Finding Joy in Snarkville

…is paved with a plan.

Lately, I’ve been all about the plan making.  (The plan doing has been a harder thing to grasp and hold on to.) But I’m so into the plan making.  Now to be fair, I’ve been pretty much making plans since um, birth, and haven’t slowed down much.  So, I wouldn’t say the the sheer making of the plan is the mature part here.  But there is a shift.

You see, it isn’t the PLAN itself, it is the GOAL of the plan that shifts my focus.  I was pretty frank the other day when I lamented over the fact that I couldn’t just grant myself all my wishes in the world.  I was an economics minor in college — and the very definition of economics is “balancing unlimited wants with limited resources.”  Wow, sound like anything we’ve talked about recently? Which leads me in a very roundabout way to my point.

A few days ago I was talking to a neighbor and she was stunned to learn that not only had I gone to college, I had a degree and in fact I’d spent a number of years working for VERY large companies making VERY good money.  That conversation has rocked me to my very core.  It isn’t my neighbor’s fault that she didn’t know of my resume — since I’m not one who speaks of it, my diploma hangs in my office that no one sees, and since her connection with me is Cub Scouts and our kids, how would she even know that I work?  And while I have no desire to announce to every person I meet “I used to BE somebody.” I’d really like to know that someone isn’t shocked that yes, I did in fact get a degree.

This has lead me down a spiraling road about where exactly is Point Z.  When I was 6, I wanted to be a policewoman and lock up all the bad people in this world.  By the time I was 10, I wanted to follow in the footsteps of my hero (and favorite President), Thomas Jefferson, and become an architect (bet you thought I was going to say President, right?) By the time I was 15, I wanted to own my own catalog company. By the time I was 30, I stopped having a clue what I wanted to do when I grow up.

Alas, there is the need to figure out what is Point Z and build a plan to get from here to there.  At church yesterday, my minister was talking about this very idea of what is the goal of man.  Oh, sure there is the Sunday School answer that the goal of man is to glorify and worship God, but he was talking about what do we DO with that.  You know, when Sunday School answers become application?  Well, he offered up a few questions to really ask ourselves:

1. What do you LOVE doing? What is it that brings you great joy, that you drop everything else to do, that your whole world lights up when you even talk about it?
2. Is that thing legal and moral?  (His point is that if you are very good at being a cat burglar, perhaps that’s not God’s calling in your life.)
3. Then seek it and do it.  Because it is most likely your calling.

Now, I’m pretty sure that I’m not called to sit and watch TV, avoid all housework, eat bon bons, or go shopping — though all of those things make me incredibly happy.  But this question has lead me to wonder about what exactly is this thing(s) that I could love so much. I want to tell you that I’ve figured it out, but I haven’t.  What I’ve figured out is that I might not really need to know where Point Z is yet; maybe step 2 in the plan is just prepping to find out.  So, I built my new plan — in parts

PROFESSIONALLY

1. I’m going to go back to school.  Wow, that looked as odd in type as it felt when I called Prince up and told him this is what I wanted to do.
2. I’m going to focus on two things that interest me most; they work together a bit and I think I’ll figure out what works best once I’m in it.  Both areas of study are good skills to have both for some future job/career; my current job; and for things I want to do personally.
3. My goal is to be taking classes again by the fall.  At first, I’m not seeking a degree — though I’m leaving myself open to this.

PERSONALLY

1. By the end of 2010, I intend to have the pile of stuff I’ve wanted sold and out of my life gone.  I’ve sold quite a bit off on eBay, and I’ll continue to.
2. By the end of 2010, I intend to make at least $1 on something crafty I’ve made.  I love to craft, I doubt I’ll make a fortune at it — but I can not use all that I make; I want to share them with the world.  To this end, you see that tab at the top that says “Products” — well, watch that space — it will be filling soon enough.
3. By the end of 2010, I shall finish my photo project.  I have a ticker to the right that is charting progress.  It is based on the guess that there are 25K photos to deal with — as I get further and get a better idea, I’ll update that number.  Once per week, I’ll update the photo count of completed.
4. By the end of 2010, I will dedicate a week (though I want to do it for a month), to cooking everything from scratch.  I want to try to eat nothing pre-packaged for an entire week.  I will have more on this as I get the plan together — as you will probably walk through that week with me.

What I’m not planning on having by the end of 2010?  A known Point Z.  I’ve gotten to the point that I think Point Z will become apparent if I just start taking the some steps. I’m pretty sure that not all of my ideas will pan out and be home runs, and some may simply be the learning experience that I don’t need to keep that pipe dream any longer.  I want to turn my focus away from figuring out the exact way all this turns out, to the process of getting there.  I want to focus on sorting through my pipe dreams to find my own personal reality.

Sometimes doing the grown-up thing isn’t fun or exciting and nearly always isn’t the thing we want to do most in our lives.  If we define childhood by instant gratification, then we ought to define growing up as the tendency to delay gratification longer and longer in light of more rational choices.  So, my theory is that the more we delay the instant, feel good, I want it right now feelings, the more grown up we are.

