There's gotta be something more
Gotta be more than this
I need a little less hard time
I need a little more bliss
I'm gonna take my chances
Taking a chance I might
Find what I'm looking for
There's gotta be something more
Thanks for the kick in the ass, Sugarland. Get the song on iTunes.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Potty Talk
I head to Seattle once a month for a client meeting, which works out perfectly because I get to stay with my sister and hang out at her house. On a recent trip, I arrived one day after my mom’s departure, an unfortunate case of bad timing and busy schedules made it impossible to sync up our visits.
Now here’s the thing, my mom loves her purple pens and her post-its. If you have any reason to interact with my mom on any level, no matter how obscure, you’re going to get a post-it informing you of something. Got a package to deliver? You’ll find a post-it telling you to leave it at the door. Wondering if the dishes in the dishwasher are clean? The post-it knows all. Walk into her kitchen and you’ll find post-its. Go to her office…post-its. Walk into the laundry room…post-its. Seriously, if my family were smart, we’d all buy stock in post-its. And purple pens.
So it came as no surprise to find a post-it waiting for me in my sister’s guest bath: “Toilet not flushing properly! ☹” I don’t know if it was the thought of my mom writing a post-it about a toilet that I found so funny, or if it was the sad smiley face, but I laughed out loud–—until I realized I had to go to the bathroom. I’ll be honest, I used that toilet with some serious trepidation for the rest of my visit. And it got me thinking about how a toilet is sort of like life. No matter how smoothly things run 99.9% of the time in our day-to-day lives, the unavoidable truth is that are inevitable moments when the shit just keeps swirling around and won’t flush down.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
I Got the Blues
A little over two months ago, I took on my first and biggest challenge of 2010: to conquer two sticks. (That's insider lingo for skis, by the way.) Throughout my two years of fertility treatments, I swear I became so tightly wound that a 50-lb lump of coal had surely found its way up my ass and was slowly turning into a million-carat diamond. And so, the idea of putting myself in a position of being horribly out of control rather than so unbelievably structured felt...in a word...freeing.
Driving to the ski resort over New Year's I was really nervous. And for good reason. I'd only been skiing about 3 times in my 38 years up until that point. The first time was in middle school when I went to Mt. Holly in Michigan with the ski club. I don't remember much about that excursion, except for one thing: my sheer and utter panic as I flew down the hill (and in Michigan it really is a hill) with absolutely no idea how to stop. After that there was skiing in France at 16 on an exchange trip (it didn't go well) and a trip to Tahoe in 2007 (it went okay because I only did two beginner runs and called it a day).
Fast forward to Tahoe 2010. I spent that first morning on the bunny hill, which was totally fine by me. But, after lunch, the MR. thought I should graduate to the grown-up lift and try an easy green run that I'd done back in 2007. Feeling confident in my snowplowing after practicing with all the 5-year-olds learning to ski for the first time, I agreed. If I'd done the run before, surely I could do it again. Right?
Doing my best to move towards the ski lift (not an easy feat on flat ground wearing skis), the first thing I noticed was a big-ass sign that said NOT A BEGINNER SKI LIFT. Um. Yea. Not exactly a confidence booster. Turning to the MR. I said, "Are you sure I did this run three years ago? I don't remember that sign." And he said, "Yes. Absolutely."
As the lift slowly brought us up the mountain, I racked my brain trying to find anything familiar about the scenery. Getting a little nervous and sweaty in all the wrong places, I asked the MR. again, "Are you sure I did this run before? I just don't remember it." To which he said, in his exasperated, why-don't-you-ever-believe-me voice, "I can't promise you enough that you did this run before. I don't know what else to tell you so that you'll believe me." Well, geesh. If you're gonna put it that way.
The triumph was that I got off the ski lift without a hitch. Score one for Darrah Jane. But then, we skied over to the start of the run. From my perspective, I was staring straight down a white vertical wall. Surely my death was imminent. My heart started racing, tears formed at the corners of my eyes and all I could think was, "How the hell did I do this three years ago?" With no way to go but down, I tentatively pushed off and hoped for the best.
Now, for all I know, I was only going .025 miles an hour, but it felt like I was going 250 miles an hour. I honestly think I held my breath the entire way down, and I am not ashamed to admit that I truly considered pulling off to the side, plopping down in the snow and crying...hard. I didn't care if I'd have to live on that mountain for the rest of my life, just as long as I didn't have to ski the rest of the way, I'd do anything.
