Pink, Pink everywhere! October is Breast Cancer Awareness month and we see pink ribbons everywhere. Literally, everywhere. From pink hair extensions to NFL football players shoes.
I am so grateful that everyone is so willing to discuss breast cancer out in the open. It is no longer taboo to talk about mammograms, self breast exams and mastectomies. As a woman with breast cancer in my family, I am grateful for this. Believe me, I am happy to see anything supporting women and the need to save the ta-ta's and wipe out breast cancer.
But let's not forget the guys. Prostate cancer is more common in men than breast cancer is in women. One out of 6 men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer in their lifetime. Yet, we don't talk about prostate cancer nearly as much. It's OK to talk boobies, then it should be OK to talk wieners and butts, right?
I think sometimes prostate cancer is overlooked or just taken for granted. Oh, you have your prostate taken out and everything is fine. It is not that simple. One out of 6 men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer in their lifetime. And the diagnosis can be devastating. Just as devastating a breast cancer diagnosis, if not more.
A man diagnosed first has to understand that he has cancer. Cancer which can kill you if it has spread. Cancer. Then he learns his treatment options. Many times, the best most effective way to treat it is to try and get rid of the cancer surgically by removing the prostate and often times the nerves that provide the ability to achieve an erection. If a man chooses surgery, he then learns the possible side effects from surgery.
Imagine it.
You are an active man. You have hobbies, such has golf, running, playing with your children or grandchildren. And, as a man, you enjoy intimacy with your wife. Let's face it, we all enjoy sex, even our parents (as horrible as the mental images may be). You just learned you have cancer. Once you wrap your mind around that in itself, you think...OK, get the F***ker out. But then after your chat with your doctor you learn getting the F***er out means this:
We may get rid of all the cancer! (YEAH. This is the great part!!!)
But....
You may never have sex again. OK, that really sucks. But, I may not have cancer. So, OK, I can deal with that.
Oh yeah, did you know the prostate is wrapped around your urethra? So, you may lose control of both your bladder and your bowels. Most men experience bladder incontinence for at least some time, often times it is at least several months before bladder control returns. A small percentage of men never regain bladder control. Some men have fecal incontinence as well.
Wow. So I have cancer AND I may not be able to have sex AND I may have to wear diapers. That, really, really sucks.
But, I may not have cancer. So, OK, get the F***er out.
But, we don't talk about this one like we talk about boobies. We don't talk about how devastating this would be for a man, for any person really. I think about my husband. How humiliating it would be for him to want to play golf but worried his diaper would leak. Or not be able to go swimming with the kids because he might pee in the pool. (Mom, you may not want to read this next part). And, frankly, how I would miss being intimate with him. Intimacy is a big part of our marriage. And, we would both miss it if it were not possible.
But we don't talk about this one like we talk about boobies.
We talk openly about breast self-exams, but we don't talk openly about how important it is for a man over the age of 50 to have an exam every year. Not the simple "turn your head an cough" exam. Not just a blood test. But the yucky digital prostate exam. Y'all know what this means, I don't need to elaborate. But we should be able to say it just as much as we say mammogram or self-breast exam.
It can save your life. It can save the life of a man you know, a man you love. How many men in your life are over the age of 50? I know it's uncomfortable and embarrassing.
But, let's get real. Us girls have been having embarrassing, invasive vaginal exams for years. Many of us, since our teens. Especially for those of us that have had fertility, menstrual or child-bearing issues. I have lost count of how many medical personnel have seen between my legs for various reasons. You boys can handle an exam once a year.
But we don't talk about it like we talk about boobies.
The fact is, cancer sucks. Cancer sucks. No matter what kind, it just sucks. But, we have to get rid of the embarrassing stigmas that go with and just do whatever is necessary to kick cancer's ass.
We have to talk about boobies and wieners and butts. We have to talk about them to everyone we know. To save ourselves, our parents, our friends and our children.
So go on and "think pink" this month and every month...but also think about the other ones we don't talk about or wear blazened across a t-shirt. We need to save the wieners and the butts just as much as we need to save the ta-ta's.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Thursday, October 3, 2013
It looks like an ordinary table...
Isn't it funny what can instantly trigger a memory in your mind?
That perfume your grandmother always wore. The lasagna that only your mom can make. A handkerchief just like your grandfather's. Pumpkins that remind you of sitting on the kitchen floor scooping out "the guts" in only your underwear (so your clothes didn't get goopy).
How one image or smell can instantly transport you to a different time, place or person in your mind. Today it was a table. This table. It looks like an ordinary table. In my mind, it is so much more.
I saw this image on my facebook feed today. Innocently enough, appearing from a consignment store that I "liked". Instantly, my mind is flooded with images, memories and love.
You see, my grandmother had a table like this one. My beloved grandmother. She was everything to me as a child. Even now, thoughts of her fill me with emotions, even after she has been gone so long. I still miss her so much.