By this theory, I’ve just aged 10+ years!

So, here’s the deal.  In January, my laptop died.  I mean DEAD.  It does not boot, it doesn’t make noise, there is nothing that comes out of that laptop at all.  Thankfully, I had Time Machine up and running and was able to restore my whole personal life onto my iMac that now does double duty.  This is not an ideal solution, mostly because I spend more hours in my office now than in my family room — but it is working, with only minor complaints.

Now the first question is “why didn’t you run to the nearest Apple store and replace your beloved MacBook Pro?”  Well, have you watched the news lately, there is this recession thing and money is um, tight.  We have been slowly working towards a place where we will not feel the pinch and have been doing ever so good with it.  We’ve lived on a budget, a tight one, for a long time and while I could have just run out and bought the new machine, I felt that the more responsible, the more grown-up thing was to use the perfectly acceptable machine in my office for awhile.

The next question, “So, you have to have a plan, right?”  Well, yes, yes I do.  You see, I did a cash flow analysis (shut up) and saw that we’d be in a better spot for the big purchase in July and that would make a bunch more sense than in January.  See also, July isn’t too far away and I will be able to do this and maybe my feeling and requirements will change.  I’m also looking at a smaller machine, in an effort to be more frugal.

Then it happened.  First, there was a massive hard drive enclosure failure.  The drives themselves did not fail (thankfully), but nearly every photo that we have taken since 2000 was on those drives and when the enclosure failed, I cried.  I feared the worst.  We backed up all we could and began to frantically research solutions with redundancy and back-ups and ways that we’d never have to worry about this again.  In the process, I got this wild hair (well, truly it had bugged me for a very long time and I’d been putting it off for sheer laziness — which truly only make the problem worse) that we needed better organization to said photos.  I dream of having books printed of our photos, of the years of Duke’s life, of us to force our friends to sit through — you know the fun.  So, while Prince researched photo storage, I researched photo organization.  We downloaded and tried out several bits of software — please note, this is a Mac household and since Macs come with iPhoto, it appears very few people are willing to write great photo organization software for the Mac — iPhoto was NOT our solution.  I fretted when my top contender seemed to be too unstable to handle all our photos (numbering at least 10,000, but perhaps as many as twice that — the final tally is still waiting to be counted).  We finally settled on iPhoto’s big brother, Aperture.  While not free (or cheap), it solved most of our problems and worked within the needed framework.

So, last night (as our free trial was ending), we made the pilgramage to the Apple Store to buy copies of Aperture (yes more than one, because we have two people and ultimately 4 computers that will use this program).  While we waited, I took to moment to make sure that my earlier decision to downsize the screen on my future (JULY) laptop was the right one.  And then I did the stupidest thing I could do — I picked up one of those dang iPads.  I was instantly in love. I was instantly thinking of all the things I could with it that I can’t do today. I was thinking how it would make my life perfect and complete and I was ready to run away into the sunset with my new iPad.  But then that rational, adult voice came into my head.

It said:

• The iPad is new, you want to wait until the next generation is out.
• Remember the price drop on the iPhone? You don’t want there to be an upgrade or price drop shortly after you purchase.
• You REALLY need the new laptop, the iPad is a nice to have, but won’t solve your problem.
• Don’t forget, you and Prince don’t share well, so this isn’t a single iPad purchase, but two.
• There’s this recession going on, you really have been working to a noble goal and you are on your way, don’t stop now….

My adult, rational brain SUCKS.

So, we left the shiny Apple store (and I ought to note, in the interest of full disclosure, that they were out of stock and thus I could not have bought one if I wanted to).  We talked it through.  We both tried to marry our adult, rational sides with the “I want it” sides — to this is there is no middle ground.  I have put them into and out of my cart on the Apple site so many times you’d think I was doing the iPad Hokey Pokey.  I decided to sleep on it and see how I felt in the light of the morning.

I dreamed about my new iPad last night.

This morning, I put two iPads in my cart. I put a refurbished laptop in my cart. I fainted at the thought of the price.  I walked away. I told Prince I was going to buy the laptop and *MY* iPad.  I walked away again.  I cleaned up a bit; I did a load of laundry; I checked back on my cart and it was all still there waiting for me — waving at me, saying how much it wanted to come live here with me.

Then I did the hardest thing. I closed the Apple window and I walked away.  I had a plan. It is a good plan.  It is a plan that will meet all my needs when they need to be met and I do not need to be swayed by something shiny.

I want to be proud of myself for doing the adult thing, for delaying the gratification until the time is right, for being responsible; but I’m sad.  I’m sad because I can’t have everything I want when I want it (which is NOW). I’m sad because my plan takes time and waiting is really, really hard. I’m sad because sticking to the plan is not much fun.

So, now I think I’m going to work on organizing some photos.  I’ve made myself a new deal – I can buy the iPad ONLY after every photo is tagged and organized based on our new system.  This will probably take me the better part of the summer — as I’m only at 2600 photos thus far and can only do a few folders a day.  I have a major project and don’t need the iPad to distract me.  (I’m still getting my laptop in July.)

