tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21488594154688197082024-03-14T14:00:12.787-04:00Working WiddershinsAn inward journey to an outward danceCamelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-72260650829022146402011-04-30T08:21:00.000-04:002011-04-30T08:21:47.841-04:00Tally Ho! (or, These things FLY, TOO!?!)<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I spent the winter working in Florida. Yes, I know, it was a terrible sacrifice. I had to leave my family in the Frozen North and come here for a job. I arrived in October of last year. My family would text me pictures of their backyards buried under foot after foot of ice and snow, saying, "It's snowing today." And I would go outside and snap a picture of the gorgeous lake outside my window, with the sparkling sunshine and the green grass and trees, and send it to them, saying, "No, it's not."</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>They only did that a couple of times; don't know why they stopped.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>The people here in Tallahassee (Tally, to some), are the friendliest people I have ever met. Anywhere. Friendly and helpful and kind. Constantly. I am adoring this place and these people.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>But the other day I met another denizen of Florida. One that I'm not so happy about.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I walked into the break room at work and saw two gigantic Bug-zillas, lying there on their backs, waving their legs and their incredibly long antennae. "What ARE these things?", I squeeked to the co-worker already there. "Florida roaches, also known as palmetto bugs," he replied rather smugly. "We grow'em big in Florida."</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I scurried (ugh, too bug-like), I fled in panic (much better) back to my cubicle to google said bug-zilla. And what, to my wondering eyes, did appear? "Don't step on them, that only makes a nasty mess. Don't try to vacuum them up, unless you immediately remove the bag and seal it closed, because they will just crawl back out again. Don't try roach motels because they are too large to fit in through the entrance. Don't try the roach sticky traps; they won't hold these bugs. Try the mice sticky traps; they might be strong enough."</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Notice that was "might by", not "will be". </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>And the final piece of advice: "Your best bet is to stun them with a broom, then sweep them outside."</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>STUN them. With a BROOM. I live in an extended stay hotel. With Housekeeping services. I don't HAVE a broom! </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>This was followed by advice for discouraging their presence, such as wrapping your toaster in cling wrap, don't eat anywhere except over the sink, so you can immediately rinse your crumbs down the drain. And then seal the drain. With duct tape. At least, I think that's what it said. By the time I got to this point my eyes were glazed over in terror and I wasn't comprehending the text too well.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I email the article to my daughter, who frequently visits Florida with her in-laws. She sweetly replied that they are also sometimes known as "flying cows". Holy in-coming, Batman! Forget the broom! Where can I buy me a Taser????</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Camellia</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-21790819873970871592010-08-01T08:54:00.004-04:002010-08-01T09:01:07.508-04:00Watermelon and Pizza<b></b><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I thoroughly enjoy a blog by <a href="http://volcanicensemble.blogspot.com/">The Sassy Curmudgeon</a> and recently she posted that she hates watermelon. I have to say that I don’t agree with her on watermelon; I happen to love it, but she has given me the courage to say…I HATE PIZZA!!!</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>There. I said it. Now please stop reading this and call 911 for those who just had a heart attack reading that sentence.“I hate pizza”. Try saying that - to anyone. It is a guaranteed conversation stopper. People stare. Some start to quiver. Others turn bright red. They all start to Back. Away. Slowly. And if I say it to a group of people, the pitchforks and torches come out and then I am the one trying to Back. Away. Slowly.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I hate pizza. I hate everything about it. I hate the pools of grease large enough to hide the Loch Ness monster. I hate the crust which tastes like cardboard. Dry cardboard, soggy cardboard, or chewy cardboard depending on if it starts its life as thin crust, thick crust, or deep dish crust. And mozzarella cheese! Who invented this Silly Putty of cheeses? You can’t bite it, tear it, or cut it. It will stretch from your mouth to the moon. Thieves, forget zip lines! Just have a friend hold a slice of pizza on the roof while you take a bite, and float down to the museum floor safely and quietly on the never-ending string of cheese. As a bonus your fingers will be so greasy you won’t have to worry about leaving fingerprints; they will all smear into an unrecognizable mess.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>My husband drags me to every pizza joint in town, determined to find one I will like. Since I am a veggie person he has started ordering variations of veggie pizzas for me to try. I can honestly say that it doesn’t matter what the vegetable is – green pepper, mushroom, olives, whatever – after putting it on a pizza and baking it for, apparently, 49 HOURS, it all looks like those washers the plumber puts on facets to make them stop leaking, and tastes like...well...the Loch Ness monster. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Of course, even though I hate pizza myself, I still know how to order pizzas to please any crowd. This is both a fine art and a necessary skill. Surprisingly enough, liking pizza oneself doesn’t mean that one can order just the right pizzas, sizes and combinations, to satisfy the hungry lions, er, pizza aficionados. This lesson was brought home to me one day many years ago when a man who was trying to date me offered to come over and bring pizza. I genteelly refrained from screaming into the phone “I hate pizza, you twit” and reflected upon the fact that, at that very moment, I had two Hulks (otherwise known as two 17 year old boys) and one Hulkette (my 17 year old daughter who, let’s be honest, could eat them under the table. Okay, that didn’t sound quite the way I wanted it to…) at any rate, these three teenagers were in my home and they would soon be expecting fooooooood. Which in teenage lexicon, of course, means either pizza or pizza. Or maybe pizza. With a side of pizza. Oh, and with a liter of coke, of course. For each.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>So I told him “Sure, come on over – but I have three teenagers here.” He replied “No Problem! I’ll bring enough for everyone!”</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>He brought one large pepperoni pizza and one medium ham and pineapple pizza.</b><br />
<br />
<b>That was ONE large pepperoni and one MEDIUM…well, you get the picture. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>My daughter swooped down on him at the door and divested him of the boxes and disappeared into the kitchen. From whence she promptly re-appeared and forced me to attempt to remain sober and straight-faced as she stood behind him holding her fingers in an L on her forehead.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>And who knew that Hulks could whip up pitchforks and torches so quickly?</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Camellia</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-65882011001726534922010-06-25T20:34:00.000-04:002010-06-25T20:34:36.118-04:00First Kiss<b></b><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Yesterday our grandson came to visit. He is 17 months’ worth of adorable in his little denim overalls. I was sitting on the love seat with my back braced against one arm and my feet against the other, safely blocking him in while he stood on the seat looking over the back of the couch out the window. He was laughing and pointing and waving his hands and chattering incomprehensibly about whatever he was seeing out there, and Lionheart and I were laughing at his exuberance. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Suddenly he stopped and turned toward me and began climbing up over my body. I thought he was trying to get down from the couch. Instead, he carefully leaned in and gave me a kiss on my cheek. He then climbed back to his place and resumed his ‘talking’ and waving.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>It was the best first kiss I’ve ever had.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Camellia</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-68640887322129825472010-05-30T10:53:00.001-04:002010-05-30T10:54:32.704-04:00Fashion Plate<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Fashion Plate</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>–noun </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>1. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>a person who consistently wears the latest style in dress. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Fashion has been on my mind lately because, thanks to a new doctor, I am now taking a medicine to replace what my under active thyroid is not producing, and, as a result, have lost 15 pounds and counting. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I would jump up and down for joy except that my pants would fall down around my ankles. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I have dropped two clothing sizes and one clothing department. What I mean is that I no longer have to shop in the “hopelessly devoid of anything resembling fashion” WOMEN’S DEPARTMENT. I can go back to shopping in the Misses Department.