By an act of God, I didn't fall and I made it down in one piece. That's the good news. On the flip side, I was a nervous wreck. My hands were shaking and my legs felt like Jello. At the bottom, the MR. actually looked at me and said, "Do you want to try it again?" Are you insane? Seriously? Try it again? I almost died of a heart attack up there! So he headed up the mountain in a huff and I headed back to the warm womb of the bunny hill.
I didn't see the MR. for the rest of the day. I was annoyed with him and he was annoyed with me. So we were even. Around 3pm, he came skiing over to my side of the mountain and hockey-stopped right in front of me. He took off his goggles and said, "I owe you a huge apology. That's not the run you did 3 years ago." AH-HA! It was like the sky parted and a heavenly host of angels started singing Hallelujah. Turns out, not only was it a run I'd never done before, but it was a BLUE, people. That's an intermediate-level run. And worse than that, the run is called THE CHUTE! The name says it all.
I'm proud to say that I've come a long way since that first trip back in early January. I'm skiing blues now and have only fallen a couple of times. Of course, one fall induced a panic attack in the middle of the run, but let's not dwell on that. No doubt, looking straight down at a vertical strip of snow is still equal parts humbling and balls-out terrifying. The fear burns white-hot in the middle of my chest and all I can think about is giving up. But then I hear a small, timid voice inside my head say, "You can do this." And that's my cue to go for it. The MR. said it best, "You're better than this. You're better than the fear." He wasn't saying that I couldn't feel fear. Instead, he was telling me to believe in my ability. I'm better than I think.
Last weekend, I had the best run of my life. It was so much F-U-N! The rush of cold air on my face was life changing. I didn't want it to end. To say I had a big grin on my face when I got to the bottom would be an understatement. After looking back up the mountain from where I'd just come, I turned to the MR. and said, "That was my best run yet!" To which he said, "That was The Chute." Well, I'll be.
Driving to the ski resort over New Year's I was really nervous. And for good reason. I'd only been skiing about 3 times in my 38 years up until that point. The first time was in middle school when I went to Mt. Holly in Michigan with the ski club. I don't remember much about that excursion, except for one thing: my sheer and utter panic as I flew down the hill (and in Michigan it really is a hill) with absolutely no idea how to stop. After that there was skiing in France at 16 on an exchange trip (it didn't go well) and a trip to Tahoe in 2007 (it went okay because I only did two beginner runs and called it a day).
Fast forward to Tahoe 2010. I spent that first morning on the bunny hill, which was totally fine by me. But, after lunch, the MR. thought I should graduate to the grown-up lift and try an easy green run that I'd done back in 2007. Feeling confident in my snowplowing after practicing with all the 5-year-olds learning to ski for the first time, I agreed. If I'd done the run before, surely I could do it again. Right?
Doing my best to move towards the ski lift (not an easy feat on flat ground wearing skis), the first thing I noticed was a big-ass sign that said NOT A BEGINNER SKI LIFT. Um. Yea. Not exactly a confidence booster. Turning to the MR. I said, "Are you sure I did this run three years ago? I don't remember that sign." And he said, "Yes. Absolutely."
As the lift slowly brought us up the mountain, I racked my brain trying to find anything familiar about the scenery. Getting a little nervous and sweaty in all the wrong places, I asked the MR. again, "Are you sure I did this run before? I just don't remember it." To which he said, in his exasperated, why-don't-you-ever-believe-me voice, "I can't promise you enough that you did this run before. I don't know what else to tell you so that you'll believe me." Well, geesh. If you're gonna put it that way.
The triumph was that I got off the ski lift without a hitch. Score one for Darrah Jane. But then, we skied over to the start of the run. From my perspective, I was staring straight down a white vertical wall. Surely my death was imminent. My heart started racing, tears formed at the corners of my eyes and all I could think was, "How the hell did I do this three years ago?" With no way to go but down, I tentatively pushed off and hoped for the best.
Now, for all I know, I was only going .025 miles an hour, but it felt like I was going 250 miles an hour. I honestly think I held my breath the entire way down, and I am not ashamed to admit that I truly considered pulling off to the side, plopping down in the snow and crying...hard. I didn't care if I'd have to live on that mountain for the rest of my life, just as long as I didn't have to ski the rest of the way, I'd do anything.
By an act of God, I didn't fall and I made it down in one piece. That's the good news. On the flip side, I was a nervous wreck. My hands were shaking and my legs felt like Jello. At the bottom, the MR. actually looked at me and said, "Do you want to try it again?" Are you insane? Seriously? Try it again? I almost died of a heart attack up there! So he headed up the mountain in a huff and I headed back to the warm womb of the bunny hill.
