First off, the folks I've met (both in-person and not) because of this thing are some of the kindest, most entertaining people on the planet. How unfathomable would it have been to hear that I'd be marrying one of them! Especially because not a lot of people knew what a blog was in 2005--it took a great deal of lengthy explaining to get my parents to understand that we met by BUMPING INTO EACH OTHER at Jazz in Strange Places, not by going out and looking (of course, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that). Trust me, if I were making requests I would have listed "Illinois resident" as a criterion. And then I would have completely missed out on H.
Second, in 2005 I was working at the dungeon, then the Canadian company, then the startup, then freelancing. And now I'm back to the employer whose summer checks kept me in Pokey Sticks, textbooks, cover fees and the occasional cup of coffee throughout college. As much as I mourn the fact that I don't get to use the skills I honed for a decade every single minute of the day anymore, it sure feels good to have benefits.
Third, relatively recently I loosened my grip on secrecy and put my photo up on the blog as well as sharing the address with, well, PRETTY MUCH EVERYONE I KNOW. That's progress, y'all. Especially for a control freak like myself.
But it just wouldn't be a blog anniversary without a recap. So indulge me. Here's what you missed:
Ten years can change a lot of the details, but the sentiment is the same. There's no such thing as a vacation from your life--and perhaps the best way to figure out where you're going is to take a good look at where you have been.Thanks for reading!
When I ripped open the wrapping paper that morning, I noticed that Brigitta Sylvia looked slightly different than the *real* Cabbage Patch Kids my friends had. But my mom--clever as always--put on the spin: My doll was WAY cooler than everyone else's because she came all the way from GERMANY, just for me.
5. If you want to be sure I will get absolutely nothing accomplished, leave me home alone where there are one or more of the following: a television, a couch, a bed and/or the Internet.
The light display was very cool. And seven years ago--when I could dance all night in four-inch heels and run around without a coat when it was below freezing--it would have been pretty freaking awesome.
But is it all for nothing? Am I going to be the annoying person whose children roll their eyes whenever she tries to get them interested in some music or a movie? Does it make a difference that I can cook all this stuff if nobody wants to eat it?
Unemployment means I can come home, drive her to appointments, pick up medicines--and most importantly--smack her around.
But I needed that venting--nothing gets you primed for productivity like the sleeve-rolling-up exercise of describing how much the impending job makes you want to throw yourself off a balcony. And apparently people enjoyed reading them. When I graduated, several people told me how much they'd miss the frenetic warnings against waiting until the night before the exam to start the assigned readings or stories of how a computer-lab stranger can really do you a solid by banging on the table when he noticed you drooling on your psychology book.
I have been logging in some serious hours in front of the television--escaping into the drama of fictional people really takes the edge off of my real-life issues.
Suddenly some Indian-sounding lady (I normally wouldn't categorize, but I happen to be intimately familiar with how they sound and have recently been talking with dozens of call-center people) gets on the line, says "You're welcome" as if she were in the middle of talking to someone else, and HANGS UP ON ME.
I got my brother on the phone to give her a good scolding and she sat back down. Then I went to finish chopping the spinach and hadn't been in the kitchen two minutes before she was out in the driveway dragging in the empty garbage cans from the curb.
For me, the best way to hone a skill is by playing for keeps. And this project slowed me down and steadied my hand.
Apparently the legacy of the "professional" wrestling my brother used to watch--Jake "the snake" Roberts, "Macho Man" Randy Savage, "Rowdy" Roddy Piper, Hulk Hogan and Ted "the million-dollar man" DiBiasi--continues through their children.
When I asked the Wonder Twin who completed that last challenge, I realized I never had a chance; she had been playing some sort of Facebook flag application game and locked it down in a matter of seconds. Who says Facebook is just a time waster?
h) So many people are hassling us to get married, even though we barely have enough cash to purchase the Betty Crocker for a cupcake tower.
And for an extra-curricular activity to my full-time job of being on hold with them, I'm gathering a posse to kick Citibank's collective ass.