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Now please understand, I am not and never have been, as defined above, a fashion plate. I go for classic styles, dressier rather than casual. What that means in my suburban world is that I prefer suits for work and wrap tops (silk) and heels (kitten) with my (straight leg, dark denim wash) jeans, while others are wearing some kind of non-jean pants with some kind of top for work, and faded jeans with athletic shoes everywhere else. So yes, I am somewhat more fashion-y than those around me. That doesn’t make me a fashion plate. Maybe a fashion fork? Or a fashion goblet? But definitely not a plate.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>But I would like to have had clothing more stylish than I found in the WOMEN’S DEPARTMENTS of the stores in my suburban mall. It was pure torture to walk past the Misses Department and see all the nice fabrics and prints and styles, only to reach the WOMEN’S DEPARTMENTS and see nothing even faintly resembling attractive clothing. Who decided that a size 16 WOMAN couldn’t wear the same luscious print that a size 16 Missy could? Only a few pounds separate the two sizes. Who decided that all WOMEN could or would want to wear prints so large that they resemble a map of the world – life size? Who decided that WOMEN don’t deserve to have a waist, so all tops are made to hang straight down in front from the tips of our boobs, changing our shapes to something resembling the box my clothes dryer came packaged in? Or even worse, have gathered bust lines so that we all look fourteen months pregnant.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I ended up doing most of my clothes shopping on QVC, one of the shopping networks. Almost every article of clothing that they offer comes in sizes from XS to 3X. So thank you, QVC, for providing fashionable styles that WOMEN are not ashamed to be seen in.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>In the mean time, I bought three pairs of straight leg, dark denim wash jeans in my new size, and those will have to do as I (hopefully) continue to lose weight. Thank goodness my new job allows wearing jeans to work.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Camellia<br />
</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-59128598228035624132010-05-18T20:29:00.000-04:002010-05-18T20:29:20.008-04:00When life gives you lemons<b></b><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>In light of my last post I thought I should introduce you to my best friend in the whole world. In this blog I will call her Teddi Bear. And this is her sign: When life gives you lemons, smile politely and throw them away when life isn’t looking.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I have known Teddi for twenty plus years. She is the biggest reason I don’t run screaming up and down the aisles. She is always available for comfort, for advice, and for a smack upside the head when I need it.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Since we haven’t lived in the same town for most of those twenty years we stayed in touch by phone and, the last few years, by email. Don’t think she can’t deliver that well-deserved smack by email because, trust me, she can. And we send each other Zen Hugs, a concept stolen from a Brain Ship book we both love.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>She knows my secrets. And I know hers, which I will never share here. She says she doesn’t care if I am {called} strange {by other people}; that my “strangeness” suits her more than their “normalness”. She is the only person other than my husband and daughter to whom I say, ‘I love you.”</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>She saw me through the slow death of my first marriage, the pain of divorce, the struggle to extricate myself completely from my clinging ex-husband, and the joy of discovering the person I really am when I am by myself. She shared with me the roller coaster ride called parenting. She introduced me to homeopathy and I introduced her to energy work. And when I met LionHeart, she agreed with me when I said “You gotta love a man who can use the word ‘commiserate’ correctly in a sentence”, and she read the invocation at our wedding.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>When I whine about never being able to retire she reminds me that I will always have a place in her home and that we can become old cat ladies together. When I whine about vacations, we plan a fantasy trip to a far off spa for a week. When I whine about my daughter, Teddi reminds me, with that smack upside the head, that I’m not the only one who raised her and that I’m not responsible for the mistakes she makes, nor am I necessarily responsible for rescuing her. And when I whine about sex she suggests a little on-line shopping – and plenty of batteries. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Sometimes she tells me to suck it up. Sometimes she tells me to let it go. Sometimes she sends me eCards that make me laugh until I snort. Sometimes she sends me packages in the mail – the last one had another little sign that said, “When all else fails, hug the cat.”</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>So, thanks, Teddi Bear. I hugged my cat. And I Zen Hug the stuffing out of you.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-39894991036489106062010-05-18T20:24:00.000-04:002010-05-18T20:24:37.527-04:00A misty, moisty morning<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I borrowed that line from Tolkien. It describes this morning perfectly. The only variation from other mornings lately is that it is only misting rain instead of pouring rain. And since I am solar powered, my charge is getting quite low. And when I’m already low, things hit me much harder.</span></b><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>For example, last night LionHeart told me a story about his day. It ended with him saying to the other person, “You have to have hope.”</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>That hit me hard. Because it made me think about the part where I have no hope.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Or maybe it would be more accurate to say I have only small hopes. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>For example, I have no hope that I can ever retire. Instead, I hope that I can keep my fibromyalgia under control so that I can go to work every morning for as long as, well, forever.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I have no hope of having anything resembling a real vacation, especially now that I have no PTO. Even when I had PTO I always had to save it for sick-daughter-days and service-people-coming-to-the-house days and my-fibro-prevents-me from-working-today days. So I continue to hope for early Fridays and sunny Saturdays where I can do the occasional activity to relieve stress and feed my soul.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I have no hope that I will actually get to have intercourse again in my lifetime. So I hope that I can survive with toys and the occasional helping hand from LionHeart.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>(He has the heart of a lion, but a high level of constant unremitting pain takes its toll in many ways. He has, however, promised me a “free pass” if I ever get the chance to, um, nail my favorite actor. Which is a safe bet since there is no hope that I would ever get to do that.)</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I have no hope that I will ever have a relaxed, loving relationship with my daughter. So I just hope to make it through each conversation without disappointing her expectations of me too badly.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>It seems to take all my energy, thought, and ingenuity just to get through each day reasonably sane, without running up and down the aisles screaming. All the effort that people put into RPGs and other strategy games, I put into surviving my days. And getting through my nights. And getting up the next day to do it all again.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>So I hope that my contract-to-hire employer hires me. And I hope that someday my daughter might let me know that I am not a complete failure as a mother. And I hope we get a week of sunny days soon.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>So everyone join my pity party and sing the HeeHaw song with me (best sung whilst sittin’ on a porch where yer houn’ dog can howl along):</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Gloom, despair, and agony on me</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Deep dark depression, excessive misery</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Gloom, despair, and agony on me</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Camellia</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-68550522461762696362010-05-08T08:11:00.002-04:002010-05-08T08:15:54.851-04:00The single overwhelming value...<b></b><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>... that dominates everything in my life is...</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I create beauty.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>That beauty may be in many different forms</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• A comfortable room glowing with warm woods and colors</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• A perfectly arranged vignette on a side table</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• A painting (pastels are my medium of choice)</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• A computer program that executes accurately and efficiently and whose code makes beautiful patterns on the page (e.g. cascading indentations that make the code more readable and easy to understand)</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• A perfectly organized and arranged desk, bookshelf, closet, fill-in-the-blank</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• A perfectly balanced checkbook</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• A newsletter that is fun, informative, and easy to read</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• A perfect outfit complete with accessories</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• The perfect touch of makeup</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>• The colors, fonts, and layouts of this blog</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
