our stereo. Hmm – they got to USE it for those couple of months, so maybe they were the ones with the good deal…

Anywho. As it got closer to the end of the semester and time to move all of our stuff to Miah’s room at home for the summer, Spencer and Nelson (mostly Spencer, though, that becomes significant in a minute) started hemming and hawing as to whether or not they would give the stereo back. So we took drastic measures.

We kidnapped Spencer’s teddy bear.

With a little assistance, the details of which I am sworn to carry to my grave, we relocated the teddy bear. Now, let me state for the record that he was never in any danger. In fact, I daresay he enjoyed his time with us. Many times as we were checking in on his safety and welfare, we saw a happy smile on his fuzzy face. We even thought we heard him snicker with glee a time or two as he posed for pictures. Yes, pictures to be included with ransom notes. We’d dirty him up a bit, coax a look of terror out of him (he was quite the little ham) and then snap a photo. But the master stroke, the perfect touch, was the second ransom note. Of course we followed Regulation 1.1a.224.c of the Ransom Note Handbook, cutting words and letters out of magazines to spell out our message. But in addition to that, a photo, again clipped from a magazine. A dimly lit operating suite, the only light the harsh glow from an overhead bulb. A team of surgeons huddled so closely over the operating table that the observer cannot see the patient. And our cutout letters spelling out: Give back the stereo or the bear gets it. We even very carefully staged things, with the assistance of a hired gun, so that we were with Spencer and Nelson the entire time they were gone from their room when the ransom note was delivered. Shortly thereafter, they received the photo of the bear, complete with a “bloodied” “bandage” (made with Kleenex and a red marker) over his shiny black nose.

Distraught, they quickly returned the stereo.

Now, I am not like a certain teddy-bear-hater that many of us know and love. During his captivity, the bear was well-cared-for. He was fed, had plenty of time to frolic and play, was well-groomed regularly, and even had a variety of books and music with which to entertain himself. And, as previously mentioned, he played along with the scheme quite willingly. Still, let this be a lesson – when you try to come between women and their music, sleep with one eye open, and don’t let your teddy bear out of your sight.

A Huge Pain in the Neck

No, not a co-worker, customer, in-law or ex… I mean, a real, physical pain in my neck.

I volunteered at the Army Ten-Miler this past weekend, and had just a fabulous time. No real physical exertion on my part, either, other than protracted walks along the race route (the Pentagon, how cool is that?) and to the restaurant for lunch. I slept comfortably on a bed much better than my own. Yet yesterday morning, back at home, I woke up with a stiff neck. It wasn’t too bad, but worsened over the course of the day until, at night, I could barely turn my head. It’s even worse this morning. I have no idea why, what’s causing it, or what to do about it. I can’t afford a chiropractor or a massage – and, sweet and well-meaning friends, please don’t offer to cover the expense for me, I am SO not good at accepting help. My sweet baby bruvver Nate already suggested doing that, and I declined, though I appreciate the gesture. I’m relatively sure it’s just stress, though the latent hypochondriac in me keeps whispering, “Isn’t a stiff neck a symptom of meningitis?” (Thanks, Grams, for that particular piece of my ‘redity – why couldn’t I have inherited your metabolism instead?) Anywho… no idea as to why I’m writing this, really, other than to solicit a little input. Two questions: Does anyone have any idea what might be causing this? And, if it is stress, what are your favorite stress-relief tricks that might help me?