But H's youth spent building bike-riding dirt ramps came in mighty handy. Our method was to fill the wheelbarrow, push it into the center of the yard, take a running start up a ramp in the dirt and dump it without getting flipped over or dragged down.
And there was even a 12 Angry Men moment during which I convinced half the table that a particular idea would be a flop because it had even less sincerity than Rock of Love.
A long time ago I had visited the dungeon's illustrious tower on a school field trip and turned to a friend and said, "I'm going to work here someday." And I did. Sure, I sort of referred to it as a torture chamber (out of love, of course), however it really was quite an experience and I learned so much. So I'll have no regrets.
3) I stopped counting the number of pairs of surgical gloves (for my own protection whenever I dealt with a patient) I put on and took off today somewhere around 38. That was before lunch.
The person um-hmmmed. I started to elaborate, but she cut me off with a comment about Heidi Pratt's boob job.
I can't imagine you training anyone on anything other than obscure football regulations and video-game cheats (Up, Down, Up, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, A, B, A, B, Select, Start).
"Bloodwork does not lie. Unless someone stuck an IV full of sugar into your arm while you were sleeping..."
I must admit, we haven't yet run out of things to say. And I hope we never do, because today he asked me to spend the rest of my life talking to him, and I wouldn't want it any other way.
My brother is having panic attacks. For his entire life he has always been the one in jeopardy, the one people toss and turn worrying about. He has absolutely no coping skills to deal with feeling so powerless, terrified and being too far away for a hug. All I can offer him in the way of comfort is a welcome sign to our side of the fence.
He didn't, in fact, have any cameras on me (which is a shame, because I sort of hammed it up for an audience of nobody).
This futility-of-love-against-life-threatening-illness seems to be a running theme in my life.
7) Hospital employees GET THE FLU, TOO. And double the patients with half the staff makes for a little longer wait. Bring a crossword puzzle and be a little considerate.
"Cadiz, when you become a parent, you'll be ecstatic if your kid will flush the toilet."
I think it's going pretty well so far. Except for that one patient whose husband was, um, difficult, and tried to chase me back into my office, rip out all my hair and feed it to me.
"When they ask you about a date, just tell them we've narrowed it down to one of 12 months."
I know I shouldn't be bitching. Two months ago, I didn't have steady work or health benefits. I just need a hot bath and a nap.
If only I had gotten the "morning-person" gene (I'm the only one of us who has a problem waking up); getting this engine going in the a.m. wouldn't always be such a terrible experience.
b had gone in, become a "fan" of Jeff Hardy and written "I LOVE YOU JEFF HARDY!" on the wrestler's Facebook page. Except to Jeff Hardy and the rest of the Facebook community, it looks like that message was posted by a 30-something philosophy professor.
People who have to give up that much of their take-home pay to have a roof over their heads can't get a refinance, but if it only takes up 28% of your income, you can get a lower rate pretty easily. I mean, I get it, but I DON'T GET IT.
For goodness' sake, on phone directories where numbers are listed by department, instead of the name of her area it just says her name.
Cc and I were giddy from the fanciness (and champagne).
By the way, I don't feel like doing Thanksgiving this year; your brother isn't even coming home. So we're coming to the condo. Okay?
I stopped watching the show last season after the plotline became too ridiculous to bear, but a girl's got to put aside her principles when it comes to a nice-fitting pair of pants.
It must have been tricky to keep sight of something as silly as an extravagant birthday party for your six-year-old when your 2-year-old is getting ready to have open-heart surgery.
"Whoa, greedy, what if all you get for Christmas this year are hugs?"
With that, I snapped right back into consciousness. Not my mom! Please don't call my mom!
5) My new Realtor took a look at the activity in our building for the time my place was on the market and gently explained that it had been listed far too high for far too long and was actually being used as a bargaining point for other units to be sold at a better price.
We don't even know 5,000 people, so we're counting on your votes and we're hoping you'll ask other people to vote for us too.
Also, PLEASE TAKE TWO MINUTES TO VOTE! We are just 258 votes out of the t0p 50 and cannot expect the competition to stop where they are. We can do this with YOUR help!