Perhaps it's time

When I began blogging 6 years ago it was a release. This virtual home was a place to come and let out whatever was pent up. I enjoyed it. I looked forward to it. I read blogs. I made new friends. I wrote regularly.

And then I began to write less.

And then less.

And now, if we're being truthful, this blog has become a more labor than love.

When I do come around to post something, it's done as a duty. Rarely do the words flow of their own accord. They come forced. I'm writing here because I "have to," which, really, makes the blog itself pointless. It's not fair to me...and it's not fair to you the reader.

So, what do we do now? Well, I think perhaps it's time to hang-up the keyboard - at least for a bit. I'm not going to take down these pages. I'm invested too much heart into them to just dump them all. I'm not going to say it's "forever" because it's nice to know I have an outlet when I need it.

I am saying I'm on indefinite hiatus. Perhaps as the calendar relaxes some or the urge to release the words building inside me finds no other place to erupt I'll come back. But the hanging and the lingering isn't fair to any of us - those that check in for new words and 'those' of us that feel guilty for not writing them.

I did make some wonderful friends over the years. Some of you have my email address already. Others are welcome to it -- for such folk that want to keep in touch or at least get a heads-up if I reverse course on this decision, leave a comment here with your email (you should be able to put it in the designated field outside the comment itself...but do what works for you!)

For those that have stuck in there with me these years, thank you. Your words and your friendship are much appreciated.

Seeking. Finding.

I like to take pictures. This is no surprise to anyone that knows me.

Looking back over my stash of photos, it seems I like taking photos of pathways. Why? Well, that's what I've been trying to put my finger on.

The good news, for me anyway, is that I think I finally did pin point the cause of my obsession. It's about possibility and the chance to define where you're headed - even if it means a change of course.

When I'm standing there, camera perched upon my palms, finger hovering over the button, the trail before me has a purpose. It has it's own destination. Yet the photo is simply a road open before me - one that is pregnant with possibility.

Today I found another one of those poetic moments. Take a moment to look into the distance. The tracks run off into the horizon seeming to go on without end. Such infinite array of places await. Which stop do you take?

Sports Cynic

I was never a baseball fan until I was about to turn 23.

When I talk about my 'fandom', I usually qualify which season drew me in by saying "I was hooked on the game in April!", lest someone thinks I threw myself at the first bandwagon rolling by.

It's true. I never really watched a baseball game until that year. However, I was dating someone (who I have since married) that practically eats, sleeps and breathes Yankee pinstripes. It was hard to ignore the sport with a baseball fanatic around.

One morning in April 1996 we sat on Bruce's cracked brown faux-leather couch and debated how to spend our day. His eyes got wild and big. He flew for the phone book, made a quick call and came back triumphant. "Let's drive to the Bronx and go to a Yankee game."

"Oh goody," I thought, while my mouth formed the sounds, "Ahhh, umm, k? Baseball, huh? I know nothing about baseball."

It sounds cliche, I'm sure, but it's a factual statement - when we walked out into the concrete cathedral to the sport I was in awe. There's something about the lush green grass and the climbing rows of stadium seating that gets your attention. I had a good time even though the Yankees lost. More seasoned fans were actually even more elated than I was - the team might have fallen short but that game was the best one Doc Gooden had pitched in his return that season. It gave them hope even though they couldn't guess what would lie ahead.

Days later I was on a plane headed out to a trade show. The coworker sitting next to me said, "Did you see Doc pitch? Isn't that great?"

I confessed my status as neophyte, adding that I had been at that game. Dennis took it upon himself to tutor me in baseball. From that day forward he'd send me emails and instant messages that went something like this: When you talk to your man tonight, say "I don't know about you, but I swear Boggs was safe in the 7th inning. That 6-3-4 double play with a hard slide coming down is tough to execute and I don't think they did it! Those umps are blind."

I, of course, dutifully repeated his lines, often adding in "At least that's what Dennis told me to say." Over time I didn't need his insights. I knew Doc Gooden's no hitter was a big deal. I knew Jeter was having a rookie-of-the-year caliber season. I knew it was worth staying up late and watching the World Series underdog surge to take the crown from Atlanta. I was hooked. I was a Yankee fan.

I still am.

Even in 'Roid era.

Of course, the events leading up to, through and beyond the Mitchell report have left their mark.