Eons ago, when I was a little girl I had (long before it was trendy) a necklace with my name on it.  Now, it wasn’t a diamond encrusted script, but block letters with something that at the time could not be found anywhere — something with *MY* name on it.  In the time of rainbow shirts (you remember the ones with the bow that went from arm to arm) and personalized EVERYTHING, there was never anything with my name, spelled correctly on it.  Well, I had one thing — this little necklace.  It was a set of three, one for my mom, one for my aunt, and one for me — made by my grandfather for my grandfather’s three girls.

When I was a little older, I broke this necklace — right in half — in the middle of my name.  I cried, as I should, and my grandfather took it and repaired it — so my whole memory of this little necklace is mostly with a flaw in the middle of my name (only visible from the back — much like all my own flaws).  Not long after the repair, I completely lost the necklace.  I don’t even think it dawned on me where or when I lost it, but it was gone and I had no idea how long it was gone when I realized it.  Pretty sure it was gone for good, I resigned myself to its loss and moved on like any normal 10 year old.

One day, long after I realized the necklace was gone, my grandmother got a call from the secretary at church asking if I had a personalized necklace.  When the answer was yes, they thought they had found it and as I was the only “Queen” they knew, it just had to be mine.  I could not believe it until I had it in my hand and flipped it over to confirm the flaw — that little repaired spot that was so uniquely mine.

I tell you that story because its memory flooded back to me today.

Today, a (appropiately) o’dark-thirty, I took my son out of school in order to march in the local St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  Oh, yes, I completely am ok with him missing a day of school in order to march in a parade because he was celebrating the 100th year of boy scouting in the US.  He may never get this kind of chance again and on the cool scale it rated way high — so did I.  We gathered in our packs, dens, and troops, we were instructed how to march in ‘formation’ by a former marine with a bullhorn — seriously our group ranged in age from 6 to 18 — we were not doing so well with rows and columns…..and turning kicked our butts.  We carried signs — as we were in the scout law section — we carried the various traits held high above our heads.  We stood around A LOT — I have to say that the boys young and older were amazing with all the hurry up and wait we did — possibly better than the parents.  Having one of the youngest scouts there, I looked to the new Eagle Scouts with hope that that is the goal we are growing to, and enjoying that for now, Duke is a little more wild animal than tame man-child.

When I got dressed, in my leader’s uniform with my green thermal under it, I had on a special necklace.  No, not my name, but my grandmother’s monogram.  This piece was made by my grandfather for her and was something I got when she passed almost two years ago.  I wear it often now.  At first, I thought it too special to wear and maybe a little odd since we shared one initial in common (and it wasn’t even in the same place).  Then, something happened and I was given the advice that I needed to be more like my grandmother in how I handled it — and so when I went to the meeting, I wore it to remind me of her.  After that the piece became a special part of my wardrobe.  I wear it when I need to remember to be strong; I wear it when I’m having a bad day; I wear it when I wish she was still her; I wear it to remember her.   So, I wore it today.

We practiced marching; we listened to the rally speech (which was less rally and more delaying lunch); we ate cold dogs and chips and guzzled water; we stood in mud; we stood in the middle of the street.  We waited for step-off which was sadly LATE.  We walked 9 billion miles (ok, about 7 or 10 blocks) and waved to millions (yes, the millions was true).  I joked that this was either the best parade or the WORST pub crawl I’d ever been on.  We made it to the end and collected our patches.  We walked over to Prince’s office, where we chatted with the people he works with and offered him a ride home.  Then we walked the parade route in reverse (without the cheering crowds) with much tiredness.  It was here, for no reason at all, I reached up to touch my necklace and it was NOT there.

I wiped my hand around my neck and found no chain, nada, nothing.  I stopped and looked for something, what I’m not sure because the rational part of my mind could not consider that it was not gone for good.  Prince asked what was wrong, as I was searching my mind — did I really put it on, did I go through with not wearing it at all? — and all I could say, I think I’ve lost my necklace.  The gravity hit us both like a ton of bricks.  To think positively, Prince says, “I bet we will find it in the car.”  I asked why he thought so and he said “It is better than thinking it is gone forever.”  I thought some more and got real quiet.

I thought maybe the chain had broken as I took my neckerchief off at his office; Prince assured me if it was found there, he’d come into an e-mail in the morning asking about it.  I wasn’t so sure.  I was sure it was on the parade route somewhere, lost for good.  I thought about stopping to tell one of the police officers in case someone turned it in, but I truthfully, couldn’t say the words out loud.

We walked some more.  We did not speak.  I think we walked a total of about 6 to 7 blocks from the moment I realized it was gone to the parking lot.  We descended the steps to the lot, as I thought — if it is lost, there is nothing I can do about it and may the person who finds it use it for good; but if I was meant to have it, then let it be found.  Confident that it would either find its way back to me or not and I’d be ok either way, I continued to walk.  Another step closer to the car.