We called her Tutu. It sounds silly to everyone else, but that is what we called her. Tutu is the Hawaiian nickname for grandmother. My grandmother spent the better part of her life in Hawaii. She raised her children there. It became part of who she was. So we called her Tutu. Everyone did. My friends, the neighbors, kids at school when she came to volunteer and stayed to eat lunch with me. She always wore muumuus. The shapeless dresses with big, bold flower prints. If she wore pants, she always wore some kind of Hawaiian shirt. All of my friends loved her.
But I loved her most (at least in my mind). I suppose I have the same memories of her that most people have of their grandmothers. She had red hair. She smoke. She drank whiskey sours. She let me have "real" coke. We did puzzles together. We did crafts together. We colored together. And not out of coloring books. She always said that coloring books required no imagination. So we got blank paper, and construction paper and crayons and glue. She always made Christmas cookies with us. And she spend the night on Christmas eve. I remember always wanting to sleep out in the living room with her and wait for Santa. Little did I know, she was my Santa.
As a child I got to spend the night with her often. Many times the whole weekend. It was great. We took walks and went to the mall. We got grilled cheese sandwiches at Woolworth's. I still remember her apartment had white metal cabinets in the kitchen and pink tiles in the bathroom. She had all these strange and wonderful collections. Dolls from everywhere. She had sleigh bells hanging from a bookshelf. She had little jars with black sand and lava pieces from Hawaii. She had a stone mortar and pestle that I never understood why she had it. We watched the Love Boat and Fantasy Island. The table in her spare room always had a jigsaw puzzle in progress. She was always knitting. Baby blankets. She loved to make baby blankets. I'm not sure why.
And she had this table. I think she kept yarn in it. I actually think I had this table for a while in my room as a young teen after my mother had to move her out of her apartment. I have no idea what happened to it.
When I saw this picture on my computer screen, I immediately thought of her. I loved her more than anything. She was my safe haven. She was my everything. She was the shelter in the storm when bad things out of my control were happening all around me. In my eyes she was perfect. I cannot find the words to explain how much she meant to me, still means to me. And, I miss her.
Now that I am an adult, I know she wasn't perfect, of course. She was challenging and stubborn as mule. I am sure she had conflicts with her children similar to the ones I have with mine. I am sure my mother's memories of her are much different than mine. My mother had to care for her when she got hurt, when she was a difficult patient in the hospital. My mom had to make all those difficult decisions that grown-ups have to make when caring for an elderly parent.
I only knew her through a child's eyes. She was gone before I got to my difficult teen years. Before I graduated high school. Before I got married. Before I wrapped my babies in the same blanket she knitted for me.
I know she would love them. I think of her daily, as I tuck my son into bed, with one of the last of those baby blankets she was always knitting. When I look at his red hair that had to have come from her. When he looks at her picture and calls her "Tutu Granny". I hope she would be proud of me, and I know she would be proud of them.
My memories of her also make me thankful to my own mother. For giving me "my" Tutu. For letting me have these cherished memories of her, however perfected they are in my mind. I hope that I can provide the same for my children. Time with their "Granny" that they will always remember. Times that will become memories in their mind that will come back to them in an instant when they are adults and she is gone. The fact she has loved them since before they were born. She was in the room for each of their births. The smell of lasagna, that no one can make like her. That she makes Christmas cookies with them every year, just like Tutu did with me. That they can go to her when they need shelter. I hope that my mom becomes to them what Tutu is to me.
You see, it isn't just an ordinary table...
That perfume your grandmother always wore. The lasagna that only your mom can make. A handkerchief just like your grandfather's. Pumpkins that remind you of sitting on the kitchen floor scooping out "the guts" in only your underwear (so your clothes didn't get goopy).
How one image or smell can instantly transport you to a different time, place or person in your mind. Today it was a table. This table. It looks like an ordinary table. In my mind, it is so much more.
I saw this image on my facebook feed today. Innocently enough, appearing from a consignment store that I "liked". Instantly, my mind is flooded with images, memories and love.
You see, my grandmother had a table like this one. My beloved grandmother. She was everything to me as a child. Even now, thoughts of her fill me with emotions, even after she has been gone so long. I still miss her so much.
We called her Tutu. It sounds silly to everyone else, but that is what we called her. Tutu is the Hawaiian nickname for grandmother. My grandmother spent the better part of her life in Hawaii. She raised her children there. It became part of who she was. So we called her Tutu. Everyone did. My friends, the neighbors, kids at school when she came to volunteer and stayed to eat lunch with me. She always wore muumuus. The shapeless dresses with big, bold flower prints. If she wore pants, she always wore some kind of Hawaiian shirt. All of my friends loved her.
But I loved her most (at least in my mind). I suppose I have the same memories of her that most people have of their grandmothers. She had red hair. She smoke. She drank whiskey sours. She let me have "real" coke. We did puzzles together. We did crafts together. We colored together. And not out of coloring books. She always said that coloring books required no imagination. So we got blank paper, and construction paper and crayons and glue. She always made Christmas cookies with us. And she spend the night on Christmas eve. I remember always wanting to sleep out in the living room with her and wait for Santa. Little did I know, she was my Santa.
