"Are you happy, honey?" D asked me this evening.
"Sure. Why?"
"I just want to make sure every thing's copacetic"
"Why?"
"You haven't been in the best of moods lately, that's all."
Then we entered an entertaining debate of who's job is more stressful. Of course, we each have our own reasons for why our job is the most stressful one. In the end, we agree to knowing that we each have stressful jobs. I make more money, so that's supposed to even out some of the stress. (Ha, ha)
Then I have to wonder, why I am I settling for a job that stresses me out on a regular basis. Shouldn't there be a massive awakening when in the last two weeks I've had two different people tell me that they don't know how I do my job, how I handle the stress level, that it's almost inhuman... Perhaps, I live off the stress, I live off the praise when it comes through, more than I let on. I like having to eat Pepcid AC and drink club soda to soothe my stomach and the fact that I had chest pains all weekend and I know it was because of stress made me feel accomplished.
But then ... I'd be lying to myself if I believe I enjoyed all of that. The truth is, I've gotten used to the corporate lifestyle - both the stress, the ridiculous demands, the combative atmosphere and, of course, the paycheck. It's that paycheck that's the toughest bit. Once you get used to living to that paycheck, it seems almost impossible to think you could downsize. Now, I've known lots of friends who've done just that. They'll go down to one paycheck after having their first child, or they realize non-profit is a better way to live with themselves.
Every day, I think to myself, maybe, just maybe I could downsize and do work that gets me excited every day... then another bill pours in, or I want to buy something and I know that it's my paycheck that allows me to do these things.
Damn the man ... save the empire!
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
The mission
I'm on a mission to melt away some extra weight I've carried. Both physically, mentally and emotionally. I think all three are connected --- at least a little.
If I can chip away some of the weight hanging on to my emotional state, I'll gain more confidence, happiness, and be better able to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. I think the same will happen if I lose the weight mentally and physically, too.
I try not to let little things bother me anymore. At work, I let stupid comments roll off my back and on their way into the past. I focus on relishing the present, savoring every moment and enjoying the essence of what's around.
What's your mission?
If I can chip away some of the weight hanging on to my emotional state, I'll gain more confidence, happiness, and be better able to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. I think the same will happen if I lose the weight mentally and physically, too.
I try not to let little things bother me anymore. At work, I let stupid comments roll off my back and on their way into the past. I focus on relishing the present, savoring every moment and enjoying the essence of what's around.
What's your mission?
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Reflecting on my Mortality
I deliver Meals on Wheels about once a month. I've been doing it for the last five years, on and off. The day that I deliver meals is one of mixed emotions. First, I feel warm knowing that I'm providing a tiny bit of companionship, a glimpse of the outside world, and a smile to people who may not have had contact with another person other than the last person who dropped of lunch. Then I feel a wave of sadness, because I hope that I'm not the only person they see that day.
The meals aren't award-winning, in fact, I'm sure most people wouldn't eat them if given the choice. But it's not about the food, not really. Instead, it's about wishing them well, asking how they are doing and trying to get them to smile. Some of them like to chat, tell stories. Others whisk their meal from my hands and scurry back into the confines of their apartment.
The buildings themselves are hot and smell of stale bodies that haven't moved. But, the stories that those walls could share. Shirly lived in Bangkok for two years, she was a wild and crazy soul, seeking adventures before she started the end of her life in the run-down apartments. Tim always shares stories of what he's doing, and he's always waiting in the lobby to get his meal first. Joan's had a nurse there the last two times I've delivered, but if it's not on Tuesday for her dialysis, she'd pull you inside and tell you stories about her family with pictures to go with it. These are my friends, if only for an hour once a month. They are my connection to a generation that is being lost. Do I call my own grandparents enough? What will happen when I age and need help with the things I take for granted now? Will Kieran have anything to do with me.
The ones that are most painful are the ones that you notice dissapear. My co-worker and I delivered a meal once and the man's meal from yesterday was still outside his door. We couldn't find anyone in the office, so we ended up leaving a message for the Meals coordinator. We can't be sure whatever happened, but his name is no longer on the list for meals. And then there's the lovely polish couple. When I first delivered meals, both the husband and wife would come to the door to get their food... sadly now, only Polly comes to the door.
It's a small thing that I can do, delivering these meager meals, but I encourage everyone to somehow reach out and give back to the community.
The meals aren't award-winning, in fact, I'm sure most people wouldn't eat them if given the choice. But it's not about the food, not really. Instead, it's about wishing them well, asking how they are doing and trying to get them to smile. Some of them like to chat, tell stories. Others whisk their meal from my hands and scurry back into the confines of their apartment.