I didn't see the MR. for the rest of the day. I was annoyed with him and he was annoyed with me. So we were even. Around 3pm, he came skiing over to my side of the mountain and hockey-stopped right in front of me. He took off his goggles and said, "I owe you a huge apology. That's not the run you did 3 years ago." AH-HA! It was like the sky parted and a heavenly host of angels started singing Hallelujah. Turns out, not only was it a run I'd never done before, but it was a BLUE, people. That's an intermediate-level run. And worse than that, the run is called THE CHUTE! The name says it all.
I'm proud to say that I've come a long way since that first trip back in early January. I'm skiing blues now and have only fallen a couple of times. Of course, one fall induced a panic attack in the middle of the run, but let's not dwell on that. No doubt, looking straight down at a vertical strip of snow is still equal parts humbling and balls-out terrifying. The fear burns white-hot in the middle of my chest and all I can think about is giving up. But then I hear a small, timid voice inside my head say, "You can do this." And that's my cue to go for it. The MR. said it best, "You're better than this. You're better than the fear." He wasn't saying that I couldn't feel fear. Instead, he was telling me to believe in my ability. I'm better than I think.
Last weekend, I had the best run of my life. It was so much F-U-N! The rush of cold air on my face was life changing. I didn't want it to end. To say I had a big grin on my face when I got to the bottom would be an understatement. After looking back up the mountain from where I'd just come, I turned to the MR. and said, "That was my best run yet!" To which he said, "That was The Chute." Well, I'll be.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Home Sweet Homestudy
Being a writer, there are some things that people assume come easy to me. Like writing, for instance. But it doesn’t. For me, there’s nothing more intimidating than staring at a blank screen with that cursor blinking, blinking, blinking. It’s like every blink is taunting me and waiting for me to throw out my first sentence. And then once I do, inevitably the sentence is crap, so I delete it and try again. And again. And again. It’s torture.
Writing is damn hard, and I’ve never been so reminded of that fact as when I sat at the kitchen counter of our Tahoe house trying to answer 32 autobiographical questions for our homestudy application. There I was, with the snow falling down outside, a fire roaring inside and a cup of hot cocoa in hand, staring at the first question: “Briefly comment on the relationship of your mother and father (a) with each other, (b) with you, and (c) with your partner.”
Ummm… I’m sorry, but isn’t that three questions? All I could think was… this isn’t fair. Here we are, two good people who just want to be parents and because we can’t do it the old-fashioned way or even the high-tech way, we have to jump through hoops and put our lives on the chopping block so that strangers can decide if we’re parent material.
I’ll be honest, I sat in that puddle of self-pity for a good hour. I thought about the fact that we had to be fingerprinted for FBI clearances and have physicals to prove that A) we’re not criminals and B) we’re not going to drop dead in the foreseeable future. I lamented the idea that a social worker was going to come into my home to make sure it was suitable. I was pissed and annoyed and frustrated and sad and angry and consumed by negative thoughts.
But then, as the answer to that 3-part question started to flow out of me, I thought about the child that would surely come into our lives someday and realized that these questions weren’t meant to be fun or easy or entertaining. They weren’t designed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy about myself. In fact, they were meant to be difficult and time consuming and intimidating because they were designed to protect an innocent child. Plain and simple.
So I put on my writer’s hat and stared that cursor down until all 32 questions were answered. And then I spent two hours typing out the MR.’s answers because he types with two fingers. And yes, that was the one thing I said I wished I could change about my spouse in response to question #20.
Writing is damn hard, and I’ve never been so reminded of that fact as when I sat at the kitchen counter of our Tahoe house trying to answer 32 autobiographical questions for our homestudy application. There I was, with the snow falling down outside, a fire roaring inside and a cup of hot cocoa in hand, staring at the first question: “Briefly comment on the relationship of your mother and father (a) with each other, (b) with you, and (c) with your partner.”
Ummm… I’m sorry, but isn’t that three questions? All I could think was… this isn’t fair. Here we are, two good people who just want to be parents and because we can’t do it the old-fashioned way or even the high-tech way, we have to jump through hoops and put our lives on the chopping block so that strangers can decide if we’re parent material.
I’ll be honest, I sat in that puddle of self-pity for a good hour. I thought about the fact that we had to be fingerprinted for FBI clearances and have physicals to prove that A) we’re not criminals and B) we’re not going to drop dead in the foreseeable future. I lamented the idea that a social worker was going to come into my home to make sure it was suitable. I was pissed and annoyed and frustrated and sad and angry and consumed by negative thoughts.
