Illinois is great, and has been good to me, but there are quite a few things I'm not gonna miss.
( The Little List (and bonus geek points if you know where that's from) )
- Mood:
hopeful
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
803am and a chat this evening with some of our best friends from Champaign (who now live in Canada), I'm feeling much better. So, instead of the aforementioned long-winded rant, you get this snippet of randomnity from a chat yesterday. (Edited for clarity)Her: The Anglo-Saxon period was between 500 CE and the Battle of Hastings in 1066, ish.
Me: Hastings is a city in Nebraska.
Her: LOL!
Her: Sorry. picturing William the Conqueror showing up, all "....dammit, wrong Hastings!!!"
Me: ROFL!!!!!!
Me: William the Conqueror: It's...flat here. And full of....nothing. And why's everyone got "Go Cornhuskers" shirts on? Nebraska Person: Hey, Billy, you got the wrong Hastings. Whatcha wanna do is take Highway 5, turn left at the tree, and then go east. Way east. Past Iowa, even.
Her: ROFL!!!!!!!!!!
Her: I have no idea why "turn left at the tree" strikes me as the funniest part of that.
Me: because it's true. In that part of the country, trees are so sparse that you can actually give directions like "turn left at the tree" and everyone will know what you're talking about.
So my life still sucks, but at least I have wonderful people in it to make it suck a bit less.
- Mood:
sleepy
- Mood:
hungry
Because the Fourth got rained out.
We had Bob and Jessica over for dinner, which turned into a wonderful evening of food (probably too much food), wine (definitely too much wine), fireworks, and deep conversation on topics ranging from religion to relationships to sports to classical music and everything in between. They made me remember that I am, in fact, an adult with a sharp mind and a quick wit.
We are really, really, really going to miss them.
On the plus side, leaving means I will barter recipes with Jessica: her fruit pizza and banana bread for my guacamole and Touchdown Cookies. Definitely a fair swap.
*Must not get weepy again. MUST NOT. Tonight was GOOD. Will NOT ruin it by being weepy. WILL NOT.*
Dang it.
- Mood:
rejuvenated
I was reminiscing with803am today about past Fourth of July celebrations, and that got me thinking. The cool thing about the Fourth, at least for me, is that we have no established traditions for the holiday, which means that I usually end up doing something different every year. There are pros and cons to this, of course, but the best part of not having any traditions is that, unlike Christmases, which tend to be the same and run together in my memory, the Fourth ends up being unique every year. Sitting here, I can recall each of the last seven Fourths; I did something distinctly different on each one.
This particular Fourth, Caleb's first, will not go down as memorable for any reason except it rained, nonstop, all day, so the parade and fireworks were postponed, and we ended up going to the mall to spend a Baby Gap gift card given to us by one of my cello students' parents. (They don't know me very well. I hate Baby Gap, with a fiery passion, but I did manage to find some cute clothes for Caleb. Only one of them says "Baby Gap" on it anywhere, but it's a green hoodie that will a) look fabulous on him, and b) come in handy for cool-ish fall days), followed by a drive out in the country so Caleb could take a nap, culminating with a four-alarm diaper issue and the resultant change in the parking lot of a Lutheran church in (really) Flatville, Illinois. (Truth in advertising, indeed).
Anyway, the Fourth I was remembering today was 2003, when I spent the day lounging by the pool at my apartment complex with my friend Ben. That evening, I played my final concert with the Oklahoma City Philharmonic (I was a month away from moving to Illinois, ironically enough), and spent the entire two-hour patriotic extravaganza dodging June bugs. I managed to, in a feat of uncharacteristic athletic ability, whack one with my bow and send it four rows into the audience. Bugs are, without a doubt, the most terrifying things known to man, and it took several beers with Ben at the dive-iest dive bar I've ever seen to get me back to normal. Such as it is.
My most memorable Fourth, however, was in 2002. My childhood best friend/sweetheart/whatever you want to call it, who moved to Seattle when we were third-graders, was in Kansas to visit some relatives, and asked if I wanted to come out to their farm for a visit. (Did I ever!) Michael and I spent a blissful (although scorching) day riding four-wheelers, tormenting the cows, getting up close and personal with these adorably fluffy white chickens, eating wild turkey and drinking a fabulous bottle of Riesling Michael had brought back from Germany, and shooting off spectacularly illegal fireworks. In short, it was one of the most perfect days I've ever spent with anyone, and it was awesome to reconnect with someone I hadn't seen for 15 years (save for a brief visit the year before). It takes a special friendship to be able to pick up where you left off after over a decade apart, but we managed it. It was simply fantastic.