I am also a football fan, although not as glued to the set each week as some (read my husband) people are. I'm a Giants fan and I have been since childhood. I had no expectations for them this playoff season and so I'm not only elated to find them Super Bowl bound, I'm unbelievably shocked about it.

We were watching the game last night, as you might expect having read this far. I watched the offensive and defensive lines take their places for the first drive. I turned to my husband with a snarky smirk on my face and said:

"This line up brought to you by Balco."

And he laughed in return saying, "Yeah, no kidding."

It's sad, isn't it. An athlete in any sport can't excel, can't hone their skills or build their body without the shadow of doubt looming over them. A player can't hit a peak and then fall off the statistical cliff without a fan wondering if the guy's simply "Giambied" (as in Jason who earned multiple MVP awards while admittedly juiced and then, upon giving up the cheating aspect of his game, failed to break out of the mid-200 batting average range...which for you non-fans out there, is a bad range to be mired in.)

It's sad that each record set in the last decade or more is looked at with a question in the eye of the beholder. "Did he really win that many games because he's that good or because his trainer injected HGH? Can that guy really knock the cover off the ball that many times in a season...in a career...after 40? Is that rookie really that good? Is that superstar clean?"

It's sad that the greed and self-doubt of some cast a shadow on all.

It's not stopping me from watching, I admit it. It is stopping me from watching it with the same innocent awe at a person's raw talent.

Truth in cookies

We broke down and had Chinese food tonight. It's not something we eat when Megan's eating with us as Chinese food in general tends to be a high risk for peanut cross contamination. The kids, however, were in bed and we were looking for something different for dinner.

I don't get Chinese food often so when I do, it's hard to "save room" for desert. I tend to fill-up on my sesame chicken. This leaves Bruce with two fortune cookies - a fate he does not shirk from. He snapped open the cookies, munching loudly on them before reading the little slips of paper. Operative word here being little.

Moments later *I* was being handed two slips of paper as he mumbled something about lights and reading glasses in the other room. I stifled my giggle and urge to chide him on age related matters. Instead I read aloud the fortune sitting atop the small stack:

You will have many friends when you need them.

Then, and I am SO not making this up, I read the next fortune:

The time is right to make new friends.

Ahh....think the cookie maker is trying to tell us something?

In a blink

We had one of those days that often leaves me threatening my husband to leave work on time or find me on our roof where the children can't find me. From time to time my sweet little cherubs become possessed by who knows what. I just know it ain't pretty.

And yet within a split second of wreaking havoc on my strained nerves they revert back to those sweet little cherubs that bring my heart peace with a simple little smile.

Tomorrow it could snow. No, really, it could. Today, it hit 72. (Don't ask me. I don't get it either.) In the midst of our on-again-off-again battle, we headed out to enjoy the weather tease - me, two kids and the dog we've borrowed.

Oh, wait, the dog. Let's back track a moment here shall we. A year ago we had a dog. She was old. She was sick. She had to be put down. Meg remembers Tasha enough to talk about her but has no concept of where she is other than she's not here. Logan completely understands the dog is dead. To him, that means the dog is laying on Heaven's floor refusing to play fetch with Jesus because you know, why should we change in the after life? No fetch on Earth. No fetch in Heaven.

Logan's preschool class has started a new "good deeds" program. Last time it was a chain of paper links. This time it's a plastic barrel. Get caught doing something nice and you get to put a dog treat in the barrel. Yum. When the barrel is full, the class is going to donate it to the local animal shelter. I knew this was coming, it was in the little month-in-review letter the teacher send home last month.

I saw the barrel on Monday. As is our custom, I asked Logan questions about his day that require him to contribute more than "yes," "no," or "nothing." You know, nice things like, "So, tell me about the dog shaped barrel in your class." So, he did. Tell me that is. Then he throws this curve ball:

"Do you know what the animal shelter is?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I will tell you anyway. It is where pets live when they haven't found a family that will love them and take them home," he says with conviction.

"That's right," I say and I attempt to change the subject but apparently not far enough off topic. I said something witty like "So did you get a biscuit to put in today?"

"We should get a friend from the shelter," he says. And with her impeccable timing Megan yells, "I WANT A DOG!"

"What?" I say, because if you've read this blog long enough you know I've got a gift for eloquence.

"Yes," said Logan. "I think it's time we get a new dog. It's ok if it's an older one. Some day it might die and then I'd have two dogs in heaven. They can be friends there."

Megan interjects again, "I want a dog. Please! Let's go get our dog."