As a child I got to spend the night with her often. Many times the whole weekend. It was great. We took walks and went to the mall. We got grilled cheese sandwiches at Woolworth's. I still remember her apartment had white metal cabinets in the kitchen and pink tiles in the bathroom. She had all these strange and wonderful collections. Dolls from everywhere. She had sleigh bells hanging from a bookshelf. She had little jars with black sand and lava pieces from Hawaii. She had a stone mortar and pestle that I never understood why she had it. We watched the Love Boat and Fantasy Island. The table in her spare room always had a jigsaw puzzle in progress. She was always knitting. Baby blankets. She loved to make baby blankets. I'm not sure why.
And she had this table. I think she kept yarn in it. I actually think I had this table for a while in my room as a young teen after my mother had to move her out of her apartment. I have no idea what happened to it.
When I saw this picture on my computer screen, I immediately thought of her. I loved her more than anything. She was my safe haven. She was my everything. She was the shelter in the storm when bad things out of my control were happening all around me. In my eyes she was perfect. I cannot find the words to explain how much she meant to me, still means to me. And, I miss her.
Now that I am an adult, I know she wasn't perfect, of course. She was challenging and stubborn as mule. I am sure she had conflicts with her children similar to the ones I have with mine. I am sure my mother's memories of her are much different than mine. My mother had to care for her when she got hurt, when she was a difficult patient in the hospital. My mom had to make all those difficult decisions that grown-ups have to make when caring for an elderly parent.
I only knew her through a child's eyes. She was gone before I got to my difficult teen years. Before I graduated high school. Before I got married. Before I wrapped my babies in the same blanket she knitted for me.
I know she would love them. I think of her daily, as I tuck my son into bed, with one of the last of those baby blankets she was always knitting. When I look at his red hair that had to have come from her. When he looks at her picture and calls her "Tutu Granny". I hope she would be proud of me, and I know she would be proud of them.
My memories of her also make me thankful to my own mother. For giving me "my" Tutu. For letting me have these cherished memories of her, however perfected they are in my mind. I hope that I can provide the same for my children. Time with their "Granny" that they will always remember. Times that will become memories in their mind that will come back to them in an instant when they are adults and she is gone. The fact she has loved them since before they were born. She was in the room for each of their births. The smell of lasagna, that no one can make like her. That she makes Christmas cookies with them every year, just like Tutu did with me. That they can go to her when they need shelter. I hope that my mom becomes to them what Tutu is to me.
You see, it isn't just an ordinary table...
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Blog, oh blog, where have you been?
Actually, the title should be...
blog, oh, blog, I have been ignoring you.
Ignoring you for the summer. To spend with the kids. To go to the beach. To swim in the pool. And oh, yeah, to look for a job.
Our summer of adjusting to being local seemed to fly by. It was filled with good intentions of painting and organizing and lots of other ambitious goals. What it was really filled with was amazing weather, time at the beach, meeting new neighbors at the pool, avoiding other neighbors (that is a whole other blog, trust me.) and just basically being amazed at being here.
The shock is beginning to wear off. Every time we were at the beach this summer still felt like vacation. Then, my husband and I would look at each other and still say, "I can't believe we actually live here." It was still hard to believe we don't have to pack everything up and make the long dreaded trip back to Indiana. You know what I mean. The last day of your vacation when you are just dreading that your days in the sun have come to an end. Dreading the long drive home.
Our "long drive home" from the beach is about 7 minutes now. We don't live on the beach. (I moved, I didn't win the lottery). We live in a small little town a few miles from the beach. But we live close enough. Close enough that you can smell the salty ocean air when it rains. Close enough that if you get to the beach and realize you forgot something, you can just run home and back in 20 minutes.
But still, the shock has to wear off sometime.
Now that the kids are back in school, the new reality is setting in. There are still the mundane tasks to be done. The laundry that is never-ending. The kitchen that gets dirty again the minute that you clean it. And the reality that I still don't have a job.
When the kids were home during the summer, it was easy to occupy my time with them. It seemed OK that I hadn't found a job yet. My morning routine in the summer was to spend some time on the computer in the morning looking for job postings, applying for positions that I thought suited me and then hanging out with the kids the rest of the day.
But, they are back in school now. And, here I am, still unemployed. I have a bit of job envy. Ron applied for one job, had one interview and landed a job. I have applied for countless jobs (really, I stopped counting because it was depressing me) and gone on three interviews. Three. Every day there seems to be another job rejection email just waiting to brighten my day, mocking me from its bold type in my inbox.
These are the moments that reality sets in. These are the moments when I sometimes ask myself, "What did I get myself into?" I had a great job. I had great friends. I had great neighbors (OK, most of them were great). I miss those friends, those neighbors. I miss working.
But then, I have moments like this afternoon. Sitting on the beach. It's 85 degrees. It is October 2nd. And, I have my husband on one side of me and my mother on the other side. I take a deep breath. I smell the ocean air. I listen to the waves hitting the sand.
This move was a leap of faith...the landing may not be as smooth as I would have liked, but how can I possibly complain?
blog, oh, blog, I have been ignoring you.
Ignoring you for the summer. To spend with the kids. To go to the beach. To swim in the pool. And oh, yeah, to look for a job.
