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You know what bugs me? I can't find lilac-scented ANYTHING. No lilac scented bubble bath, or lotion, or perfume, or soap, or massage oil, or anything. They've got plenty of LAVENDER stuff, but no lilac. And it's not like I can just go out and buy a bouquet of them. They used to grow wild near my grandmother's house. I'm homesick.
Michael isn't going to Iraq.
I have a cold.
And then, there's this guy at work who NEVER seems to have anything to do. He occupies his time going from cubicle to cubicle, finding people to bother. Right now he's in the cube across from me, trying to get my attention. I'm ignoring him. Dude, don't you have SOME kind of work to do? What the hell are you getting paid for, anyway?
Dana is messing with some guy's mind.
"Who i'm is?
Rubberband Man wild as the Taliban
Nine in my right
45 in my other hand
Who i'm is?
Call Me troubl-man
Always in trouble man
Worth a couple hundred grand
Chevy's all Colors man"
"Rubber Band Man" by T.I. It's a silly, silly song.
2003 - A Calvin warm-fuzzy fit.
2002 - Whining.
2001 - Stuff about me.
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May 4, 2004
Awareness
This month, the calendar in my cubicle features lilacs (my very favorite flower, and they don't grow around here). The quote is:
"Miracles surround me, and in the simple awareness of their presence, I find joy."
I think that people tend to feel that day to day life is rather short of miraculous. I know that usually I can't seem to find the miracle in a lot of things. Most of the time, I don't know that I'm supposed to be looking for the miracle - in getting up in the morning, slogging through work, slogging through school, feeling guilty for eating too much or not working out enough, and worrying about money. I know for a DAMN fact that there's nothing miraculous about a head cold.
That picture of lilacs is making me pretty darned happy today, though. I even said aloud, "Oh, lilacs!" when I turned the page over to May (Calvin can attest to it, I was on the phone with him at the time). All I have to do is look at the picture, and I can envision myself coming home with armfuls of flowers, pestering Grammy for some vases so I could put them in the kitchen, in her room, and in my room.
Yesterday, even though I felt like complete and total shit (home sick with a sore throat), the milk bath I took made me VERY happy. The water was as hot as I could bear it, and it smelled like vanilla and oatmeal. I'd forgotten how much I like our tub, overlooked as it's been for a LONG while, since getting the hot tub. The flowers sitting on the backsplash of the tub awaiting planting made me happy - the colors are so bright they'd have to be described as "nuclear". I just might leave them there and buy more for the yard. And the cat falling into the tub made me laugh - he jumped up on the edge to say hi to me, and got more than he bargained for. And yet, he kept coming back, sticking his paws in the water and trying to pat at my fingers, wiggling just below the surface.
I watched a confused adolescent sparrow for about twenty minutes, while he tried to figure out how to get the nectar out of the hummingbird feeder. That made me happy.
I came up with THE PERFECT idea for Calvin for a Father's Day gift. That really made me happy. And excited. It's the most original thing that I've come up with yet, and I'll post all about it after Father's Day - wouldn't want to give it away, even though I'm notorious for not being able to keep a gift-secret. Case in point, the bed and breakfast trip I reserved one year for Calvin's October birthday, that I told him about in April.
So. Are the little things that make us happy - the small moments that we take notice of, and then wonder at ourselves for even noticing them at all - are those the miracles we're supposed to be on the lookout for? Does a miracle necessarily have to be of biblical proportions? I guess it depends on your definition of a miracle. Are you an "every moment is precious" kind of miracle-taker, or do you hold to a strictly "walk-on-water" criteria? I would think that the former would be less inclined to feel soul-stirring awe all that much, but the latter would be disappointed more often, or at least waiting a long time. I haven't seen too many water-walkers lately. The last one was Bruce Almighty, and I don't think that counts.