I froze. I felt something.  I nearly fainted.  I pulled out of my sock, the monogram pendant.  Not attached to the chain, but the pendant — the important piece.  I cried a little. I sighed a huge sigh of relief.  I held it tight in my hand and kept saying over and over — what was lost is now found.  I thought about my name necklace and remembered its return.  And I thought about the incredible journey from my neck to my sock and how long it was there and how easily it could have been gone for good. And I cried.

I found the chain, unbroken and unharmed inside my shirt.  I have no idea how the pieces came apart, when or where.  But I do know that though just a thing, they were kept safe for a reason — perhaps I’m not done needing a little extra reminder of where I came from.

I used to think that I lived in the middle of Wild Kingdom in Frankenhouse.  In addition to our personal zoo, there were regular sightings of deer and turkey and few animals I’m not sure I want to remember.  Anyway, Frankenhouse has nothing on our new digs.

Like Frankenhouse, we basically back-up to woods — which is awesome for private park-like setting in our back yard; but it also makes for easy get aways for all of the forest creatures who like to say hi.  We have a lot of deer — BIG deer.  Deer the size of Mac trucks.  I often can sit at my desk and look out to see deer raiding my neighbor’s birdfeeder — which is fun and funny at the same time.  We have a family of bunnies who in the fall visited our yard every afternoon to munch.  (In case you were wondering, my very dumb dog has yet to see deer or bunny — he is really only interested in those things that don’t move — like leaves.)  I’ve seen raccoons, other peoples’ cats, and a metric ton of birds.  One afternoon, I even had a hawk land on my deck rail and stare into my house at me.

So, last night, as we settled into watch the closing ceremonies, one of the cats was curiously looking out our patio doors.  We look up to see a little pointy white face looking back in at us.  I should pause that I am not sure that I’ve ever seen an opossum alive.  I may have seen one scurry across a yard, but NEVER one a few feet away.  I got up, I turned on the lights outside, I stood on the other side of the glass  and we watched each other.  He/She was not bothered by the movement inside or the lights coming on outside.  The opossum walked back and forth on my deck looking in curious about the cat on the other side.

Once the little creature left, I began to think about this incident. First, they are not nature’s most beautiful creatures – one might call them a wee bit ugly, with the white faces and their beady eyes.  Second, I know next to nothing about them (except they (and armadillos) make fine roadkill) so I couldn’t help but wonder if it was trying to get inside to rip my face off in the middle of the night.  Finally, why the heck was it not afraid of me inches away from it (safely behind glass)??

So, of course I consulted Google and answered most of my questions — it will not dig; it can’t jump (though can climb) so it is unlikely to get on my roof and try to get in; it will eat things I don’t like more (snakes, rats/mice, and random backyard garbage.  But the one thing Google was unable to answer for me — was it visiting a human zoo and thus not afraid of the giant behind the glass? Was it trying to get into my house to rip my face off? Should I be worried that one of the things it hunts was also up on my deck or close to?

and sometimes that season is change.

Wow, that sentence only took me months to really be able to type fully out without stopping to over think it all.  Over thinking can be a bit of a problem for me — along with perfection, sarcasm, follow through, mailing stuff, and vacuuming — but I digress.  The reality is that I had once made a promise that I was going to blog more, return to a place where I talked about stuff again and then I kept getting caught in the what to share/what not to share/what makes me happy trap.

You see what would make me happy is share everything there is to know about what is going on in my world.  I’m the sharey sort of person. The problem is that this is sort of public and not everyone who would come here is as kind and pretty and nice and human as you.  Shockingly, there are rather nasty people in this world, so I try to do things that make sense — you know like not publishing my home address or real name (though, I know you are all shocked to know that no one calls me Queen in my real life).  Those things seem obvious.  I don’t put pictures up of Duke, more for his future privacy than much else.  But I’ve never figured out where to draw a real line beyond that.  When my life gets to the point (and you know it does), that I have to make hard decisions about it, I tend to run away from my blog and then I wonder if I’ve done the right thing.

Let’s face it, if we are being completely honest, there are thousands of blogs in this world and 99% of them aren’t worth the bandwidth they are written on.  (No, your blog is completely in the 1%, I read it all the time — who are you again?) But truthfully, I’m pretty sure that my little corner of the blogsphere (SO 2007 of me to use that word), isn’t in the 1%.  I’d love to be the person who writes so well that people follow me and move through life with me.  However, I fear that both my life just isn’t that interesting and that I’m not that good of a writer.

So, I’ve been thinking lately about changes.  Changes in my life, changes in my blog, changes in me as a person.  Those are huge thoughts, by the way, and I often have to stop and get a cookie while I move through it all.  I’ve been thinking this through in my head and it is beginning to need to bubble up and come out.  I don’t even really know where to begin — but I’m moving to a new place in my brain and beginning to wonder if I’ve outgrown Snarkville.  (No, this is not a post about how I’m leaving the blog, silly, that would seem odd wouldn’t it?)