Our summer of adjusting to being local seemed to fly by. It was filled with good intentions of painting and organizing and lots of other ambitious goals. What it was really filled with was amazing weather, time at the beach, meeting new neighbors at the pool, avoiding other neighbors (that is a whole other blog, trust me.) and just basically being amazed at being here.
The shock is beginning to wear off. Every time we were at the beach this summer still felt like vacation. Then, my husband and I would look at each other and still say, "I can't believe we actually live here." It was still hard to believe we don't have to pack everything up and make the long dreaded trip back to Indiana. You know what I mean. The last day of your vacation when you are just dreading that your days in the sun have come to an end. Dreading the long drive home.
Our "long drive home" from the beach is about 7 minutes now. We don't live on the beach. (I moved, I didn't win the lottery). We live in a small little town a few miles from the beach. But we live close enough. Close enough that you can smell the salty ocean air when it rains. Close enough that if you get to the beach and realize you forgot something, you can just run home and back in 20 minutes.
But still, the shock has to wear off sometime.
Now that the kids are back in school, the new reality is setting in. There are still the mundane tasks to be done. The laundry that is never-ending. The kitchen that gets dirty again the minute that you clean it. And the reality that I still don't have a job.
When the kids were home during the summer, it was easy to occupy my time with them. It seemed OK that I hadn't found a job yet. My morning routine in the summer was to spend some time on the computer in the morning looking for job postings, applying for positions that I thought suited me and then hanging out with the kids the rest of the day.
But, they are back in school now. And, here I am, still unemployed. I have a bit of job envy. Ron applied for one job, had one interview and landed a job. I have applied for countless jobs (really, I stopped counting because it was depressing me) and gone on three interviews. Three. Every day there seems to be another job rejection email just waiting to brighten my day, mocking me from its bold type in my inbox.
These are the moments that reality sets in. These are the moments when I sometimes ask myself, "What did I get myself into?" I had a great job. I had great friends. I had great neighbors (OK, most of them were great). I miss those friends, those neighbors. I miss working.
But then, I have moments like this afternoon. Sitting on the beach. It's 85 degrees. It is October 2nd. And, I have my husband on one side of me and my mother on the other side. I take a deep breath. I smell the ocean air. I listen to the waves hitting the sand.
This move was a leap of faith...the landing may not be as smooth as I would have liked, but how can I possibly complain?
Friday, May 17, 2013
beware the ladder of death...
When last we left off I was wondering what I was going to do...
I have a running list in my head of all the little things I want to do to make my house "ours" instead of just a builder's "blank, builder grade, ivory paint everywhere and no overhead light fixtures" special.
First up on the agenda was doing some painting. This would be good for me to get done now that Ron has started his new job and the boys are still in school for a few more weeks. Or so I thought.
Unfortunately, neither of our ladders from our old house made it here. One was junk and rickety, so we threw it away when we moved. The other one was inadvertently left of the moving truck. Although there have been promises of getting it to us (or at least a check to cover replacement costs) we remained ladder-less, which is not good in my house.
You see, we are short. Dreadfully short. My poor kids are always the shortest in their class and forever doomed to be in the front row for assemblies and school choir concerts. My towering height of 5'2'' and my husband's of 5'8'' do not leave my children much hope. (Ron claims to be 5'8", but he is really closer to 5'7"...shhh..don't tell him I told you). Ron's mother never made it to five feet and my mother is just over 5 feet.
So, ladders and step-stools are a bit of a necessity in our house. We have ones handy in the kitchen (and not just for the kids---man, this house has tall cabinets!) and even in the bathrooms for Ben to be able to reach to attempt to wash his hands without splashing water everywhere. But, in order to paint, one needs a ladder. So, we thought we were all smarty-pants-ladder-buyers when instead of buying 2 or 3 different ladders we decided to buy one of those convertible ladders touted to "meet all your needs."
(Insert cheesy car-salesman voice)
"It's a ladder! It's a scaffold! It's an extension ladder! It's a stair-step ladder for those hard to reach lights over stairways!"
What that voice should actually say is...
"It's awkward! It's heavy! It's impossible to operate with one person! It will smash your hands when you least expect it! IT IS THE LADDER OF DEATH!"
Well, "ladder of death" may be exaggerating a little...but, I did manage on my first day of painting to get my hand awkwardly caught and smashed. I mean smashed. I really thought it was broken. I broke into a sweat. My head starting spinning. I almost threw up. And I said many words that should not be repeated in front of small children. Many words. Loudly.
After the initial shock wore off and I sat with an icepack on my now swollen, bumpy hand, I became very angry. Angry at that stupid ladder. It was not going to beat me and my painting! So, to hell with the ladder of death and off to my favorite hardware store I went to buy a "regular" 6-foot aluminum ladder!
I forged ahead and got the first coat of paint done in one of my bathrooms, and for the next several days I alternated ice packs and paint brushes to prove to that damn ladder that it will not defeat me!
Two of our bathrooms have been "beachified" and my hand is still swollen, bumpy and sore (but not broken). Next up is the kitchen and family room!