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</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>How did I realize that this value is what drives almost everything I do?</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>A long time ago at a company far far away I was going through a workbook on organizational change that included a section on values. There were pages of neat little squares printed with values and their definitions from numerous categories like family, money, work, and so forth, and they could be cut apart. The exercise was to take these squares (there were around fifty) and arrange them according to certain priorities. I was truly struggling with this process. Every way I looked at it different values seemed to float to the top. Then my manager walked by and said that he had done something similar during an off-site seminar, except they had to come up with only one value as their tip-top most important one of all time.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>As soon as he said that, I knew what mine was. There was one card labeled “Aesthetic”, having to do with beauty, with the appreciation and creation of beauty. And I realized that I have a need to instill beauty in everything I do. It is something that I can’t NOT do. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I was able to look back at the items listed above, along with many others, and see how this need to create beauty had expressed itself over and over again. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Now I’m not sure that “the need to create beauty” could technically be considered a “value”, but for me it is certainly the driving force in my life. And discovering that gave me peace in some unexpected ways.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>For example, at the time I was completing this workbook I was totally and completely bored at work, questioning my career decisions, and going through books like What Color is my Parachute in an effort to find something else I “should” be doing. When I had the revelation about ‘creating beauty’ I could suddenly see that which particular profession I pursued was a second place consideration. I didn’t have to be an interior designer or an artist or a dancer. I can find ways to ‘create beauty’ no matter where I work or what I do – and I always have. I just didn’t realize it.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>And it also gave me the freedom to design and paint and dance without feeling that I had to be good enough at it to make it my profession and earn enough money at it to support my family.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>And it gave me more satisfaction because I could – finally – consciously – choose to create beauty anywhere and everywhere. Maybe in something as small as arranging the items on a restaurant table in a pleasing way. They would be rearranged, of course, as soon as the table was cleared, but in the meantime it made my dinner a little more pleasant. Or maybe in something as large as finding something to do in a club for something in which I had no interest. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Okay, three ‘somethings’ in that sentence makes it non-understandable. What I mean is that Bar’s dad had a hobby that I didn’t share, but he wanted me along because, well, a lot of reasons that I won’t go into here. This is a world-wide hobby, BTW. And they, along with every other club in the nation and the world, produced a newsletter. And theirs was absolutely wretched. I volunteered to take it over. After they recovered from their shock they agreed. And I turned that newsletter into a fun, informative, easy to read (see list above) item that drew accolades from clubs across the country. And it was visually appealing; a thing of beauty.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>So that is my number one value. What’s yours?</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Camellia</b><br />
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<b>P.S. Yes, the former post containing the on-line poll was what got me started thinking about 'values' again. And "If it's not yours, don't touch it." is still important to me. But 'creating beauty' trumps everything. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-58911317303794841732010-05-08T08:07:00.003-04:002010-05-08T08:08:31.062-04:00My dream job<b></b><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>First off, let me say that I GOT A JOB! Actually, it’s a contract, a very LEAN contract, but it pays more than unemployment so YEAAAAA! But, boy, working sure cuts in to my TV viewing time. I’m going to have to let go of all those series that I had collected to watch in my durance vile (Yes, google it, I’ll wait.) And I’m starting to feel like a functioning human being again instead of a zombie whose only light in the world was the glow of the tv screen. And my finally-not-so-sluggish thoughts turn towards posting in my blog again.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>So I have a job. But it’s not my dream job.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>My dream job would involve something that is near and dear to my heart. It is a hobby of mine. I luvvvvvvvv to paint.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Ah, but what do I paint, you ask? </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I paint faces.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>No, not the carnival/festival/cartoon face painting where someone, usually dressed as a clown, paints cute pictures on kid’s faces and prays that the mom is right and the kid doesn’t have any allergies that might kill them on the spot.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I put makeup on faces. Well, to be a little more precise, I only put makeup on my face, at least right now. But I would love to put makeup on everyone’s face. Yep, my dream job is at Sephora. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Now don’t get me wrong. I have painted in the more traditional sense. My first love is pastels, those luscious colored sticks of fine powdery substances that you rub across the paper and use your fingers to blend just right. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>But after a long day at a very creative job I just don’t have the creative juices and energy left to come home and paint like that any more.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>But I do have the time and energy to take 10 minutes in the morning and work that same magic using my face as my canvas. And all those gorgeous luscious colors are available in makeup too.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>So I paint my face every morning, trying different palettes and techniques, just for fun. And maybe some do I’ll do it for someone else.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I think I’ll think about what it might take to make that happen. Any suggestions?</b><br />
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<b>Camellia </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-81344021171637061632010-05-08T07:58:00.022-04:002010-05-08T08:09:03.481-04:00One of those polls<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>I have been accumulating some posts and, before posting, was trying to put them into some kind of logical order, this thought followed that thought, and so forth. But I don't have the time to do that without pulling out my hair so I'm just going to post them. If they seem a little out of order, well, don't say I didn't warn you.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite past vacation? </span>Honeymoon in Hawaii – new place, new husband.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your dream vacation? </span>Somewhere with animals and trees and creeks and no people.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite food?</span> Anything rich and creamy, like fettuccini alfredo or clam chowder.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite book?</span> Seriously? ONE book? You must be joking. How about my favorite series – the Valdimar series by Mercedes Lackey. But then there is the military science fictions series by Elizabeth Moon. And the Harry Dresden series by…well, you get the idea.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite movie?</span> The latest Star Trek. No, wait – Iron Man. No, no, how about the first Transformers movie. I know! I know! “Much Ado about Nothing!”</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite weekend past time?</span> Ohio RenFest.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite athletic activity?</span> Dancing.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite type of music?</span> Hmm. I like many genres, but my all-time favorite CD is Paul Simon’s ‘Negotiations and Love Songs’. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s one good thing that’s happening in your life?</span> I GOT A JOB.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Who would you have lunch with if you could (dead or alive)?</span> Queen Elizabeth the First. Although she would probably find me boring.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s an occupation you would love to try?</span> Interior Redesign.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s an occupation you would never try?</span> Anything to do with health care.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite sound?</span> Ducks quacking.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your least favorite sound? </span>The squeal of brakes.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
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</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite holiday?</span> None. To me holidays are a time of unrealistic expectations forced upon me by people who punish me when I can’t meet them.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