I'm eternally grateful that I went that night, because that turned out to be the last time I ever saw him. Michael was a First Lieutenant in the US Army, and, a little less than two years later, he was killed in Iraq in what essentially amounted to a traffic accident. His platoon had just finished up their tour of duty and was on their way home. He said before he left that he wanted all his men to come back safe; he was the only one who didn't.
People like Michael are why we have the freedoms we have in this country, and on this day, I'm grateful for his sacrifice and that of countless others like him. For this very personal reason, no matter what I end up doing on the Fourth or what traditions we eventually establish, I will always think of him on this day.
- Mood:
nostalgic
( My 15... )
- Mood:
satisfied
So today, armed with a gift card and a coupon, I headed to Kohl's and spent probably more money than I should have, but not nearly as much as I COULD have (I got over $200 worth of clothes for about $70), and, as a result, have bright, colorful, optimistic new clothing to help ease me into my new life! Granted, these clothes are all two sizes larger than I used to wear, but, to my surprise, this didn't even bum me out! I'm bigger not because I've been lazy or let myself go, I'm bigger because I grew a whole person in the last year.
Anyway, I'm definitely beginning to see why they call it retail therapy. I feel much, much better.
- Mood:
optimistic
Last night, we decided to move. Today, I started telling people.
My mom is thrilled.
My friends here are not.
I've been toggling between excitement and tears all day. It's a strange and confusing combination, and one I hope to dispatch with soon. I'm the Funny Happy Person. I'm the one who cheers everyone else up! Depression has no place in my world.
We have no job in Wichita. We have no place to live in Wichita, and no way to afford it even if we DID have a place to live. All we have is a strong conviction/gut feeling/divine leading/whatever you want to call it that this is The Right Thing For Us To Do.
I hate leaps of faith when you can't see the bridge. All I can do is trust that it will be there when I put my foot over the edge.
God has never failed me yet.
I'm going to bed.
- Mood:
indescribable
- Mood:
happy
- Mood:
giggly
Anybody familiar with Craigslist? Does this sound legit? It's an email I received earlier in response to an item I listed on there.
"Hello I really appreciate your response to my email.I want you to
consider it sold, pls do withdraw the advert from craigslist to avoid
disturbance from another buyer.I want you to know that i will be
paying via bank certified check .I will like you to provide me with
the following.information to facilitate the mailing of the check to
you .
1.....Full name to write on the check
2.....Full Physical address to post the check (NOT P.O BOX)
3.....City, State and Zip Code
4.....Home & Cell Phone to contact you
*** Note that the payment will be shipped to your address via UPS NEXT
DAY SERVICE and I will like you to know that you will not be
responsible for shipping i will have my mover come over as soon as you
have cashed the check** Thanks i can trust you on this so we can move
forward from here."
- Mood:
confused
4:30 PM While taking Caleb for a walk, Cheech and I decide to sell the living room furniture I brought with me from Oklahoma.
(Background: said living room furniture originally belonged to my brother, who bought it from his roommate, who bought it from his brother when he, the brother, got laid off. The two couches, armchair, coffee table, and two end tables have had a lot of use over the years, and we've long thought it would be nice to replace them with items that HAVEN'T been made out upon by my brother, his old roommate, and various of their girlfriends).
5:30 PM Upon returning from the walk, Cheech and I also decide to sell his old TV, but we can't find the remote. Cheech says this is no big deal, since a universal remote will work. Agreement to sell is reached.
6:11 PM Living room group is posted on Craigslist.
6:32 PM While in the process of posting remoteless TV on Craigslist, receive e-mail from interested party about the living room group, wanting to look at the furniture tonight.
6:40 PM Frantic cleaning of couches begins. In the cushions, we locate a penny, a fly swatter, and the TV remote.
7:08 PM Interested party arrives, negotiations begin.
7:20 PM Interested party buys furniture, leaves to go get U-Haul.
8:00 PM Buyer returns, hauls away all furniture. Upon removing furniture, buyer sees television and asks if it's for sale. Cheech says it is, negotiations begin.
8:13 PM Buyer leaves with furniture and television.
So, yeah, our living room looks like it's been burgled. We've moved the futon from the music room/guest room into the living room to serve as a de facto couch until we get to Wichita and can buy grownup furniture.
I guess when God wants something to happen, it really happens.
- Mood:
impressed
Emergency phone numbers for babysitters: With instructions.
Dinner for babysitters: Cooked.
Caleb's bath stuff: Gathered up and in the bathroom
Milk: Pumped and bottled
Cup for warming milk: Next to kettle
Cereal, bowl, and baby spoon: Out on table.
Bib: Hanging on high chair
Cello: Packed
Music: With cello
Directions to gig: With music.
Concert clothes: With directions.
I remember when an all-day gig meant I just had to worry about the last 4 items on the list.