We are slowly making this place our own and each day we take another step towards being "local"...
I have a running list in my head of all the little things I want to do to make my house "ours" instead of just a builder's "blank, builder grade, ivory paint everywhere and no overhead light fixtures" special.
First up on the agenda was doing some painting. This would be good for me to get done now that Ron has started his new job and the boys are still in school for a few more weeks. Or so I thought.
Unfortunately, neither of our ladders from our old house made it here. One was junk and rickety, so we threw it away when we moved. The other one was inadvertently left of the moving truck. Although there have been promises of getting it to us (or at least a check to cover replacement costs) we remained ladder-less, which is not good in my house.
You see, we are short. Dreadfully short. My poor kids are always the shortest in their class and forever doomed to be in the front row for assemblies and school choir concerts. My towering height of 5'2'' and my husband's of 5'8'' do not leave my children much hope. (Ron claims to be 5'8", but he is really closer to 5'7"...shhh..don't tell him I told you). Ron's mother never made it to five feet and my mother is just over 5 feet.
So, ladders and step-stools are a bit of a necessity in our house. We have ones handy in the kitchen (and not just for the kids---man, this house has tall cabinets!) and even in the bathrooms for Ben to be able to reach to attempt to wash his hands without splashing water everywhere. But, in order to paint, one needs a ladder. So, we thought we were all smarty-pants-ladder-buyers when instead of buying 2 or 3 different ladders we decided to buy one of those convertible ladders touted to "meet all your needs."
(Insert cheesy car-salesman voice)
"It's a ladder! It's a scaffold! It's an extension ladder! It's a stair-step ladder for those hard to reach lights over stairways!"
What that voice should actually say is...
"It's awkward! It's heavy! It's impossible to operate with one person! It will smash your hands when you least expect it! IT IS THE LADDER OF DEATH!"
Well, "ladder of death" may be exaggerating a little...but, I did manage on my first day of painting to get my hand awkwardly caught and smashed. I mean smashed. I really thought it was broken. I broke into a sweat. My head starting spinning. I almost threw up. And I said many words that should not be repeated in front of small children. Many words. Loudly.
After the initial shock wore off and I sat with an icepack on my now swollen, bumpy hand, I became very angry. Angry at that stupid ladder. It was not going to beat me and my painting! So, to hell with the ladder of death and off to my favorite hardware store I went to buy a "regular" 6-foot aluminum ladder!
I forged ahead and got the first coat of paint done in one of my bathrooms, and for the next several days I alternated ice packs and paint brushes to prove to that damn ladder that it will not defeat me!
Two of our bathrooms have been "beachified" and my hand is still swollen, bumpy and sore (but not broken). Next up is the kitchen and family room!
We are slowly making this place our own and each day we take another step towards being "local"...
Monday, May 6, 2013
But really, what will I do?
Today was our "last day" to get things one before Ron starts his new job tomorrow and I put on my "housewife" (stay-at home mom, domestic diva, whatever you choose to call it) hat that I have not worn in many, many years. The past few weeks have had an odd feeling. Not quite vacation, but not quite "real life" either. Neither one of us has been working, so we have been puttering around the house, getting to know the area and its fun places and spending money on all those little odds and ends you need it a new home (that quickly add up in price!).
Today we surrendered our last "visible" sign of being tourists--our Indiana license plates. We got our North Carolina driver's licenses a few weeks ago, but hadn't done the plates yet (you have to wait until your lovely new NC license comes to you in the mail before you can do plates). To that end, we discovered that a CDL transfers states without having to re-test while I, on the other hand, had to take the written test (or computer station test). Ron and I were both shocked by the speed in which the DMV worked this morning. In and out in less than 10 minutes. Shock and awe!
We were like kids opening a new present, we couldn't wait to get home and put them on our cars. We stood back and looked at both vehicles--at least our cars don't look like tourists anymore. We would no longer get the puzzled look followed by the "you're from Indiana?" when someone helps us put something in our car. (I stopped counting how many times we have gotten that comment in the last 5 weeks).
Ron was fortunate enough to land a job in his field only 10 days after arriving here. After a few weeks of down time, paperwork and pre-employment physicals along with the ever-popular required pee-in-a-cup test, he will return to the working world tomorrow. I think he is relieved a bit, especially knowing the days until full-coverage health insurance are now only 31 days away. (We were responsible parents and purchased high-deductible short term major medical insurance, but it has no "bells and whistles" like office visits, drug coverage and dental). Even though he won't admit it, I think he is looking forward to it. New places, new faces, new challenges, new opportunities; and a new potato chip van in our driveway!
I am still feeling a little unsettled -- routine is good in some ways, not just for the kids. They jumped in right away and started school after only a week off (we moved over spring break). Although they claim school is "no big deal" I do think it has helped them feel a little more at home, getting them into a daily routine and making new friends right away.
The last time I had this much time without working outside my home was when I had Ben -- almost 7 years ago. This time is much different with no little ones at home needing my attention, what will I do (besides checking Facebook to see what everyone else is doing?). I have many projects to work on around the house that I would like to get done before I start working again. There are always dishes to be done and clothes to be washed...but I am still wondering..