I named this blog long ago, “Join Me in Snarkville” thinking that someone out there might want to join in with my insanity, my snark, my nasty view on life.  I’ve waned from blogging because my snark began to die, my nasty view on life began to break, and I began to see light again.  I want to do more than just complain about my life, to look into the glass darkly, to see things in terms of pure snark.  That begins to weigh a person down and makes hope and joy hard to see.  (Wow, that just got deep.)  So, with a lighter heart, I’ve decided to name my little corner to —-

Finding Joy in Snarkville

My goal is changing, as it appears all things around me are —- I no longer wish to make fun of others to make myself feel better (was once my tagline, thanks), but I want to seek the joy in my daily life.  I want to share the finding of my happy once again.  And stop it, this is no pop culture, feel good, peace, love and joy schick.  Nope, not at all.  It is an honest recognition that the days truly “In Snarkville” are behind me. The days that Frankenhouse got me down are long gone.  That I’m having a harder and harder time to find constant snark in the world around me, because of no other reason than I have a hard time finding snark within me.

So, I do hope that you find this change in season a good thing. I hope that I am still up to the task of finding the funny on occasions (I seriously am not intending on being all sappy sweet all the time — that makes me gag).  But I think there is a time for Joy here.

While I try to think that I’m pretty normal most of the time, I think when I’m alone and quiet that I may be forced to admit, I’m a wee bit crazy.  One writer I adore writes of her Mental Health number and rates any given moment on a scale of insanity.  I like this measure because it admits up front that we are merely measuring the level of crazy, not determining *IF* there’s crazy.  Perhaps it is a Southern thing — long ago those of us Southerners came to terms with our crazy (called it eccentric, but still) — I wonder when the Yankees will catch up?

So, while I freely admit that I’m crazy, I think I’d be remiss if I don’t explain why I have a perfectly valid reason to be crazy.  It isn’t like I paved the road to the nuthouse all by myself — I was pushed, pulled, and dragged down to Insanity Land with help — MUCH help.

1. Our dog.  He is the dumbest ball of fluffy fur that exists.  Yes, he is a Cocker Spaniel, which by defination makes him swim in the swallow end of the IQ pool.  In fact, if there is a breed dumber than cockers, then our dog would make that breed look like MENSA dogs.  Case in point, we have no fence (see fences are expensive, our dog is dumb, we like our neighbors, fences are expensive), so when I let the dog out, we have a long lead for him — so he can be outside without me (see there may be snow here at some point and the neighbors don’t need to see me in my PJs every morning) and have ‘private time.’  He HATES this lead — but he doesn’t dwaddle outside because of it — so I declare a win-win.  This morning I let him out, I come back inside make my coffee, feed Duke, sit down and begin to wonder if I’m ever going to see dog face at the door to come back in.  I go outside and there is NO dog to be seen.  The lead is not long enough for him to wander too far and I can’t figure out where he’d get off too.  So, I pull on the lead from the stake in the ground and find that it is leading UNDER the deck (a rocky area full of weeds that we need to get to at some point).  I find the dog laying under the deck.  I call him, he looks pitiful (he always looks pitiful).  I pull on the lead a little.  He does NOT move.  I go in get shoes, walk to the edge of the deck closest to him and call him over.  He slowly comes and I unhook him and he BOLTS for the back door.  I pull the lead back to where it belongs and realize that he’d either gotten lost under the deck and couldn’t figure out how to get out because the lead isn’t long enough for him to wrap it all through the deck OR he was afraid of a weed and wouldn’t go back the way he came.  I think the latter.  I’ve got a dollar on he’ll go under the deck the next time I let him out.
2. Labor Day weekend saw us (I mean Prince) laboring on our deck outside.  He cleaned it.  He stained it.  Then we waited for it to dry.  And waited and waited and waited.  While waiting, I looked out and saw what looked like paw prints.  Oh great, an animal got up on our deck while it was wet — lovely.  I go off on a rant about how we live in a zoo and never can have anything nice and how this deck will never dry and this is why don’t do home improvement, when Prince says, “Um, Honey, those aren’t paw prints.  They are knots from the wood.”  Apparently the deck was so dirty and yucky looking that I never noticed how many knots were in the boards.  Opps.  That rant was fun while it lasted.
3. Patio Chair Cushions.  We threw out the old, icky, GROSS cushions before we moved.  I have lovely chairs without cushions, but my deck is pretty and I want to finish with new cushions so we might be able to eat outside ONCE before the snow arrives (which given the talk around here, might be next week).  However, I am loathe to spend an arm and a leg on cushions (why I’ve been cushionless for nearly a year) and want them to be on sale.  I found sale cushions I like, but then I found cushions for HALF the price that might not be bad — but there 12 colors to pick from AND I can’t decide.  URGH.  Oh and Prince and I totally differ on which ones to pick — so he’s no help.
4. It took us longer to decide on which snow blower to buy than it did to pick out the house we live in.  I wish I was kidding.  I’ve never owned a snow blower before — heck, I’ve never lived anywhere that needed a blower for snow.  I researched.  I asked tons of stupid questions.  Prince reminded me that HE had actually lived in snow and used a snow blower in the past.  I fretted.  I learned a lot.  We happened to be somewhere where the snow blowers were just being put out and we looked.  Prince marveled at something and I said offhandedly, “Oh, well, there’s this one I saw at Sears that adjusts the chute with a joystick.”  (If that sentence makes no sense to you, then you have not spent the past month worried about snow that might not be here until January.)  Prince just stared at me and wondered aloud who I was and what happened to his wife.  So we go to Sears.  We look.  We talk.  I show off all my new knowledge of snow blowers (do you realize it is possible to know so much about them without ever having seen one move? Oh, yes, it is possible.)  I had basically picked one out and Prince talked me into a SMALLER, LESS powerful machine.  Now, I’m forced to wonder who he is and what happened to my “Tim, the Tool Man, Taylor” husband.
5. Home Depot is offering to install carpet for a whole house for pocket lint (or something so little).  I want desperately to re-carpet my whole house.  I think about it constantly, even though I totally agreed to wait until spring (hello snow covered paws and new carpet — and tax refund).  So, now I’m forced to pet carpet samples where ever I go.  And I have issues — I don’t know WHAT I want in carpet.  I know what I don’t want — but seriously, that isn’t helping me pick.  And I’m not looking forward to the prospect of having to move my stuff to get the carpet in here.  However, I found the plaid carpet I NEED in my basement — I *NEED* it.  Maybe I should just carpet the basement for now — and Duke’s room — and our room — and the hallway — and Prince’s office — and the  — and –  and –