I'm the kind of person who takes my miracles as they come, in the form of little things happening throughout my day. The eye-searching, soul-deepening hour that Calvin and I spent in bed, snuggled up and conversing, that was one of my recent miracles. Michael's reversal of orders, mere hours after he learned that he was on the list of soldiers going over to Iraq, that's a more obvious miracle. Watching Calvin and baby Anthony asleep on the couch, that's another good one.
I'm finding honey on a sore throat to be a minor miracle, too.
So, yeah. About Michael and Iraq. Lilly e-mailed one day last week and said that it was confirmed that he was going over to "the sandbox". We were fairly well prepared for that eventuality, figuring that he'd go over as support staff, much in the same function he's in at Camp Pendleton, and not be right in the thick of the fighting. Then Lilly informed me that he was going over as "Force Protection", which are basically the soldiers that have been seeing the bulk of the fighting and casualties.
Commence with the freaking out.
I started crying at my desk, then went over to talk to my boss and got her crying, too. Then, five minutes after learning the news, I had to be in a meeting to give a presentation. I don't think it went well, but for the life of me I don't remember much about it. I think I wrote some things down. I think.
I managed to sit my way through school, and spent much of the day e-mailing back and forth with Lilly (and Michael, a few times - he's a man of few words when it comes to e-mail). She was very worried about how to manage things with the new baby being born while Michael was away, and we were bouncing around ideas and making some tentative arrangements. I talked to Calvin on the phone several times before giving it all up and just going home at about 3:30. I went right to bed, and slept for a solid hour. Worry and depression takes me that way - all I want to do is shut down and turn everything off.
Then, as we were getting ready to sit down and explain the details to Marie, Michael called. We figured we'd get news on his ship-out date, but the news he did have was much better. It seems that his commanding officer decided that he'd be better placed staying at Camp Pendleton, and changing his position from where he is now ("Distribution"), to training recruits on the rifle range. It's apparently a much-desired position, and his years of video game training came in handy, as they resulted his "expert marksman" classification. Of course, his dad's a pretty good shot, too, so it could be a hereditary trait.
Crisis averted. We didn't even get a chance to say anything to the rest of the family members before the news had changed from bad to good. Thank God.
Along the lines of general updatey goodness, next week is the last week of school, and I only have to write one more paper for Economics and get through that final (40 questions, multiple choice, cake). English is done, since I turn in my final paper tomorrow and there is no final for the class. I've decided against taking summer classes, opting instead to take advantage of some available overtime to pay off some debt.
The Friends finale is this Thursday. I suspect that it'll become one of those "Where were you when..." things, like JFK and The Challenger. Except for the obvious differences, there. Anyway, we're planning on getting a bunch of food together and not moving our asses one inch off the couch, except for the obligatory potty breaks, for the entire two hour finale. I'm probably going to watch the Very Special Dateline on Wednesday, too. And buy all the seasons on DVD, even though there will always be syndication goodness.
Calvin and I have made up a new drinking game, based on our ever-growing fondness of HBO's "Deadwood". Watch the show, and every time someone says "cocksucker", take a shot. For getting drunker quicker (like, in the first five minutes), take a shot every time someone drops the F-bomb. This is our take-off on our "CSI-Miami" drinking game, when we take a shot every time Horatio puts on his sunglasses, takes off his sunglasses, or does an impersonation of William Shatner.
I'm now a fledgeling member of The Usual Suspects. I'm a little afraid to post, since they are So Very Cool, and I am not. I'm afraid of making newbie mistakes and getting flamed. Getting flamed as a veteran with thicker skin is all well and good - I'm not afraid of a good flame war - but I won't get that thicker skin unless I post. A conundrum.
The weatherman blithely informed us last night that we should expect 120 days this summer to be over 100 degrees. And six of them to be over 115 degrees. We had our first 100 degree day yesterday. May 3. I hate this fucking (cocksucker) state in the summer.
I think I just bumped the rating of this site from PG to PG-13. Swearing is so very, very liberating.
And that's the news.
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