The buildings themselves are hot and smell of stale bodies that haven't moved. But, the stories that those walls could share. Shirly lived in Bangkok for two years, she was a wild and crazy soul, seeking adventures before she started the end of her life in the run-down apartments. Tim always shares stories of what he's doing, and he's always waiting in the lobby to get his meal first. Joan's had a nurse there the last two times I've delivered, but if it's not on Tuesday for her dialysis, she'd pull you inside and tell you stories about her family with pictures to go with it. These are my friends, if only for an hour once a month. They are my connection to a generation that is being lost. Do I call my own grandparents enough? What will happen when I age and need help with the things I take for granted now? Will Kieran have anything to do with me.
The ones that are most painful are the ones that you notice dissapear. My co-worker and I delivered a meal once and the man's meal from yesterday was still outside his door. We couldn't find anyone in the office, so we ended up leaving a message for the Meals coordinator. We can't be sure whatever happened, but his name is no longer on the list for meals. And then there's the lovely polish couple. When I first delivered meals, both the husband and wife would come to the door to get their food... sadly now, only Polly comes to the door.
It's a small thing that I can do, delivering these meager meals, but I encourage everyone to somehow reach out and give back to the community.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Is he yours?
Yesterday, K and I had to run to the market to pick up a few things for a bread recipe. As we we're using the self-checkout lane, the cashier who was assigned to watch over the self-checkout registers came over. She looked at K and then looked at me.
"He's beautiful. Is he yours or did you adopt him?"
I don't know why I still get taken aback when I get approached with a question like this. Perhaps I think that as a society we should have come further along then to assume a woman with dewy, pale as snow skin could be the biological mother of a brown-eyed, black-haired, olive skinned child. Or maybe it's just amazing to me how people have no fear prying into other people's lives and asking personal questions. Of course, I quickly blurted, "he's mine." But later, I reflected, even if he had been adopted, he'd still have been "mine." I'm the one who nurtures him every day through life, teaching him the skills he'll need to change the world for the better. (Of course, D has a huge part in that as well.)
But it brings me back to the whole audacity thing, and how people ask the most astounding questions. I remember when K was about four months old. My sister and I were shopping and he was being the content child he usually is. An older women stood their admiring him. (Yes, he's always been a big lady-killer.) She turned to me and asked, "Is he from Korea?". Of course, I was quick on my feet that day and responded, "No, but his father is." Then she proceeded to tell me about her son and daughter-in-law and how they were in the process of adopting some children from an Asian country. Of course, I was stunned that she could ask me that question -- and I'm not sure if she pulled Korea out of thin air or if it were pure luck. I wonder, if she'd asked me if he was from China or Japan, would my response just have been no... or would I have been snarky and said something different.
Of course, it doesn't just happen to mothers of children of dual ethnicity. If you're single, people are always asking you, "So, dating anyone?" "Found Mr. Right, yet?". If you do find a Mr. Potential, then the questions turn to, "So, when are you getting married?" (Seriously, I remember people asking me and D that after we'd only been dating a few months!!! - And we waited 3 years to get married.) Of course, the day you walk down the aisle, yes, the very same day - they begin to ask you "So, when are you going to have kids?" I had to endure two years of that question. And of course, you can guess the question I get asked now (outside of if my son entered the world from my birth canal or somebody else's) "So, when are you going to have number two?" I just smiled and say, oh "When K turns 18." That at least shuts them up for the time being.
Now, let's look at these questions - Found Mr. Right? (What if I'm a lesbian?) When are you getting married? (I don't even want to go there...) When are you going to have kids? (What if we'd been trying and found out we couldn't, or we'd had multiple failed attempts after spending thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours being poked and prodded?)
I just wish the world could be a little more sensitive and think before we all speak. If I can teach my son one lesson a day, that would be today's lesson.
"He's beautiful. Is he yours or did you adopt him?"
I don't know why I still get taken aback when I get approached with a question like this. Perhaps I think that as a society we should have come further along then to assume a woman with dewy, pale as snow skin could be the biological mother of a brown-eyed, black-haired, olive skinned child. Or maybe it's just amazing to me how people have no fear prying into other people's lives and asking personal questions. Of course, I quickly blurted, "he's mine." But later, I reflected, even if he had been adopted, he'd still have been "mine." I'm the one who nurtures him every day through life, teaching him the skills he'll need to change the world for the better. (Of course, D has a huge part in that as well.)
But it brings me back to the whole audacity thing, and how people ask the most astounding questions. I remember when K was about four months old. My sister and I were shopping and he was being the content child he usually is. An older women stood their admiring him. (Yes, he's always been a big lady-killer.) She turned to me and asked, "Is he from Korea?". Of course, I was quick on my feet that day and responded, "No, but his father is." Then she proceeded to tell me about her son and daughter-in-law and how they were in the process of adopting some children from an Asian country. Of course, I was stunned that she could ask me that question -- and I'm not sure if she pulled Korea out of thin air or if it were pure luck. I wonder, if she'd asked me if he was from China or Japan, would my response just have been no... or would I have been snarky and said something different.