But, really, what will I do?
My job was always important to me. I didn't love it every day, but who does? But, for the most part, I enjoyed helping customers and I really enjoyed the group of colleagues I worked with. They were a great group, and I miss them. I wonder if my next job will provide the same sort of camaraderie? I hope so.
But, really, what will I do?
I have asked myself that question over and over, especially as I scour the internet looking for jobs. Should I stay in banking? Banking was never a career I planned, more like one I fell into. Do I stay in banking because that is what I know and my experience is? Do I try something new? I have replied to a variety of ads and postings and nothing has jumped out yet. Every day I look and every day I ask...
Really, what will I do?
I don't know the answer yet, but for now, I will keep asking...
Today we surrendered our last "visible" sign of being tourists--our Indiana license plates. We got our North Carolina driver's licenses a few weeks ago, but hadn't done the plates yet (you have to wait until your lovely new NC license comes to you in the mail before you can do plates). To that end, we discovered that a CDL transfers states without having to re-test while I, on the other hand, had to take the written test (or computer station test). Ron and I were both shocked by the speed in which the DMV worked this morning. In and out in less than 10 minutes. Shock and awe!
We were like kids opening a new present, we couldn't wait to get home and put them on our cars. We stood back and looked at both vehicles--at least our cars don't look like tourists anymore. We would no longer get the puzzled look followed by the "you're from Indiana?" when someone helps us put something in our car. (I stopped counting how many times we have gotten that comment in the last 5 weeks).
Ron was fortunate enough to land a job in his field only 10 days after arriving here. After a few weeks of down time, paperwork and pre-employment physicals along with the ever-popular required pee-in-a-cup test, he will return to the working world tomorrow. I think he is relieved a bit, especially knowing the days until full-coverage health insurance are now only 31 days away. (We were responsible parents and purchased high-deductible short term major medical insurance, but it has no "bells and whistles" like office visits, drug coverage and dental). Even though he won't admit it, I think he is looking forward to it. New places, new faces, new challenges, new opportunities; and a new potato chip van in our driveway!
I am still feeling a little unsettled -- routine is good in some ways, not just for the kids. They jumped in right away and started school after only a week off (we moved over spring break). Although they claim school is "no big deal" I do think it has helped them feel a little more at home, getting them into a daily routine and making new friends right away.
The last time I had this much time without working outside my home was when I had Ben -- almost 7 years ago. This time is much different with no little ones at home needing my attention, what will I do (besides checking Facebook to see what everyone else is doing?). I have many projects to work on around the house that I would like to get done before I start working again. There are always dishes to be done and clothes to be washed...but I am still wondering..
But, really, what will I do?
My job was always important to me. I didn't love it every day, but who does? But, for the most part, I enjoyed helping customers and I really enjoyed the group of colleagues I worked with. They were a great group, and I miss them. I wonder if my next job will provide the same sort of camaraderie? I hope so.
But, really, what will I do?
I have asked myself that question over and over, especially as I scour the internet looking for jobs. Should I stay in banking? Banking was never a career I planned, more like one I fell into. Do I stay in banking because that is what I know and my experience is? Do I try something new? I have replied to a variety of ads and postings and nothing has jumped out yet. Every day I look and every day I ask...
Really, what will I do?
I don't know the answer yet, but for now, I will keep asking...
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Is anybody a local?
Anyone who knows my husband knows he is a talker. He will talk to anyone who is standing still long enough and close enough to him. To his advantage, this has come in handy in jobs, getting directions (yes, he will ask over using any kind of GPS) and the best places to eat.
So, just about everywhere we have gone or anyone who has come by our house (neighbors, delivery people, etc) Ron has struck up a conversation with them. The person in line behind us at a store gave us directions to another store. The people at the booth next to us at a local pizza place turned out to know several of our neighbors and were familiar with the company Ron will be working for even though it is based in Pennsylvania. The Lowe's delivery guy told us about more than a handful of restaurants as he was delivering our "beer fridge" (and yes, there are other beverages besides beer in it).
One thing that all of these very friendly people have in common with each other and us is that no one is "from" here. Every one of them is a "transplant" from somewhere else. I guess that comes from living in a "resort" area and a town that has only existed for 15 years. One town over has been an organized town for 50 years and another since 1973.
Most we have talked to are from further up the East Coast; New Jersey, New York, Massachusetts. We have met people from Pennsylvania, Ohio and even Utah.
Each person has a similar story to ours in some way. Something drove them to leave their hometowns and live by the sea. They came for family, friends or the weather. They were tired of the cold. They vacationed here for years. They were once tourists, too.
Just like us.
So, we are not alone in our craziness (at least not this facet of it). We vacationed here for years. We loved the beach here. We love walking in the sand. We love the smell of the sea air. And all of these people we have met have traveled the road we are now on. They have found their "new" normal and aren't tourists anymore. They seem to be fine.
And we will be too, we just have to be patient, find our new normal and enjoy the ride...