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</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Describe an image that inspires you. </span>Sunshine splashed over anything.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>If you could be a wild animal, what would you be? A black panther like Bagheera in Jungle Book.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>If you won the lottery, what would you do with the money ($10 million)?</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Travel the world to see the art museums.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>If you could live anywhere – and money was not a worry – where would</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">you live?</span> Italy.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?</span> When you drive, stay in your own lane. That way you won’t have a problem when you round a curve and encounter a vehicle coming in the opposite direction (I learned to drive on two-lane winding country roads). I find this advice is good in many life situations, though. Stay in your own lane, tend to your own business...</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What is the best piece of advice you’ve ever given? </span> Don’t wear anything that is wider than it is long. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What was your first job?</span> Waiting tables in a local greasy spoon for a dollar an hour.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>When you were in first grade – what did you want to be when you grew</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">up?</span> A ballet dancer.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Who is your hero? </span> Myself. I have overcome so much.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite season of the year?</span> Spring.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">If you were stranded on an island with one person – who would it be? </span>Heheheheheheheheh…Christian Kane.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s your favorite car? </span>A pickup truck. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What makes you laugh?</span> My husband’s off-the-cuff humor, most of which is unrepeatable in polite society.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Which core value speaks most to you and why?</span> If it’s not yours, don’t touch it. On a personal scale, I am very territorial, so hands off – and I do the same for everyone else. On a large scale, if everyone adhered to this principle it would solve just about every problem in the world.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: blue;">What’s the most innovative idea you’ve ever heard?</span> Just about everything I see on QVC, seems like.</b><br />
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<b>Camellia </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
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</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-61085423547975479342010-05-01T17:15:00.000-04:002010-05-01T17:15:12.503-04:00Quip on the draw<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>In my last post I talked about the attention I received from men. This came, not only in physical form, but verbal form. Sometimes as the so-called “double entendre”. Sometimes as thinly veiled sexual comments. And sometimes as blatant propositions. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>And during that time I discovered how to ‘confuse and defuse’ men in these situations. I simply reply as though the man has made a perfectly sensible and straightforward comment. Let me give some examples.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>From a co-worker: ‘”I saw you on my way to work this morning. What’s a nice girl like you doing standing on the corner like that?” Spoken with that familiar leer.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>My response was to – say it with me – treat it like a sensible and straightforward question - and give him a discourse on how economical it was to take the bus to and from work each day.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>He made a gaping fish mouth for a few seconds then wandered off without even having made a reply.</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>See? Neatly done. No voices were raised; he didn’t get embarrassed; and he didn’t have the opportunity to say “I was just joking! Can’t you take a joke?” The (male) co-worker sitting next to me said, “I thought you would take his head off for saying that!” And I said, “No need to. He won’t do anything like that again.” And he didn’t; he treated me with respect during the rest of my tenure. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Or how about the question asked while staring at my chest: “Are those real?” I say, “Of course they are real. I am not one of those women who wear glasses just because they think they are a cute fashion accessory! I wear glasses because I need to!” (Insert evil chuckle here. There’s juuuuust not much they can do with that one.)</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>You get the idea. Try it sometime. It can be quite a fun thing to do, watching that confused look come over their face as they try to figure out what just happened. </b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Camellia</b></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-8654615055673394612010-05-01T16:01:00.003-04:002010-05-01T16:57:37.107-04:00Are you Beautiful or Ugly?<span style="font-weight: bold;">Whoever said “Beauty is only skin deep,” was wrong.<br /><br />Whoever said “Pretty is as pretty does,” was only a bit closer.<br /><br />Whoever said “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes to the bone,” was actually on the right track. They just didn’t realize it applies to both beauty and ugliness.<br /><br />The truth is, beauty starts in the heart, or, more accurately, in the emotions. And so does ugly.<br /><br />We hear a lot these days about how airbrushed photos in magazines and other images of impossibly beautiful women affect girls’ self images, but most times those poor self images start way before that.<br /><br />If we are unloved, unwanted, and abused we know there must be a reason, and we come to know that the reason is because we deserve it. That we are unworthy of being loved and cherished. Children who are loved and cherished by the adults around them grow up with feelings of self-worth and self-love. And they rarely think they are ugly. At least, not the Ugly that goes bone deep. The Ugly so Ugly that it deserves a capitol letter.<br /><br />By time I hit adolescence I thought that the only reason men were interested in me was because I was Ugly. That they believed that, since I was Ugly, I would be so grateful for their attention that I would have sex with them. Or at least let them feel me up.<br /><br />And who were “they”? “They” were the construction workers who frequented the local diner where I waited tables from the time I was fifteen. The manager of the grocery store who offered to “lift me up” so I could reach the item on the top shelf instead of reaching it down for me as I had asked. The clerk who had to cup my hand in his to give me my change. The men in church who couldn’t talk to me without touching my hair or putting their hand on my back – and then sliding it down to my waist.<br /><br />A lot of girls like us do go for sex because it is the closest thing we can get to love. But my reaction was different. I felt humiliated. And manipulated. And I scorned their attention.<br /><br />In retrospect I think that was a good thing. It kept me out of trouble, kept me from being used, abused, and tossed aside once they were done. It left me some pride. But I still thought I was Ugly.<br /><br />I had no clue that they were interested because I was built like a brick shithouse. Even though many of “them” had told me that. Not to mention I had that long, gorgeous blonde hair. That many of “them” commented on. Looking back on photos of myself I can see that I really was a walking wet dream. As many of “them” had called me.<br /><br />So I got a lot of attention from men and that didn’t stop when I was married at nineteen. To a man six years older than I, who I met in collage. Who I thought only loved me for my mind. Because he told me so. And I believed him. Because I was so Ugly it had to be true.<br /><br />It took a lot of years for me to understand that I was “physically attractive”. That’s the best I can get. Attractive. But at least it’s not Ugly. And when my now-husband Lionheart sees that it’s me calling on the phone he always answers it, “Hey Beautiful”. Capitol letter. And some days I almost believe it.<br /><br />Camellia<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-80233308262367023632010-02-24T17:40:00.005-05:002010-02-24T17:49:50.900-05:00Farewell, Daddy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-fT81MdAeKZsK0SLZtvrkrsi7OBRW-T5vP_PZsOR6yWAyrvv_xG5i_z1LLWiLN_XMa2zQxjAcWQ9NoR2M13cR4OBSnFFtPTFst4DlR9Cbe8LY-XEJknwrqxt0vM4SwskkD54zvaJR8k/s1600-h/Daddy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441944860441743794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 290px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 120px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-fT81MdAeKZsK0SLZtvrkrsi7OBRW-T5vP_PZsOR6yWAyrvv_xG5i_z1LLWiLN_XMa2zQxjAcWQ9NoR2M13cR4OBSnFFtPTFst4DlR9Cbe8LY-XEJknwrqxt0vM4SwskkD54zvaJR8k/s320/Daddy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.cesarsway.com/news/daddy-memoriam">http://www.cesarsway.com/news/daddy-memoriam</a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Farewell, Daddy. Even though I only knew you through that ephemeral medium called television, you somehow found your way into my heart. I weep while writing this, and I think I weep for the loss of never having someone as solid and calm and patient as you in my life. Your presence brought peace wherever you went, and I would smile and feel better just by watching you. </strong></span></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></strong></div><div></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;">Camellia</span></strong></div>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-3882421599033273152010-02-24T17:23:00.001-05:002010-02-24T17:25:45.019-05:00Round Two!