Of course, it doesn't just happen to mothers of children of dual ethnicity. If you're single, people are always asking you, "So, dating anyone?" "Found Mr. Right, yet?". If you do find a Mr. Potential, then the questions turn to, "So, when are you getting married?" (Seriously, I remember people asking me and D that after we'd only been dating a few months!!! - And we waited 3 years to get married.) Of course, the day you walk down the aisle, yes, the very same day - they begin to ask you "So, when are you going to have kids?" I had to endure two years of that question. And of course, you can guess the question I get asked now (outside of if my son entered the world from my birth canal or somebody else's) "So, when are you going to have number two?" I just smiled and say, oh "When K turns 18." That at least shuts them up for the time being.
Now, let's look at these questions - Found Mr. Right? (What if I'm a lesbian?) When are you getting married? (I don't even want to go there...) When are you going to have kids? (What if we'd been trying and found out we couldn't, or we'd had multiple failed attempts after spending thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours being poked and prodded?)
I just wish the world could be a little more sensitive and think before we all speak. If I can teach my son one lesson a day, that would be today's lesson.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Proper Hygiene and the Bus - oxymoron?
Perhaps it's the summer, perhaps it's the bus I ride, but lately, every time someone sits next to me I have to hold my breathe for the remainder of the trip.
Previously I detailed such an occassion:
Monday, June 25
Stinky, Smelly Bus Man
I usually sit at the front of the bus - so I can conveniently exit and be on my way. Today, I sat in the very front sit and was just settling in with my trashy mag du jour. Then, without warning, this huge, smelly goliath sits on top of me!
Now, there were ample number of seats that he could have selected and even had a seat to himself. But no, he decided to toture me.
Let me paint the picture - he was the missing brother from the famed musical "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." Probably 6'4", 275 and he smelled as though no one had ever educated him on the finer users of deodorant antisperperant or the concept of daily hygiene. Not only that, when I mentioned earlier that he sat on top of me - the main was trying to take up the entire seat. I almost got up and moved - but I realized I wasn't sure what proper ettiquette is for this situation. The whole ride I just tried to squeeze myself more and more into the very corner of the seat - I was plastered against the window practically. I felt his stench permeating next to me and had to do my best to read on the latest news of the Jolie-Pitts to be distracted.
I got off the bus at the very first stop- and I know I let out an audible sigh when I got out of the seat. It may have been rude, but I've never been so disgusted in my entire life - I mean this man was truly the most disgusting, vile creature I've ever encountered. Ugh! I get the heebeejeebees just thinking about it.
Alas, today, it happened again. Due to my inconvenient bus stop on the way home, I often get stuck in the back of the bus. There were plenty of other open sits, but this sweaty, old man had to sit next to me. Of course, not only did he sit next to me ruining my aura with his odor, but he was reading my US Weekly over my shoulder - or should I say he was ogling my US over my shoulder. While I cannot give up my preferred transport, I send out a simple plea to all bus riders. Make sure you shower, and if you don't - just light sprays of cologne - too much is not a good thing!
Previously I detailed such an occassion:
Monday, June 25
Stinky, Smelly Bus Man
I usually sit at the front of the bus - so I can conveniently exit and be on my way. Today, I sat in the very front sit and was just settling in with my trashy mag du jour. Then, without warning, this huge, smelly goliath sits on top of me!
Now, there were ample number of seats that he could have selected and even had a seat to himself. But no, he decided to toture me.
Let me paint the picture - he was the missing brother from the famed musical "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." Probably 6'4", 275 and he smelled as though no one had ever educated him on the finer users of deodorant antisperperant or the concept of daily hygiene. Not only that, when I mentioned earlier that he sat on top of me - the main was trying to take up the entire seat. I almost got up and moved - but I realized I wasn't sure what proper ettiquette is for this situation. The whole ride I just tried to squeeze myself more and more into the very corner of the seat - I was plastered against the window practically. I felt his stench permeating next to me and had to do my best to read on the latest news of the Jolie-Pitts to be distracted.
I got off the bus at the very first stop- and I know I let out an audible sigh when I got out of the seat. It may have been rude, but I've never been so disgusted in my entire life - I mean this man was truly the most disgusting, vile creature I've ever encountered. Ugh! I get the heebeejeebees just thinking about it.
Alas, today, it happened again. Due to my inconvenient bus stop on the way home, I often get stuck in the back of the bus. There were plenty of other open sits, but this sweaty, old man had to sit next to me. Of course, not only did he sit next to me ruining my aura with his odor, but he was reading my US Weekly over my shoulder - or should I say he was ogling my US over my shoulder. While I cannot give up my preferred transport, I send out a simple plea to all bus riders. Make sure you shower, and if you don't - just light sprays of cologne - too much is not a good thing!
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Exhaustion Creeps In
I've been meaning to revive my blogspot blog for months now. And so I choose today to do so. After putting 11 hours in the office, taking care of my little prince and amusing my husband with my daily anecdotes. We all have to start somewhere. Alas, to bed I creep. Tomorrow is a new day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)