"A dog," I say trying to force my brain to work better, "A dog. Well, I'm not sure we're quite ready for a dog again just yet. Let's just wait and talk to Daddy."

They still chattered about this new pet they expected to get. I felt my heart leap a little. I'd like another dog some day; I just don't think today is that day. Call me chicken, but potty training a strong-willed toddler, getting a pre-adolescent 4 1/2 year old cooperating (remember, bad day, loads of attitude), AND house training a puppy - ahh, yeah, no. And I know the husband person feels the same way. No way.

There is, however, Grandma's dog.

Grandma's dog gets this quasi-love-annoyance thing from the kids the two days a week I work. They love her, but she makes them insane. It's not the food stealing (although that does get to them) it's the herding. Syd is an Australian Shepard. They herd things. She, lacking sheep, herds children. Personally I find it an admirable quality.

And Grandma has a birthday this week so she and Papa are away for a few days. That leaves the dog in the care of my brother, who works long, long hours. Oh and then toss in the construction on a new addition that began this week. The back fence is down. Aussies, I'll have you know, run the first chance they get - open door, gone is the dog.

All this means *I* have had a part-time dog the last two days. Not all day. This dog gets horribly homesick if you keep her out past bedtime. The last time we tried it (years and years ago) I took her home at 1am lest I not sleep at all with her whining and pacing. The last two days she was, however, here several hours of each day.

We played with her. We took her for a walk. (I'm insane, by the way. Two kids and a dog that likes to run on a mile and a half walk. No strollers.) By the last part of this afternoon's romp in the yard we had one preschooler yelling, "SYDNEY GIVE ME BACK MY SOCCER BALL!" and one toddler crying, "SYD! NEE! GIVE! ME! DAT! FRISBEE!"

The yelling stopped long enough for Logan to softly whisper, "Ahh, Mommy. I'm trying to practice soccer and Syd pooped in the goal."

Great.

I smiled sweetly. I cupped the boy's chin in my hand and I whispered back, "This is why we're not getting a dog yet."*

When the three of them weren't fighting over toys or what belonged between the post of the goal net, we had moments like this:

And those led to moments like this:

And some how, it almost made the whole trip to the shelter seem worth it. Almost.

*Logan is not amused. I have told him we can talk dog when he can work the pooper-scooper.

What did we do wrong?

A month ago, give or take couple of weeks, I had plans to meet up at a local coffee house with a friend. I arrived, approached the "hostess for the moment" and asked if anyone was waiting for anyone else to show up.

"Not yet," she said, "But you can look." So look I did. I did not find my friend. The "hostess for the moment" decided she'd sit me nonetheless so I could wait in comfort. There are two rooms to this joint. She sat me in the backroom across from the night's local musician -- a guy on guitar who did not sing.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I gave up. I grabbed my stuff and left my complimentary glass of water and two menus on the table. I scanned the other room quickly as I made my way to the door. Outside I called home, "Did S happen to call, by the way?" I asked Bruce. No, no messages, no calls. I headed home.

I got around the corner when my mobile phone rang. "S just called. She's sitting at the place wondering if you're there. I told her you had just called and left." Umm, ok. The car did a u-turn and I hurried back. Too late, she had left.

We managed to hook up on the phone shortly after - laughing at the confusion. When she had arrived the "hostess at THAT moment" knew of no one waiting and sat her down at a table in the front room (aka, not the one I was in) so she could see people come in the front door. Except you can't really see the door well from those tables. Clearly the two of us lack highly attuned observation skills since neither of us noticed the other when I passed from back room to front door -- despite the fact we were both there.

We laughed it off and planned for another attempt at getting together. Except work/life got in the way of that one and we had to postpone.

Tonight we tried again. Margaritas with some food on the side at Chili's. Lots of catching up and chatter. Our few and far between get togethers tend to last quite some time. We ate. We talked. We ran out of food, plunked our money on the table with the check and talked some more. The waitress never came to get the money (perhaps her ploy to get ALL the change as a tip? Not that we actually had enough down to warrant getting money back but she did not know that.)

The restaurant was nearing "empty" save for the staff and a few tables of late diners. We continued to chat, completely oblivious of the hour.

I heard them before I saw them -- employees. One was yelling about "getting out of here" with a colorful expletive or two tossed in for good measure. His co-worker chided him "Customers!" And I thought perhaps the cranky boy was simply mad that the small lot of us hadn't gone home yet, while his buddy was reminding him not to curse about the customers when they were sitting right there.