<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>So much for my vow to post more frequently. I have actually had two, count’em, TWO interviews, each with multiple applicants interviewing for the same position. It is truly a “buyer’s market” out there in employment land. I have received a ‘thanks but no thanks’ for the first position and am waiting to hear about the second. And my mind is so bashed right now that I really have nothing to say, so I thought I would just comment on the photo that accompanies my blog.<br /><br />Yes, that is really me. You can see that I come by the blonde curly hair naturally. And by the intent way I seem to be examining whatever it is in my hand you can probably guess that I am a rather intense person and that I tend to bring this concentration and focus to many areas of my life. (Take note, possible employers.) This was taken on a beach in Florida and it took me thirty-four years to get back there. That probably says something about me needing to take more vacations. (Ignore this, possible employers.) <br /><br />And now that I take a closer look at this picture, I realize that I have a larimar ring that I wear on my right hand that is a copy of this beautiful sky with its puffy fluffy clouds. I receive a lot of compliments on this striking ring and have always called it ‘my summer sky even in winter’ but I never realized how truly accurate that was. And speaking of those clouds, doesn’t the one in the upper left corner look like a pair of lips? I think so, and I think they are about to swoop down on me and plant a great big kiss on my curly little head. MWAAAH!<br /><br />Yeah, it’s been that kind of week.<br /><br />Camellia</strong></span>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-50227147481846588912010-01-26T23:14:00.003-05:002010-01-26T23:31:39.332-05:00Widdershins - One More Time<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>What a journey this has been. Since my last post, I have survived my surgery and recovered to the point where I can begin job hunting again, although there are still stitches in my throat and swelling when I talk for more than a few minutes. Not to mention a four inch scar on my neck that looks like a slasher had a go at my carotid artery. I have helped a good friend through her discovery of breast cancer and her subsequent surgery. And I have buried my only sister.<br /><br />But now, at last, my energy is returning and I think there is a light at the end of the tunnel. My goal for this blog is to resume regular postings as soon as possible. And for starters, <span style="color:#3333ff;">here are some things that have gotten me through this time:<br /></span><br /> <span style="color:#3333ff;">Jello</span> - which I hope never to see again in any form.<br /><br /> <span style="color:#3333ff;">My daughter Bar</span>, who sent her husband to the store to make sure I had an adequate selection of jello.<br /><br /> <span style="color:#3333ff;">My cat Sassy</span> – she always slept on my bed between the two bed pillows, but after my surgery, when I had to sleep only on my back, I would wake up trying to turn on to my side, only to find that she was laying on my shoulder and holding me down with her not insubstantial weight (16 lbs.) When I had healed enough to be able to safely turn on my side she went back to sleeping between the pillows. File this under “Things that make you go “hmm…””<br /><br /> <span style="color:#3333ff;">Any song sung by Christian Kane.<br /><br /> Past episodes of “Leverage”.<br /></span></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><span style="color:#3333ff;"> Current episodes of “The Big Bang”.<br /></span><br /> And a special tribute to all those <span style="color:#3333ff;">forgotten series </span>that show up on cable, for when I felt too bad to even hold a book for reading.<br /><br /> Rereading all the books in <span style="color:#3333ff;">Robert Jordan’s “Wheel of Time” series</span>, when I finally felt well enough to hold books for reading.<br /><br /> <span style="color:#3333ff;">My husband Lionheart</span> – who would remind me how debilitating major surgery is, when I would get upset because I couldn’t just bounce up and instantly resume my normal life. And he should know, since he has survived seven of them.<br /><br />And now we are preparing to celebrate my grandson’s first birthday. The Wheel weaves at the Wheel wills. Life goes on.<br /><br />Camellia<br /><br /></strong></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong></strong></span>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-91039916557610713712009-10-15T21:59:00.001-04:002009-10-15T22:02:14.301-04:00Quick Update<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>WOW! Where has the time gone? I didn’t realize it has been this long since I have posted anything, but with the summer I’ve had, that’s not surprising. So here is a quick update.<br /><br />I am still jobless. And at the moment I’m not looking. Because a number of weeks ago I went to my doctor for a sinus infection and she saw a suspicious bulge in my throat. Three weeks, two visits to specialists, one CT scan, one MRI, and one biopsy later, I am scheduled to have the benign tumor that apparently started in a salivary gland and grew to amazing proportions removed on Monday.<br /><br />This will be a fairly complex procedure. And I won’t be able to speak or eat solid foods for at least a couple of weeks. So hopefully I will vent my communications frustrations by resuming posts to this blog. After all, I still owe you the garter removal story.<br /><br />So I’m going to take most of the rest of the year to focus on recovery. And I’ll just have to trust that the perfect job will be waiting for me after that. Here at home. Where I want to be.<br /><br /></strong></span>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-79102596486964820322009-06-19T16:08:00.004-04:002009-06-19T16:16:04.567-04:00Diogenes, I have your man<strong><span style="font-family:arial;">I thought I would take a few minutes out from panicking about getting a job and talk a little bit about how I met my husband, Lionheart. This came to mind because yesterday I listened to Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” which was our garter-removal song at our wedding (more about that later).<br /><br />On the evening of Friday, April 4th, 2003, I went to a book-signing for author Laurel K. Hamilton at a bookstore about 20 minutes south of where I live. She writes the series “Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter”. Not everyone’s cup of tea. I got there early enough to snag a good seat (although referring to a metal folding chair as a ‘good seat’ is the height of irony) and, since I always have a book tucked in away in my purse, I pulled it out and started to read. I was vaguely aware of someone taking the seat next to mine but didn’t look up or pay any attention, since, for me, reading is an addiction and not something I stop doing for trivial things like food or people. This person turned out to be a man, a very persistent man, who insisted on conversing with me. I finally gave in and put my book away and we talked – about the author, her Anita Blake books, her other books, then other books we know and love, and so on, until time got close to the author’s appearance.<br /><br />This happened to be a book signing where you show up and take a number, then get in line in numeric order. He had gotten there early enough to pick up his number plus four numbers for his friends who were supposed to arrive later. When the time got close and his friends hadn’t shown up, instead of simply giving away the four tickets, he stood up and organized a ‘number exchange’. If your number was higher than one he was holding, he gave you that number and then you had to find someone else with whom you could exchange your old number. Sounds clumsy and time consuming but he accomplished it quickly, many folks were happy because they had moved up a few places in line, and the book signing started on time.<br /><br />He was in line ahead of me and disappeared after his book was signed (I found out later it was because his friends had finally arrived). After my signing I went up to the registers to pay for my other purchases. While I was standing in line, with about ten people in front of me and about ten people behind me, he suddenly popped his head around a display sign and, right there in front of all those people, asked, “Would you like to go out sometime?”<br /><br />Now let me explain something: I have naturally blonde hair and big boobs, and I guess blondes really do have more fun, if they are so inclined, because I get hit on. A lot. Everywhere. Although I’m sure the boobs play a “big” part of it, too, pun intended. There is no flattery to me in this. The men who are hitting on me don’t know me as a person and probably could not care less – it seems to be a knee-jerk reaction. Or some other reaction occurring below their belt, anyway. So I mostly walk around in a “shields up” mode (yes, as implied above, science fiction and fantasy are my two favorite genre) with this sentence at the tip of my tongue and ready to fire: “Oh, thanks so much for asking, but I’m not interested at this time, sorry.” Because I was just not into casual dating. I had been single for six years and loving every minute of it.<br /><br />But something in my brain short circuited when he made his invitation and refused to let me fire off my standard rejection sentence, giving me, as my daughter calls it, a serious case of the ‘uhhb duhs’. You know, when you just stand there and say, “Uhhb duh, uhhb duh, uhhb duh” until your brain finally kicks in again and you can manage a coherent sentence. The sentence that did finally come out of my mouth was, “I’ll meet you over in the coffee area after I pay for my books and we can talk.” He said, “Okay, see you there,” and walked away.<br /><br />I just stood there for a moment in shock. Then aloud I said, “He asked me out!” and a voice from the back of the line said, “Go for it!” Then I said, “But I’m older than he is!” and a voice from the front of the line said, “That’s okay. My aunt is seven years older than my uncle and they’ve been married for twenty-three years!” Wow! Good advice from total strangers! Who’d have thought?