Yes, I know I’m nuts — but I seem to be getting it from everyone around me.  So, when you see my sitting in the corner twitching and muttering to myself — you will know….it is not *MY* fault.

Alternative title: How to waste an hour and half trying to pay a bill

Alternative title the second: Really, I have money, you want money, why is this so hard?

So, you remember how I moved?  Remember how when you move you have things to change, like phone numbers, addresses, and various bills?  You all know how when you say “Moving is a pain in the butt” — you aren’t really talking about the packing and unpacking part, because the real pain is all the dang paperwork.

First, there was the post office.  I filled out the paperwork for my change of address.  I filled out the paperwork to hold my mail for the transit time.  I did everything I was supposed to do.  The post office LOST all of my mail from the time I left the Snark State until after I arrived in Mid-Snark.  Oh, yes, that was fun.  Now my postman regularly gives my mail to my neighbors — Perhaps he is doing his duty to have us all meet and exchange letters.

Second, there was turning off everything in Snark State and turning on in Mid-Snark.  My personal favorite was the cable company who sent me a final bill that was FOUR times higher than my monthly bill.  Why you might ask?  Because they didn’t show that we’d turned in the equiptment.  Good thing I have the receipt for it.  Then they ‘found’ the equiptment and gave us a credit — but not before I spent hours on the phone tracking it down, then waiting for the check to arrive.  URGH.

Finally, there was our cell phones.  After moving here and finally settling in, we changed our numbers.  So, we spent an hour at the local cell store changing our numbers making sure the plans didn’t extend and such.  Then I got the bill.  I got a bill that when I went to pay it, my bank flags as I’ve paid this within 30 days.  (I need to stop and say, I PINK, Puffy heart my bank.)  So, I go digging.  I realize that this is a new account number and I call.  Sure enough, the new phone number changes my account number — which means that I have a credit balance on my old account.  HOWEVER, that credit can not be applied because the old bill hasn’t closed and the new bill is due.  Forty-five minutes later, I finally had it worked out that would not be writing a check only to wait for a check back from them.  Shocking, I know, but I was pretty sure that the miracle of computers was such that it would allow a transfer of the funds from one account to another without wasting my time or any paper.  Idealist I know.

Well, today, I get the bill from the old account and I call.  I had to call, because it is not automatic to do this, and they could not set it up ahead of time.  So, I called.  I explained what I wanted to do to the first person.  She had to get someone to help me.  On hold.  She comes back and says, “We can’t move the balance because the two accounts are in two different states.”  UM, NO.  I wish to speak to someone else.  I get the guy who wouldn’t move the money — says something about policy about the two different states or something.  I explained, this is NOT what I was told; please read the notes in the system; and wasting my time would not make me happy.  On hold again.  He comes back and says, “Oh, the policy changed and I wasn’t aware.”  So, I said, “That means you didn’t try and said ‘No’ before you knew the facts — way to go for customer service.”

So, he moves the money around.  And he says, “Ok, the balance on the new account is $XX.XX”  Um, no.  I wrote a check, based on exactly what the last person told me do for $YY.YY.  The difference between $XX.XX and $YY.YY is $6.  Yes, I totally fought for $6.  I got it.  I got off the phone and looked at the timer — 45 minutes.

I’m glad that is done and didn’t waste anything like paper — apparently my TIME is fine though.  URGH.

Now, I’m off to Old Navy to buy my child much needed pants (why does he have to keep growing) and hope that some retail therapy will take the edge off.

You know there are times in your life that are frozen.  The people associated with them will never age.  The memory is like yesterday — though you have lived a lifetime since?