But that wasn't it.

One of the black shirted young men came to our table, speaking to us and the table near us, "We have to get out, there's a fire in the back."

Well ok then, why didn't you say so.

"Fire in the back", to me, meant "grease fire that we're going to squirt with the extinguisher but we need you to leave lest you want to sue us later for the trauma of being in a burning building." I had thought I might have smelled something burning but hey, sometimes that happens at an eatery. When we got outside, however, there was noticeable smoke coming from the edifice itself and the smell to go with it. S and I got in our respective cars -- parked near enough to the building to want to move out of the fire trucks way. Perhaps out of "flames' way" for that matter.

To get out of the parking lot, one must drive around the side and out the back into the larger lot of a shopping complex. That's when I saw our "grease fire" was so much more. I'm talking "big shooting flames out the back door" fire. Holy crap!

I stopped a moment in a parking spot in the main lot - a feasibly safe distance from the event. I could hear the sirens screeching in the distance already on their way. I saw my friend pull around the and drive past me with a wave goodnight. We were both safe. The trucks were on their way. We headed home. Safe. Sound. Unscathed.

Yet I have to wonder, is there a reason we've having so much trouble having dinner out together? I mean really. I might develop a complex if our luck continues.

For the Love of Spam

Dear Mr (or Ms) "Money for you to Shop",

Listen, I'm quite flattered that you're thinking about me but I think we need to chat. Ok, so here's the thing. I really love that you've got this great stash of money earmarked for me and all that, but how about we make a deal. How about you just send me the actual check or something instead of flooding my "free-and-just-for-junk" email account with a few dozen messages a day. Everything you send tends to end up in my "junk mail" box and the vast majority of the time I don't even know it's there. I have this compulsive habit of emptying that bin without peaking in it first.

I know you're there though. I see the total number of crap, I mean messages, sitting in that virtual spam can. I know it's you. Well ok, I know it's you and your friend "Laptop for you", sandwiched between a few girls that want to show me what they've got and a couple of "medical" devices that could either put a certain little blue pill out of business or bring an end to embarrassing "the water was cold" moments for men everywhere. (Which, by the way, is quite ironic since, you know, I'm not a guy.)

Yes, I admit it, sometimes I do sneak a peak in the junk box. Every now and then something I do need (or want) ends up trapped in the abyss. Every now and then I rescue it. Usually, however, my adventure into the great pit of despair ends in nothing more than some rolling eyes and groans.

Speaking of which, please do pass on my condolences to your buddy on the loss of whoever or whatever it was he/she was going on and on about. I only got to skim her pleading missive. From what I can tell it is such a terrible thing to endure and yet, I can't seem to feel comfortable helping him/her funnel money through my bank account. I'm sure you understand - I mean obviously you know a little extra cash would be useful here, it's why you've got some for me to shop with, right?

I'm curious. Do you even know my name? I mean every time you send me off a love note you address it to the first half of my email address -- you know, the part before the @. And the thing is, it's not even a name. It's a silly misspelling I created as a goof years and years ago. So am I just some miscellaneous 'gur' to you (I ran out of letters or I'd have been a gurl)? Do you want me to shop simply because you've got a thing for red heads? Suddenly I'm not feeling so special any more - at least not special in your eyes. I bet you're sending your genorsity to other gurs too, aren't you?

Sincerely,
the holder of the free-email account you keep sending your love notes to.

Obligatory Thankful post

We leave tomorrow for the annual pligramage (pun intended of course) to the in-laws'. It'll be...well it'll be. It's a long ride. It's two young children. It's, oh never mind.

I am thankful, however, that I have two children healthy enough and articulate enough to complain on that long ride. I won't enjoy their "are we there yet?" ritual, but I rejoice in their ability to say it. ;)

I am thankful for the inlaws because they mean I have the husband.

I am thankful for my own health. For my family. I am thankful for the chance to sit and take it all in. For the reminder that I need to step back and take a deep breathe long enough to appreciate the things I've been gifted with.

I am thankful for the challenges because they make who I am. I am thankful for the easy roads I've stumbled upon because they give me a rest.

I am thankful for those I've yet to meet for they represent tomorrow's adventure. I am thankful for those I no longer see because their impact is still felt. I am thankful for the things it's sometimes hard to be thankful for because they help me appreciate what *is* easy to be thankful for. They also help me learn and grow.

Happy Thanksgiving.