<br /><br />So I paid for my books and met him in the coffee area and we talked for over an hour and at the end I told him I don’t go out with men I’ve just met, but that the next night was the weekly Parents Without Partners dance and he was welcome to join me there if he was so inclined. He said to give him the directions and he would be there. I was surprised and skeptical. It would be a long drive for him, since he lived about an hour south of the book store.<br /><br />But now here is the part that I’ve spent all this time building toward. I think it defines the whole basis of our relationship. He said, “I’ll be there, but I have to warn you, I can’t dance.” And I replied, “Well, that’s okay, but I CAN dance, so I’m not going to just be sitting there hanging on to your shoulder all evening.” And he said, “I understand.”<br /><br />Not in that pitiful, subdued, manipulative way, but in that game show host/announcer sort of way, like “Heeeeeeeeeeer’s JOHNNIE!” “Aaaaaaye understand!” Like it really was okay.<br /><br />There it is. Total honesty. Are you listening, Diogenes? We say it all, we lay it on the line, and the other person takes it and is okay with it.<br /><br />I had to be okay that he didn’t dance and he had to be okay that I would dance with other men and leave him sitting. And I did. And he did. Except he found other ways to interact – the monthly birthday cake ended up on our table and he cut and served the slices to folks as they came up, always with a quip or a comment of some kind with each slice. And I danced swing and cha-cha and foxtrot with other men, and some slow dances with him. And then we left the dance an hour early and went to the 24 hour diner next door and sat and talked for another two hours.<br /><br />And the next day I called to thank him for coming up to the dance and he asked me out to a movie, and I said yes. And six months later he asked me to marry him, and I said yes.<br /><br />And he suggested “Paradise in the Dashboard Lights” as our garter removal song, and I said yes.<br /><br />But that is another story.</span></strong>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-32291338130324608952009-05-18T23:52:00.001-04:002009-05-18T23:57:58.088-04:00So how is the job search going?<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>It has been 12 weeks and I have submitted 42 job applications and had zero interviews.<br /><br />I am never going to find a job.<br /><br />I am never going to find a job and we will lose our house.<br /><br />I am never going to find a job and we will lose our house and end up living in our car.<br /><br />I am never going to find a job and we will lose our house and end up living in a cardboard box because we had to sell the car.<br /><br />I am never going to find a job and we will lose our house and end up living in a cardboard box and I will never see my grandson again because my daughter is already pissed because they were renting our house while I was working out of state and when my contract ended suddenly because the new CEO cancelled the project we had to unexpectedly move back into the house with my daughter and her husband and my new grandson and try to cope with two households’ worth of furniture and boxes and stuff and the garage is full and the basement is overflowing and my husband is sleeping in a little room off the basement and I am sleeping in the ½ floor bedroom in the attic with my cat who can’t understand why she can’t leave the attic because she is a cat and can’t concede the fact that my daughter’s two dogs would eat her. <br /><br />And my daughter doesn’t think they should have to pay any rent at all now because after all they have lost their privacy and she can’t see the decorations on her dining room hutch because our baker’s rack is sitting in front of it holding the (very) few kitchen items that we have unpacked even though the amount of rent they are paying is only half the amount of the mortgage plus utilities and we were covering the other half and still are covering it with the pittance that is unemployment. Which means that most other expenses like groceries and prescriptions have to be paid with a credit card. But two of her Millennial friends have told her that she shouldn’t be paying rent now so she knows she is not crazy for thinking that she shouldn’t have to pay any more rent so by making her continue to pay rent we are forcing her to ‘keep us in the manner to which we have become accustomed”. So my husband reduced their rent by twenty percent and she said, “Big whoop.” She says we should be using our savings so they don’t have to pay rent.<br /><br />Savings? What savings? Oh, you mean the savings that have disappeared while waiting four years for my husband’s Social Security Disability hearing? Four years that he hasn’t been able to work since his surgeon pronounced him “no longer able to perform meaningful labor”? Four years waiting because our Social Security system is so messed up that the court cases are backlogged four years or more? <br /><br />Savings that were finished off when I first moved out of state to take the contract I got after I was laid off of the job I had for twenty-eight years? Savings that were already gone when, four months into a six month contract, I was told that they liked me so much they weren’t going to wait for the six months to end, they already knew they wanted me through 2009 and I could look for permanent housing and move my husband up there with me? But that was okay because working the rest of the year would pay off the credit card and put a nice little nest egg back into the savings? Which didn’t happen because my “all the way through 2009” contract was cancelled at the end of February so the move back home had to also be put on a credit card? Along with just about every else now?<br /><br />When everything else went sideways, I always had my job. When my twenty-four year marriage spent the last twelve of those years dying a slow and painful death, I had my job. When my daughter blamed me for the divorce, I had my job. While I was ‘finding myself’ after the divorce, I always knew ‘who’ I was at my job. When my next husband had to quit his job due to a medical disability, that was unexpected, but I still had my job. When I was laid off the first time with a thirty day notice, from the job I had been in for twenty-eight years, in two weeks I had another job waiting for me – my last day at the old job was on a Friday and my first day at my new job was the next Monday. <br /><br />This time it was unexpected – that Friday morning I had a job, that Friday afternoon they told me the project was cancelled and they had no other work for me. I moved home the next week and immediately developed bronchitis that lasted three weeks. The depression has lasted longer. Even though my husband is trying to run interference, my daughter still insists on taking her pissy mood out on me by crying and yelling at me and then not talking to me. We don’t unpack anything because, after all, tomorrow I may get another job in another state and we will move again and leave the house to her, and leave behind my new grandson, and I don’t want to move to another state. I want to stay home. And have a job. And see my grandson. Four people are depending on me to do that. Because my husband can’t work. And my recently graduated son-in-law also got laid off a few months ago which is a mixed blessing because he has been able to stay home and take care of my grandson but now his unemployment has expired and anyway any entry level job he could find in his field would only pay enough to pay for child care so what’s the use? So he stays home with the baby. And doesn’t speak to me either. <br /><br />So out of four adults currently living in this house, only one of them is working. Work they get paid for, that is. And only one of them is talking to me. When we manage to get together, that is. And in the mean time I polish my resume and submit it and wait for the phone call that will never come. And try to remember what day of the week it is. Because something seems broken. And I don't know how to fix it.<br /><br /> </strong></span>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-26397249104197109782009-04-15T20:01:00.000-04:002009-04-15T20:02:47.189-04:00Chicken soup, anyone?<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Sorry I haven’t been posting as much lately. A lot is going on but none of it is productive – for some strange reason having bronchitis doesn’t contribute much to job hunting, I don’t know why. I will post again when I’m functional enough to actually generate a thought.</strong></span>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-58552574199301282732009-03-21T13:43:00.002-04:002009-03-21T13:53:32.855-04:00A response to a response...<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Elisa Doucette at </strong></span><a href="http://opheliawebb.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Ophelia’s Web</strong></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong> posted a response to an article that appeared on Brazen Careerist. Here is the response I wrote to her post:<br /><br />I, too, read the original post but chose not to comment there. My first thought on reading it was that another guy with man-boobs and a flabby gut wants US to look pretty for him. And I didn’t want to say that, since of course I have no idea what the author looks like – perhaps he is a ripped hunk! But…somehow I doubt it.<br /><br />Your remarks, however, take the topic somewhere more interesting. The bottom line, of course, is that appearance does mean something, and expectations are often generated by appearance, whether we like it or not or think it is fair or not. My personal experiences have shown me this and I have altered my appearance because of it.<br /><br />I have naturally blonde curly hair, big boobs, and am a software engineer who works in large office settings dealing with a multitude of people. I am generally a happy person and I tend to smile a lot. I also have a strong, decisive personality and don’t suffer fools gladly. I have no hesitation in speaking up, speaking out, and taking charge. If I am in a group that is trying to accomplish something and there is not already an obvious leader in place, I automatically take over and lead the group.