family, in memoriam, memories

Happy Birthday, Tom (1948-1995)

My mom got married for the first time when I was 12 years old. Tom, my stepdad, was the only real father figure I’d ever had, and I continued to spend time with him after he and Mom separated after just two years. Tom and I had a good relationship through my high school years, barring some weirdness here and there. He was an audiophile and an early adopter of technology—he had a CD player in 1987, and both a VHS and Betamax VCR, and jury-rigged surround-sound stereo. He had a distinctive sense of humor and an infectious, deep laugh.

The semester I was off of school, in Fall 1995, I don’t recall getting to see him much. I spent most of my time either depressed at home or hanging out with my friend Mel. That October, Tom died.

Tonight, I spent some time going through my journal, hoping that (for once) I would have written something relevant. As it turns out, I did:
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anecdotes 1 Comment

Happy Birthday To Me!

When I was little, I would get excited about my birthday, just like all kids do. As I got older, and grew to expect less out of birthdays, I got less enthused about them in advance. After all, what’s the point of getting worked up just to get let down? These days, I go into birthdays expecting a day like any other; then, if something good happens, I’m pleasantly surprised.

Today, I was pleasantly surprised.

I’d already gotten my iPod from Aaron, thanks to my managing to ruin the surprise. I knew something was up with Sheryl, because earlier this week she’d asked where my office was. I also knew that our department was planning a pizza party for lunch, because Holly couldn’t keep it a secret, and had to know what kind of pizza I liked. So, I knew something was up before I even came in this morning.

I’d thought maybe the early arrivers would decorate my cube before I got to work—but no. I arrived to two cards (one from the whole department and one from Scott) and a lucky bamboo plant (also from Scott). That was cool. I put water in my bamboo plant’s little home and prepared to start my workday.

Not long after, I got a hand on my shoulder and a “Boo!” shouted at me (in an indoor voice, of course). I offered the standard reply, “Boo who?” before I turned around—and, holy shit, it’s Sheryl! She brought me two pots of mini daffodils and a gift card to Lane Bryant! *squee* She hung around for a couple minutes before going back out and heading to work (but not before talking to Rob Wozniak, who didn’t recognize her at first).

I coasted on a good mood for the rest of the day, enjoying my springy cubicle and the Twinkie tiramisu Scott made and the pizza for lunch and… yeah. It was a good birthday. At least, as good as having a birthday at work can be. 😛

And now, the documentation:


My shelf is all springy now! Daffodils from Sheryls in back and bamboo from Scott in front.


I put the other daffodils by my computer, so I could look at them all day. I actually took this pot home with me after work, though.


My birthday cards: The one on the left is from my coworkers, and the inside reads: “Smells just like a birthday card, doesn’t it?” or something to that effect. The one on the right is from Scott, and the inside reads: “Forget about that low-carb diet!” Heh. Then there’s the gift card from Sheryl in front there.


OMFG. Twinkie-misu. Twinkies cut in half, soaked in espresso (or strong coffee), layered on the bottom of a 9×13 pan. Coffee ice cream on top, Kahlua (if you’re not at work), Cool Whip, with mocha fudge drizzled and chocolate crumbled on top. To. Die. For. (Assuming you like coffee.)

Good day. Yeah. And Amy’s coming over tomorrow! Yay for birthday weekends!

ruminations 2 Comments

Like, OMG.

This poem reminds me of conversations my roommate Amy and I would have in college. Amy and I both considered ourselves to be intelligent people… but we couldn’t seem to remove the words “like” and “you know” from our vocabulary. That bothered us. We didn’t want to sound like the drunken fluff chicks around us in the dorm, because… well… god, they sounded stupid. You know?

Eventually, we did manage, although I think it took college graduation and entrance into the work force to finally complete the transition from “totally, like, whatever” to speaking like normal, intelligent, coherent human beings.

Totally like whatever, you know?

In case you hadn’t noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you’re talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you’re saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)’s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren’t, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences — so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not –
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don’t think I’m uncool just because I’ve noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It’s like what I’ve heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I’m just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally…
I mean absolutely… You know?
That we’ve just gotten to the point where it’s just, like…
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation… ness
is just a clever sort of… thing
to disguise the fact that we’ve become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since…
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.

? Taylor Mali 2005

[Courtesy of An Artsy Fartsy Weblog]

crafty

Projects

I hate that, when I try something and it doesn’t quite work right—like, say, fabric paint on fleece—I immediately get really depressed and think I had a bad or stupid idea. It takes me a while to get over that first gut reaction and to start thinking of alternatives to my first idea.

That bothers me.

‘Nuff said. I’m not ready to reveal my latest craft project quite yet. I apparently need to go buy some iron-on transfers and see how *those* work on fleece… (Sheryl and Aaron, shh.)