We tend to think of our school years that way.  I changed schools a total of five times (including going to college) and thus, I have frozen those people in my life at those ages.  My apologies to the folks I went to elementary school with, but you are frozen in your 7th grade selves in my mind — as are our teachers who seemed so old then.  I am stunned that any of them have children — though I have one of my own.  It doesn’t seem possible that my closest friend from junior high and high school has a girl child just three.  I can’t imagine the boys I dated to have grown up and been married with kids of their own.  But most shocking of all are the teachers.  I still expect to see some of them walking halls I never enter anymore.  They were part of the buildings themselves and thus should never have left.

I don’t expect them to have moved on; gotten married (who knew our kindergarten teacher married AND is now a grandmother to triplets?); or worse, they just aren’t allowed to die.

Perhaps I am so self-centered that I think that if I’m not in the room time for the rest of the world ought to stop; that people shouldn’t grow-up, grow older, grow on, without my presence.  I don’t really think that is it though.  This isn’t some warped Twilight Zone thing happening in my head.  It is the realization that our memories of people stop the minute they stop being in our lives.  Forever will they be in 7th grade, high school, or college.

And thus, I am rather stunned that the President of my university died today.  Oh, yes, I was stunned this May when he retired — because in my mind he ought not retire — was he even old enough?  But this morning, he died.  It was sudden and he was young.  But I remember him.

One winter term I took a class where we were asked to shadow someone we admired.  The Winter Term was a one class month long elective term where we encouraged (no, forced) to step out of our majors and do something different.  It had its roots in the 60’s, I’m sure, and has since gone the way of the dinosaurs.  Anyway, back to my class.  My classmates took on the ‘captains’ of industry (in DeLand) or various people in power — but none sought out anyone connected with the school.  I picked up my dorm room phone and called the President’s office.

It was a fabulous week.  I went to meetings that no student gets to see.  I peeked at the business of the university.  I did an alumni meet and greet (at which I met a couple who had met and married at Stetson and came back for their 60th reunion!)  I was in the paper.  Oh, it was a big deal.  I once asked Dr. Lee why he said yes and his answer was so simple, “You were the first person who ever asked.”

Years later, I met him again (he was unchanged I might add) in DC at an alumni function on Capitol Hill (which sounds cool, and was — though the cake was dry).  He remembered me on sight (nearly 10 years later) and spoke highly of our week together.  He told me that began a time when they invited students to meet him and shadow him.  More students learned there was more going on at college than the classrooms — because I asked.

His son is my age (or a year or two younger) and I hurt for him — because this is no time to lose a father.  And I’m sad.  But mostly, I’m hurt because my world view cracked a little today — people aren’t frozen in time.  And there’s one less person to visit at my university.

I doubt it will come as any great shock that I have a love of the theater.  If I ever thought I could have made a living, or somehow liked to eat less, I would have majored in Theater in college and run away to become an Equity actor long, long ago.  Shocked, right?  I always seemed so sensible, right?  Well, it all goes out the window when I walk into the theater.

I think the first time I ever was on stage (that I remember) was my Kindergarten graduation.  I really don’t count that, as I don’t think I had a special part.  By 4th grade, I appeared as a cow — shut up, I was one awesome cow.  But my peak in performing in elementary school was as a bell in the Christmas play.  I was Beautiful Bell, I think — I know I wore royal blue tights and leotard, something that was a pain for my mom to find at Christmas time.  I had lines and I rocked the part.  My big line had something to do with telling another bell that he ‘had bats in his belfry.’ I digress.

Anyway, I performed as much as a small high school without a real drama program would allow.  I auditioned for a production my freshman year of college and while I didn’t get the part, I was pass on to the community theater for a part in ‘A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum’  — I wore a red wig and some peacock feathers.  After that production, I started to do far more work behind the scenes.  I stage managed, I painted, I helped with costumes, I helped.  I appeared on stage once more after that — a bit part, where I played a god in a production that was so not noteable that I do not recall the name of it.  But for most of college I spent a fair bit of time in a small theater.

Then I graduated and moved on to real life, thinking I’d return to theater at some point.  Oh, sure I’ve gone to see many plays, but I always thought sitting the audience was a poor substitute to being ‘involved.’  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen shows that have moved me to tears and some had me weak with laughter.  I love to attend, and don’t turn down chances — but if you asked me my preference, I’d be on stage or behind it over in the audience every single days (and twice on Sunday).  To me there is magic in the producing, not just the performing.  But I put that in the someday category….someday…

Well, it just so happened that with a certain child’s birthday, there was a production of Mary Poppins in the area.  With great joy the Queen Mum, Duke, and one (overly excited) Queen went to enjoy the theater.  I can’t tell you the thrill of watching something you love being loved by your child. It took every once of my mommy will not to get sucked into the play myself to watch my child get the same look in his eyes that I once got.

He was enchanted and thrilled.  We spoke of the sets moving and changing afterwards.  He was (like I have been so many times) literally a part of the play.