So, just about everywhere we have gone or anyone who has come by our house (neighbors, delivery people, etc) Ron has struck up a conversation with them. The person in line behind us at a store gave us directions to another store. The people at the booth next to us at a local pizza place turned out to know several of our neighbors and were familiar with the company Ron will be working for even though it is based in Pennsylvania. The Lowe's delivery guy told us about more than a handful of restaurants as he was delivering our "beer fridge" (and yes, there are other beverages besides beer in it).
One thing that all of these very friendly people have in common with each other and us is that no one is "from" here. Every one of them is a "transplant" from somewhere else. I guess that comes from living in a "resort" area and a town that has only existed for 15 years. One town over has been an organized town for 50 years and another since 1973.
Most we have talked to are from further up the East Coast; New Jersey, New York, Massachusetts. We have met people from Pennsylvania, Ohio and even Utah.
Each person has a similar story to ours in some way. Something drove them to leave their hometowns and live by the sea. They came for family, friends or the weather. They were tired of the cold. They vacationed here for years. They were once tourists, too.
Just like us.
So, we are not alone in our craziness (at least not this facet of it). We vacationed here for years. We loved the beach here. We love walking in the sand. We love the smell of the sea air. And all of these people we have met have traveled the road we are now on. They have found their "new" normal and aren't tourists anymore. They seem to be fine.
And we will be too, we just have to be patient, find our new normal and enjoy the ride...
Friday, May 3, 2013
Man, you are annoying me!
They say two of the hardest things on a marriage are moving and loss of a job. Well, we voluntarily did both of those, at the same time. Again, are we crazy?
Uhm, today the answer was yes. Today was just one of those days where the mere fact that my husband was breathing too close to me was annoying. His lurking over my shoulder as I tried to read the paper-- annoying. His asking what I was doing when the answer was quite obvious -- annoying. The smell of his coffee. ESPN first thing in the morning. Leaving crumbs on the table from his breakfast. All annoying. The fact the kids were at school and could not provide a diversion from his annoying me? More annoying.
Ron and I have been married for almost 16 years. Actually 15 years and 10 months. 5,752 days. 138,048 hours. 8,282,880 minutes. 496,972,800 seconds.
For the past 37 days we have been in each other's company virtually 24/7. Again, we did this by choice. For the most part we have been getting along great. Surprising well, actually. We have actually begun to have similar thoughts and opinions. Yesterday, we both wore the same color shirts without intending to do so. Neither one of us is used to not working. We are not used to having our days to spend with each other without the kids home. What to you do after the kids are at school and "Mike and Mike in the Morning" is over? (Besides that).
I think it was obvious that he was just on my nerves. And it wasn't anything in particular he was doing. He was just there. When I am not used to him being there. All. The. Time.
The fact that is was windy and trying to rain made it more difficult to send him off to the beach. Was there an errand I needed to run? Or he needed to run? Run somewhere. Anywhere.
The really great thing about my husband is that I can be really honest and say whatever I am thinking or feeling and he rarely gets offended. So, time to lay it on the line.
"I am going to the store."
"Want me to come?"
"No."
"What store?"
"Any store. Alone."
He got the point immediately because his response was "Am I doing something in particular to bother you or I am just annoying you?"
"You are just annoying me."
To which he shrugged his shoulders and said "OK."
You have to keep in mind that any store of significant size is at least 15 minutes away. Just to walk around Wal-Mart would require me to be gone at least an hour.
Alone.
So, I set off, headed for North Myrtle Beach, the closest shopping mecca.
Alone.
I picked up a few things at Wal-Mart. I looked at some shoes. I looked at paint samples and ceiling fans at Lowe's. I stopped at a couple consignment shops (there are tons here!) and a few little gift shops. I bought the tackiest glass fish vase that I love. You know the kind, the vase opening is his mouth...
Alone.
Then, as much as I hated to admit it, I didn't want to be alone. As much as I was annoyed by my husband's presence this morning, when I was alone I still missed him. He is still my best friend. He is still the person I depend on the most. He is still the person that makes me laugh the most. He is also the person that frustrates me the most. And angers me the most. And annoys me the most. Some days being married to him are really fun and easy. Some days being married to him are really difficult and hard work. But, all days I love him. Even when he annoys me. I can't imagine taking this journey with anyone else.
Crap, even that realization annoys me!
Uhm, today the answer was yes. Today was just one of those days where the mere fact that my husband was breathing too close to me was annoying. His lurking over my shoulder as I tried to read the paper-- annoying. His asking what I was doing when the answer was quite obvious -- annoying. The smell of his coffee. ESPN first thing in the morning. Leaving crumbs on the table from his breakfast. All annoying. The fact the kids were at school and could not provide a diversion from his annoying me? More annoying.
Ron and I have been married for almost 16 years. Actually 15 years and 10 months. 5,752 days. 138,048 hours. 8,282,880 minutes. 496,972,800 seconds.
For the past 37 days we have been in each other's company virtually 24/7. Again, we did this by choice. For the most part we have been getting along great. Surprising well, actually. We have actually begun to have similar thoughts and opinions. Yesterday, we both wore the same color shirts without intending to do so. Neither one of us is used to not working. We are not used to having our days to spend with each other without the kids home. What to you do after the kids are at school and "Mike and Mike in the Morning" is over? (Besides that).