<br /><br />When I first started in my profession I wore skirt suits for a professional appearance, yes, but chose soft feminine suits, blouses, and accessories in my favorite pinks, mauves, blues, etc. And I had quite a problem with people. When I first met someone they seemed to like me and like working with me, but that would quickly change. Suddenly there would be discord and they would be unhappy with me, and there would be tension, stress, and so forth. My technical expertise was never in question (this wasn’t a “dumb blonde” issue), so it took several years for me to figure out why the change of attitude – it was because my appearance did not match my personality.<br /><br />I believe that, in my case, our culture had set up a basic expectation that a smiling perky blonde dressed in soft feminine colors and clothing is someone who would be always pleasant and obliging and amiable and who would defer to whatever the other person wanted. Based on my appearance they were expecting this type of girl. When my strong personality made itself known they would be thrown for a loop, as the saying goes. Like petting a cute little kitten only to find out that it was really a tiger that just ate your arm. <br /><br />So I changed my appearance. I bought suits in grey and camel and navy instead of pink and cream and mint green. Still skirt suits, yes, but more tailored in appearance and color. I bought silk tees and shells instead of blouses with ruffles and bows. And I kicked my makeup up a notch. Yes, I always wear a full face of makeup – I love being a woman - but a bright coral lipstick has a lot more punch than a pale pink lipstick. <br /><br />I generally buy my clothes during one or two shopping trips, once in the spring and once in the fall, so I was able to make this change very quickly during my fall shopping trip that year. I immediately noticed an improvement in my dealings with people, and when meeting and working with someone new the relationship stayed on an even keel – no sudden changes because I no longer clashed with their perceived expectations of me.<br /><br />So now I project an image more in keeping with my personality. I always feel very feminine but now I feel even more powerful. And frankly, I don’t care if someone with whom I am doing business thinks I am feminine or not. I don’t care if they think I am nurturing or not. I do care if they think I can do my job or not.<br /><br />As for my personal life, I found that when I dressed “stronger”, I attracted men with stronger personalities. No more tiptoeing around some man trying not to crush his poor little ego, no more trying to hang back so he could maybe, hopefully, please show some assertiveness for once. I am happy to say that my husband has as strong a personality as I do and loves me for it. He is happy to have someone that HE doesn’t have to tiptoe around. We sometimes bump heads figuring out who is going to take charge in a particular situation but have so far resolved it without blood shed. <br /><br />So, no, I don’t think a skirt is a sign of weakness, providing it is the right skirt for the job.</strong></span>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-37335874880096887612009-03-08T17:53:00.007-04:002009-03-25T22:06:22.812-04:00Nine days<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Well, it has been nine days since I was </strong></span><a href="http://workingwiddershins.blogspot.com/2009/02/lesson-not-learned-i-guess.html"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>laid off</strong></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>. What have I done in those nine days?<br /><br />I updated my resume. I started hitting the jobs sites most popular for technical jobs and submitting my resume to these sites. I have applied for nineteen jobs that I found on these sites. And I have applied for unemployment, which is a first for me.<br /><br />I have already received a call for a job that is seven states away from where I am now. It probably won’t work out, but it makes me face a question that I have been avoiding – will I relocate for another job? A </strong></span><a href="http://www.45things.com/2009/03/is-relocation-worth-risk-to-get-job.php"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>posting</strong></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong> on Anita Bruzzese’s site was very timely for me, and I posted a comment there, which she was kind enough to answer. Basically I said, I am the sole support of my family, so…<br /><br />I suppose I will. My technical skills fulfill a rather specific need so I will probably have to go where the need is. Assuming someone somewhere needs my particular skills at this particular time.<br /><br />But I don’t want to.<br /><br />For the past ten months I have been living in another state, in a city that is 300 miles away from home. It’s a nice little town, with one mall and one movie theatre, with the next closest ones about three hours away. But since being told THE NEWS I have been feeling absurdly optimistic about going home. Where there are three malls and four theatres within a twenty minute drive of my house. And (probably) no jobs.<br /><br />But little bubbles of happiness keep working their way through my brain anyway. Some part of me keeps thinking that, once I’m home, everything will be all right. Of course, the practical part of me has to chime in and remind the optimistic part of me that going home doesn’t mean I’m going to find a job there. And the fearful part of me, the part that keeps my stomach churning and the good ol’ acid indigestion going, doesn’t care either way; it just wants security. “Too bad, that doesn’t exist right now,” I tell my stomach, “get over it.”<br /><br />So for now I have declared a moratorium on the job search to prepare for going home next week. Lionheart with stay here and handle the big move, in about two weeks, of everything back to our home. Which my daughter Bar (and her husband and their new baby – my first grandchild, which, since I am going to be Nana, I have been calling nana-baby. Sorry, I digress.) is renting from us. While we’re here. Living in another state. Which we won’t be, soon. Unless I get a job somewhere else, in the next three days.<br /><br />I don’t want them to move from the house; after all, presumably at some point in time I will get another job and it probably won’t be within driving distance of home. So my daughter and I have discussed it and come up with a sort of way to divide the house into our own living areas. Although neither one of us had the courage to discuss the kitchen. It’s hard to divide one kitchen between two women. But I’m sure we’ll work something out. Eventually.<br /><br />Until it’s time for us to move again. But I’m not going to think about that. I’m just going to enjoy the thought of going home again. And holding nana-baby. We’ll see what the next nine days bring.<br /></strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#3333ff;"><em>What experiences have you had with relocating for a job? Did you actually own a home when you had to face this question? Was it hard for you to "leave home"?</em></span></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></em></strong>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-5932159019125460472009-03-02T20:31:00.005-05:002009-03-08T18:10:52.831-04:00My cat is my role model<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><span style="color:#3333ff;">“The smallest feline is a masterpiece.” Leonardo da Vinci</span><br /><br />I am a cat person. Don’t get me wrong; for pure unconditional love, the kind that has saved my sanity in the past, you can’t do better than a dog. They are ready to come at every call and lick your face or play fetch or just curl up on your feet and keep them warm. Dogs are great.<br /><br />But they are also obsequious.<br /><br />And sometimes I just find that annoying. They seem to have no self-respect.<br /><br />Cats, on the other hand, are the epitome of self-respect. Self-respect is defined as “having the proper esteem or regard for the dignity of one’s character”. I think it should also say, “See CAT.”<br /><br />Cats have such a bone-deep conviction of their worth that they have no trouble whatsoever maintaining eye contact with you. See, with dogs, eye contact has to do with dominance. If one dog wants to challenge another, he looks him in the eye. If the other dog breaks the gaze and drops his head, he loses. If he maintains eye contact a fight will usually ensue to determine which is more dominant. Dogs repeat this behaviour with humans (who are also pack animals). Either you are dominant over your dog, or he is dominant over you. Think I am kidding? Look your dog in the eye for any length of time and see what happens.<br /><br />Cats don’t do that. They will look you in the eye for as long as they like. They could not care less if you keep looking back at them, or if you look away, or if you look back and forth. They don’t lose anything by looking away first; that’s usually just their way of saying you simply are too boring at that moment to hold their attention. I have a private theory that people who hate cats have low self-esteem and can’t tolerate this dismissal by (what seems to be) an obviously superior being.<br /><br />With all that being said, in some ways my cats act like dogs.<br /><br />They actually come when I call them. They learn their names because I use their names. I have a relationship with them. If the only time you see your cat is during the ten seconds a day it takes to dump food into his bowl, you’re not going to establish a relationship. When they come to me they know they are going to get loved and petted on until they stretch and purr, it feels so good. In my house, hands are for loving and toys are for playing. So I never flip a cat over on its back and roughly scrub my hand over its belly until its nature gets the better of it and it tries to disembowel my arm with its hind claws while holding on to my hand with its front claws and teeth. You know exactly the action I’m talking about. The one that people do, then take their cats to the vet and have them declawed because they scratch. Of course they scratch! That’s what they’re designed to do in that situation! If you do that action with a toy instead of with your hand, both you and the cat can enjoy the play and the cat can keep his toes.