I remember the high and mighty theater classes I’ve taken.  They speak of the audience as part of the show.  They speak how the audience reacts as being a character itself and changing nightly.  I always thought that was weird.  I always thought the idea was just trying to make something so special have meaning it didn’t have.  Yes, as the audience you are asked to suspend disbelief. You are asked to react and engage — but you are not truly part of the experience.  From my point of view, the play is built in the weeks and months of work to get it ready for the audience.  It is in the blood, sweat, and tears of the those who work, not those who just show up and watch.  What did they bring to the table?  What work did they do?  Why are they elevated to participant when truly they are merely observers.

But then I watched my son.  I watched him not just suspend disbelief, but become part of the story.  He played with the children.  He ran away from nannies.  He flew a kite with Michael and fed birds with Jane.  He danced with statues and shook hands with Sweeps.  He was there and LIVED it all for those hours.

So, for a few hours the theory of theater was correct.  We played a key role in the production of this single performance.  And it was good.  It was really good.  Not because the singing was above par or that the dancing would put the Lord of the Dance to shame — but solely because we were there and we were enchanted.

For the first time in years, I’ve started to hear the sirens’ call of the theater again.  I just checked out an audition (and a few tech positions) and I may or may not pursue it.  I see volunteering again as a possibility.  But I might start exploring that new role I just found as audience with my son.  I wonder what worlds we will conquer together and where we might go.  But mostly, I wonder if he will love it like I do — and thus far, my magic 8-ball says — YES.

[I know it has been a long time, things have been happening -- but something happened tonight that reminded me why I did this once.  While this may be disjointed (and perhaps not funny), sometimes there is a new beginning inside a goodbye.]

About 7 years ago, I left a job to go to a new job.  The old job was one I’d grown to hate and the new job held a little excitement and a HUGE pay increase.  So, at my required farewell lunch (required because I’m not sure the people at my old job liked me anymore than I’d come to like them), one of the girls I did happen to like said something truly odd.  Despite the fact we’d hardly ever been social outside of work and there seemed to be no reason to believe what she was saying, she said, “I refuse to say goodbye.  I just have this feeling that we will see each other again.”  I have no idea why that stuck with me.  I can say that the lunch we had was the very last time I ever saw her — in fact, I can not remember her name. Maybe I liked her hope or her lack of experience, since I knew I would never look back and move on without regret.

At one time that story would not have phased me.  I would have felt sorrow for the young woman so mis-guided to not understand that saying goodbye is just a part of life.  At one time in my life I said goodbye with ease.  I’d change jobs and never look back.  I’d move across the country without a thought to the people I left behind.  I once giggled how I knew no one from high school anymore or really even college.  I kept no long term connections with anyone.  I would just pick-up and move on to the next spot and start anew.  At this point in my life, other than my family, I have ONE long distance friend — that I keep up with regularly.  I don’t know exactly how I pulled that off, but weekly phone calls helps — along with her understanding that my gifts will arrive at some point.  You’d think with my abilities to be hyper-connected on the net, I’d be better at it — but sadly, I’m not.

Then, I pulled my head out of my butt and saw that I was not in fact the center of the universe.  I know, I was shocked too.

Less than a year ago, I walked to pick Duke up from school with the Queen Mum.  We spoke of moving and changes and I said something I never thought I’d say, “I’m tried of being temporary.”  I moved to the District of Snark (DoS) knowing that I would move.  Six years later I moved to the Snark state.  Now, I face another move, but this is the first time I’m feeling both the excitement of the move and the loss of the people I’m leaving behind.  You see, this was the move I did something radical — I made friends.

This wasn’t the move that all was permenant from the beginning, I live in a temporary home (Frankenhouse) and I live with half my stuff packed (thanks, Frankenhouse), but I had something that would get me out of the house and bring me to be around people, good people.  Months before we left DoS, I learned to knit.  As a baby knitter, I moved 3,000 miles away from the only yarn store I’d been to and found people — People I like.  People who at least act like they like me.

I often say that I’m not like the people here, but in a shop filled with yarn, projects in our laps, we were all the same and yet vastly different.  I met women who are the type of people you want to just hang out with.  I have been in awe that these women even speak to me.  They are the biggest hearted group (you know the type — they knit for other people); they make the world a better place.  I don’t think they even know how much they inspire me.

So, the long way around this is that it is time I say goodbye again.  Tonight I was at knit night and there was cake (which was BEAUTIFUL) and laughter and teasing and everything I could have wanted in a goodbye — except that it had to end.  I held it together and didn’t cry, until I sat alone in my car on the way home.  For the first time in my life, I’ve been inspired to do something I’ve never been good at, keep my long distance friends.

The thing is this group of women gave me the one thing I never thought I’d find here in Snarkville — something that wasn’t temporary.  I know they will help me as I forge new ground in this — heck, there’s already talk of video during knit night.  So, as hard as this is to admit and harder knowing that I’m going to be doing it — for the first time in my life, I said exactly what I mean:  “I *WILL* keep in touch.  I want to be a part of your lives more.  I want you to be a part of mine.  I will miss you.  You have been the highlight of this part of my journey.  And thank you — for the laughs, the tears, and the constant encouragement for me to be better: a better person, a better knitter, a better friend.”

And with that, I bring you a return of Snarkville.