But then, as the answer to that 3-part question started to flow out of me, I thought about the child that would surely come into our lives someday and realized that these questions weren’t meant to be fun or easy or entertaining. They weren’t designed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy about myself. In fact, they were meant to be difficult and time consuming and intimidating because they were designed to protect an innocent child. Plain and simple.
So I put on my writer’s hat and stared that cursor down until all 32 questions were answered. And then I spent two hours typing out the MR.’s answers because he types with two fingers. And yes, that was the one thing I said I wished I could change about my spouse in response to question #20.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
So far so good
If you were going to give $30K to a stranger, what questions would you ask before you handed it over? That's exactly what the Mr. and I have been trying to figure out as we interview adoption agencies and attorneys. And yes, that is the average price tag on adopting a child in the U.S. Actually, it can go up from there depending on the "situation", like maybe the birth mom doesn't have medical insurance. Or maybe she changes her mind once the baby is born and we have to start the search all over again. Good times.
It's been a rough month. I'm not gonna lie. For starters, I've turned to self-grooming to try and save a few bucks where I can. Feeling really resourceful, I bought a $20 facial trimmer to solve the overgrown mustache and eyebrow problem. I'm not sure, but I may have created stubble on my upper lip and potentially my trimmed-up brows make me look like Spock's sister. Sexy stuff.
Besides coming to terms with the cost of it all, the Mr. and I have had to engage in some pretty honest conversations about what OUR vision for OUR family looks like. Because the agencies ask. Point blank. So basically, we have to say out loud to complete strangers, "We want a white baby." Talk about feeling like a horrible, selfish, racist person. I mean, what we really want is just a healthy baby with ten fingers and ten toes. But if you're going to ask and we're going to be honest, then yes – we'd like the baby to be white like us. And the next thing you want to say is: "Please don't think we're bad people."
And then there's the home study application that's packed with 32 questions that the Mr. and I have to answer. Separately. Like this little gem: How do you think parenting will affect your current lifestyle. Is that a rhetorical question? Or how about this one: Describe yourself. Okay, that's a little open-ended, don't you think? And my personal favorite: If you could change anything about your partner, what would you change? How about nothing. I love him the way he is.
Mixed in with what sometimes seemed like dark clouds of reality, the Mr. and I have had some beautiful rainbows, too. Like seeing our friends with their adopted son and realizing that it's not a matter of IF we'll be parents. It's a matter of WHEN. Or standing in the room that will one day be our child's nursery and planning how to decorate it. Together. Because really, these hurdles along the way aren't meant to keep us from adopting a child, but rather they're designed to bring us that much closer to meeting the child that is truly ours. So far so good.
It's been a rough month. I'm not gonna lie. For starters, I've turned to self-grooming to try and save a few bucks where I can. Feeling really resourceful, I bought a $20 facial trimmer to solve the overgrown mustache and eyebrow problem. I'm not sure, but I may have created stubble on my upper lip and potentially my trimmed-up brows make me look like Spock's sister. Sexy stuff.
Besides coming to terms with the cost of it all, the Mr. and I have had to engage in some pretty honest conversations about what OUR vision for OUR family looks like. Because the agencies ask. Point blank. So basically, we have to say out loud to complete strangers, "We want a white baby." Talk about feeling like a horrible, selfish, racist person. I mean, what we really want is just a healthy baby with ten fingers and ten toes. But if you're going to ask and we're going to be honest, then yes – we'd like the baby to be white like us. And the next thing you want to say is: "Please don't think we're bad people."
And then there's the home study application that's packed with 32 questions that the Mr. and I have to answer. Separately. Like this little gem: How do you think parenting will affect your current lifestyle. Is that a rhetorical question? Or how about this one: Describe yourself. Okay, that's a little open-ended, don't you think? And my personal favorite: If you could change anything about your partner, what would you change? How about nothing. I love him the way he is.
Mixed in with what sometimes seemed like dark clouds of reality, the Mr. and I have had some beautiful rainbows, too. Like seeing our friends with their adopted son and realizing that it's not a matter of IF we'll be parents. It's a matter of WHEN. Or standing in the room that will one day be our child's nursery and planning how to decorate it. Together. Because really, these hurdles along the way aren't meant to keep us from adopting a child, but rather they're designed to bring us that much closer to meeting the child that is truly ours. So far so good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