<br /><br />So my Sassy Kitty serves as a prime example of a well-adjusted, self-respecting personality. She can show her affection without compromising herself. She can play with a shoelace dragged across the floor with the total abandon of a kitten. She has no problem standing up to the Cute Puppy that joined our lives a year ago when he misbehaves. And it boggles my mind that a creature one twentieth the size of an adult human can sit on the floor and gaze fearlessly into that human’s eyes.<br /><br />So let me love, play, assert myself, and stand up to the giants in my life with all the self-respect and aplomb of my cat.<br /><br />Aplomb – defined as “imperturbable self-possession, poise, or assurance”. It should also say “See CAT”.</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#3333ff;"><em>What unusual role models do you have in your life?</em></span></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></em></strong>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-39030090392703796412009-02-28T10:53:00.004-05:002009-03-08T18:03:09.929-04:00Lesson NOT learned, I guess.<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>I believe in looking at most situations and seeing what lesson I need to learn from them. Especially if it is a situation in which I repeatedly find myself. I have found that, if I can figure out what the universe is trying to teach me, the situation will usually resolve itself. Don’t know how it works for you, but that’s how it seems to work for me.<br /><br />But there is one situation I haven’t figured out yet: during those times when I am in deep pain and dark despair, why does my ability to contact anyone disappear?<br /><br />I mean that literally, so let me explain.<br /><br />Yesterday I was laid off. From a contract that was supposed to last through 2009 and probably beyond. From a location 300 miles from home. Where I was told to look for permanent housing because this was a long term contract, so I signed a year’s lease and moved Lionheart and the family pets here to join me. From a large business in a small town surrounded by nothing – the large cities (and closest other employers) are 3 hours away in any direction. From a project unexpectedly cancelled by the new CEO. Gotta make your mark in the first 100 days, I suppose.<br /><br />Needless to say, last night my mind was reeling and my emotions were in turmoil. I needed my “Support Infrastructure”. So there they were, readily available, or at least reachable – right?<br /><br />Wrong. When I need them most the universe makes them disappear. Lionheart, who has some disabilities which prevent him from working (and we are fighting in the courts to get coverage for them, so no income there), was not doing well yesterday so he spent all day in bed, woozy and uncommunicative. No problem; I have friends, right? Who, for whatever reason, were not answering emails or cell phones yesterday. None of them. Granted it was a Friday night, but my friends are geeks and have families – they are not out partying until two a.m. in a loud club where they can’t hear their phones.<br /><br />It’s kind of freaky. Twilight Zone freaky. Especially the cell phone thing. I even tried a text message – for which I immediately received a return message that said “Message Deleted”. WTF? Never seen THAT before! It reminded me of a similar situation, enough years ago that the majority of us still only had land lines and I’m not sure that Al Gore had yet invented the internet – I desperately needed to talk to someone – anyone – and the entire phone system for the area went down. No phones for something like 14 hours.<br /><br />So, this only happens occasionally, maybe once every few years, when something knocks the stuffing out of me and I REALLY NEED a sympathetic ear. Then I am held hostage by the communication gremlins of the universe.<br /><br />Why? What lesson am I supposed to learn here? The obvious would seem to be to learn to be strong on my own. Except that I think I have amply demonstrated over the years that I am strong on my own. So I have no clue. But I really want to figure it out, so I don’t have to go through it any more.<br /><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">Any suggestions?</span><br /><br />Camellia<br /></strong></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong></strong></span>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-91997041600450564612009-02-25T10:14:00.005-05:002009-03-08T18:05:21.365-04:00Short and succinct<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>“Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper.”<br /><br />---- Robert Frost<br /><br /><br />“Sometimes my education fails me.”<br /><br />---- My Daughter</strong></span>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-5560651788742278172009-02-25T10:03:00.003-05:002009-03-08T18:05:46.326-04:00To cry or not to cry, that is the question.<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>I believe we cry in relationship to our greatest injury. I first saw this watching my daughter as she grew. When she started walking she might cry if she wobbled and sat down with a thump. Later, if she bumped her elbow on the coffee table she would cry, but not if she sat down unexpectedly.<br /><br />The first time she scraped her knee she cried a lot, but no longer cried for other, smaller bumps and scrapes. Then, after the first time she spectacularly wrecked her two-wheeled bicycle and got those serious scrapes and that one good gouge (from the pedal – remember how much those hurt?!) she didn’t cry for those smaller injuries any more.<br /><br />I think this holds true for emotional injuries as well. We cry over those first small hurts because that is the worst pain we have ever known. Then as we progress in the world, gain love and loved ones, lose love and loved ones, and suffer the pain and vagaries of life, we weep for the greater hurts we suffer, but perhaps not so much for the smaller ones.<br /><br />Unfortunately, if we are hurt enough, we may eventually stop crying at all. This may be a survival mechanism, both since tears make us appear weak and vulnerable, and since they are often a ‘reward’ to an abuser, prompting or prolonging the abuse.<br /><br />Do you know someone who you never see cry? It doesn’t mean they don’t, of course; they may just shed their tears in private. But some of us suffered so greatly that the ordinary ‘slings and arrows’ of life are just minor stings to us. But I don’t think this is a healthy state of being.<br /><br />I spent a long time healing my mental and emotional injuries and I thought I was doing quite well. I didn’t consider the fact that I still rarely cried, and never in front of other people. Then I met Lionheart, the man who would become my (second) husband. Somehow, and I don’t yet understand it, he made it both okay and possible for me to cry again. One evening, quite early in our relationship, I spontaneously burst into tears. It actually frightened me; this was just not something I did, and to make it worse, I didn’t even know why I was crying.<br /><br />Then this amazing man took me in his arms and gave me his thoughts on why I was crying. And as I listened I realized he was right. And that it was okay. Everything was okay. And the world didn’t end.<br /><br />I still don’t cry very often but when I do it feels okay now – that it is safe to do so. And sometimes he still has to help me figure out why I’m crying, but that’s okay too. This is a journey he is willing to share with me.</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;">Camellia</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#3333ff;"><em>Do you know someone who never cries? Have you ever asked them why?</em></span></strong>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2148859415468819708.post-15543551591963274402009-02-21T08:43:00.004-05:002009-03-08T18:06:33.365-04:00CHOKE HIM OUT! CHOKE HIM OUT!<span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>I tend to frighten the family pets when I indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: watching the Ultimate Fighting Championship. This is a mixed martial arts (MMA) combat sporting event where opponents come together “inside the octagon”. In UFC the fighters employ a wide range of skills: boxing, wrestling, and a variety of martial arts such as Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Muy Thai, and kickboxing. Each fighter brings a unique blend of skills, strengths, and weaknesses to the bout, and you never know exactly what you are going to see – ground-and-pound, stand-up fight, tap-out, a knockout in the first 14 seconds, or a call because one of the fighters is bleeding so profusely it is dangerous to continue.<br /><br />I get very excited as the bouts progress. I jump up and down, scream and yell, and root for my favorite fighter (usually whoever is the underdog). In other words, I act like any other fan of any other sport. But this particular sport is different from any other sport I’ve ever seen in one important aspect: sportsmanship.<br /><br />Most sports tout sportsmanship but in my experience it is rarely demonstrated; in fact I think the opposite is quite often true. But in the UFC something extraordinary happens after almost every fight.<br /><br />The fighters check to make sure each is okay. They may hug each other or kneel together on the mat and have a few quiet words. The winner may bow to the loser (a sign of respect in martial arts). I’ve seen the loser actually grab the winner’s arm away from the referee and hold it up himself.<br /><br />During one second, blood could be flying everywhere and one fighter may be pounding the other into the mat, or choking him out, or beating him into the side of the cage with kicks and punches. But as soon as the fight is called, they are grabbing each other and checking wounds and hugging and talking and in general exhibiting a concern and respect for each other that I’ve never seen in any other sport.<br /><br />It warms my heart to see it. Quite a satisfactory ending to a pulse-pounding event.<br /><br />Camellia<br /><br /><br /><em><span style="color:#3333ff;">What unexpected action has warmed your heart lately?</span> </em></strong></span><br /><strong><em><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></em></strong>Camelliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14381582439256011832noreply@blogger.com0