I think it was obvious that he was just on my nerves. And it wasn't anything in particular he was doing. He was just there. When I am not used to him being there. All. The. Time.
The fact that is was windy and trying to rain made it more difficult to send him off to the beach. Was there an errand I needed to run? Or he needed to run? Run somewhere. Anywhere.
The really great thing about my husband is that I can be really honest and say whatever I am thinking or feeling and he rarely gets offended. So, time to lay it on the line.
"I am going to the store."
"Want me to come?"
"No."
"What store?"
"Any store. Alone."
He got the point immediately because his response was "Am I doing something in particular to bother you or I am just annoying you?"
"You are just annoying me."
To which he shrugged his shoulders and said "OK."
You have to keep in mind that any store of significant size is at least 15 minutes away. Just to walk around Wal-Mart would require me to be gone at least an hour.
Alone.
So, I set off, headed for North Myrtle Beach, the closest shopping mecca.
Alone.
I picked up a few things at Wal-Mart. I looked at some shoes. I looked at paint samples and ceiling fans at Lowe's. I stopped at a couple consignment shops (there are tons here!) and a few little gift shops. I bought the tackiest glass fish vase that I love. You know the kind, the vase opening is his mouth...
Alone.
Then, as much as I hated to admit it, I didn't want to be alone. As much as I was annoyed by my husband's presence this morning, when I was alone I still missed him. He is still my best friend. He is still the person I depend on the most. He is still the person that makes me laugh the most. He is also the person that frustrates me the most. And angers me the most. And annoys me the most. Some days being married to him are really fun and easy. Some days being married to him are really difficult and hard work. But, all days I love him. Even when he annoys me. I can't imagine taking this journey with anyone else.
Crap, even that realization annoys me!
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Here we are...now what?
About a month ago, I walked away from a job I have had my entire professional career. I said goodbye to my friends, my house and the town I had lived in for all of my adult life. (Well, all of my responsible, job-holding, bill-paying life. Life in college does not count as responsible, job-holding or bill-paying).
My husband and I loaded our three kids and everything we owned and set off on the great adventure --to live near the ocean. The great unknown. The great crazy as many of my friends have called it. We moved our family more than 900 miles (947, in fact) to live somewhere we have only known as tourists. We don't have a lot of family here, we don't have any friends here, and we don't have jobs here. Are we brave? Or are we crazy? Maybe a little of both. I have often thought it takes a little crazy to be brave. To step into the unknown. To take a chance.
We have always wanted to live near the beach. To be able to walk in the sand whenever we want. To not have to shovel snow in the winter. To be warm. We have said "someday" for years. For many years. Finally, you have to decide; when is it your "someday"?
Today is our "someday". (To be honest, a month ago was our "someday", but give me a little license here. You know, boxes, computers that don't work right away, internet service taking a while to get hooked up). So, we said good-bye to the snowy Golden Dome of Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana and headed for our favorite beach; Sunset Beach, North Carolina. (OK, close to our favorite beach, 6 miles away in Carolina Shores. I moved, I didn't win the lottery. So we don't live "on" the beach. But pretty darn close.)
So, as I sit in a still chaotic house, with many yet-to-be unpacked boxes, I have to figure out how to live a new life here. How to find my new normal. How to help my kids find their new normal. How to make my marriage find its new normal.
Am I a tourist? No. I live here now. I still have to remind myself of that.
Am I a local? No. I still get turned around trying to find the closest grocery store.
I am somewhere in between tourist and local....the journey begins...
My husband and I loaded our three kids and everything we owned and set off on the great adventure --to live near the ocean. The great unknown. The great crazy as many of my friends have called it. We moved our family more than 900 miles (947, in fact) to live somewhere we have only known as tourists. We don't have a lot of family here, we don't have any friends here, and we don't have jobs here. Are we brave? Or are we crazy? Maybe a little of both. I have often thought it takes a little crazy to be brave. To step into the unknown. To take a chance.
We have always wanted to live near the beach. To be able to walk in the sand whenever we want. To not have to shovel snow in the winter. To be warm. We have said "someday" for years. For many years. Finally, you have to decide; when is it your "someday"?
Today is our "someday". (To be honest, a month ago was our "someday", but give me a little license here. You know, boxes, computers that don't work right away, internet service taking a while to get hooked up). So, we said good-bye to the snowy Golden Dome of Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana and headed for our favorite beach; Sunset Beach, North Carolina. (OK, close to our favorite beach, 6 miles away in Carolina Shores. I moved, I didn't win the lottery. So we don't live "on" the beach. But pretty darn close.)
So, as I sit in a still chaotic house, with many yet-to-be unpacked boxes, I have to figure out how to live a new life here. How to find my new normal. How to help my kids find their new normal. How to make my marriage find its new normal.
Am I a tourist? No. I live here now. I still have to remind myself of that.
Am I a local? No. I still get turned around trying to find the closest grocery store.
I am somewhere in between tourist and local....the journey begins...
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