- Mood:
busy
I also learned that, when calling a Wichita number to inquire about the aforementioned vaguely advertised property, it helps if one dials the Wichita area code, and not the Champaign one. Apologies to the lovely-sounding woman on the other end of the line who clearly had no idea about a four-bedroom, three-bathroom house in Derby.
I was getting pretty flipped out about moving until I went over and talked to my friend Tiff, who's in the process of moving back to her own hometown. She confirmed for me that moving is indeed the right thing to do, and even though it is something of a pain in the ass to relocate, we'll be better on the other end for it.
After visiting with Tiff, I took a long drive in the country for two purposes. 1) Restoration of the soul (long, aimless drives in the country have long been a staple of my sanity) and 2) Getting Caleb to nap. Both of these were accomplished in less than an hour, and I got to poke around yet another previously-unseen corner of Illinois. In the small town of Farmer City, I noticed a church that has a Cowboy Service on Sunday nights. (As usual,
803am will know why I'm still giggling about this). Upon taking stock of our house, it's amazing how much crap we've accumulated in just under four years of residence here, and I'm in the process of purging a lot of said crap. I have a stockpile of things like skin care samples and various assorted teas that I've been saving for "someday," and, well, that someday is here, mostly because I don't want to deal with moving these things. It's kind of fun, really, opening up a new gift to myself every day.
I just started reading Bill Bryson's "Notes From A Small Island," about his farewell tour of Britain before he and his family relocated to the USA, where he grew up (note the "returning to one's home" theme that's currently going on in my life; this is entirely unintentional), and it's making me even more bound and determined to visit England someday, sooner rather than later. I've always wanted to visit there, since the vast majority of my ancestors grew up drinking tea and eating little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, but I've discovered, over the course of several vacations with my parents, that I don't want to be a tourist. I want to see the real wherever it is I go; I want to eat where the locals eat, not at some faceless Applebee's or Chili's that's exactly like every other Applebee's or Chili's. And now that I have English friends, I have an amazing opportunity to visit a very cool country with very cool people. Mark my words, English buddies: as soon as I have the cash, I'm invading you. (The Yankee is coming! The Yankee is coming!)
Also getting back into the writing thing (as if I don't have enough to do). The CC fic I'd been working on is, sadly, stressing me out to the point of paralysis, and I didn't write anything for about a month, but I've gotten back to my roots (funny shippy stuff) and have made decent progress on another fic. Due to the craziness of my life, I've decided to at least rough-draft the whole thing before posting; I just can't post as I go anymore, and I'll be much more relaxed once I know I've got at least a workable draft of the fic in its entirety.
Without giving too much away, it's, as I said, back to what I feel is my strong suit, but I'm also poking fun at both myself and the show. Stay tuned.
I think that's all the rambling I can come up with. Still fighting with the computer about random huge fontage (including in Semagic, believe it or not), so apologies for the length of this.
- Mood:
contemplative
Just got back from dinner with a good friend I haven't seen in three years, although not for lack of trying. Originally from around here, he lives in Houston now, but is in town until tomorrow finishing up recording a CD. I was blessed to get to go to Kamakura with him and let Cheech cook for us. Kris is an incredibly busy guy, and it was so awesome for him to make time for us. He loved Caleb (of course), but I could tell he was thrown for a serious loop to see me with a child. Heck, sometimes I'm thrown for a serious loop when I look at my child.
Kris was my accompanist the last year of grad school, and he helped me through some very tough times (my cello teacher was loco, and probably still is, but she doesn't live here anymore, so I don't have to deal with her much). I, in turn, have helped him wade through the swamp of singleness, and I think I can at least take partial credit for keeping him from making a really stupid romantic decision. I think perhaps my greatest memory, though, is at my wedding reception, when he and another guy had a dance-off to "Play That Funky Music, White Boy." That memory is so strong that, the morning after my wedding, the morning after I pledged my life to my soul mate, went from Miss to Mrs., and effectively determined the course of the rest of my existence, the morning after the day I'd dreamed about since I was five years old...the first thought I had was of Kris and the dance-off.
"Is it bad that my first thought this morning was of Kris?" I asked my new husband after he woke up.
"I dunno," he replied, "but it was mine, too."
Anyway, it's nights like this that make me realize just how awesome my friends are, and how much I wish that all of them lived within a reasonable distance of wherever I end up living (which is likely going to change here in a couple months). Things like Facebook and LJ and cell phones and Twitter are great, and I'm glad we have them, but there's absolutely no substitute for face-to-face contact. With friends and family stretched from coast to coast in the USA, as well as on the other side of the Atlantic, it just makes me wish transportation kept up with communications technology. Seriously, why can't we beam yet?
I'd be remiss if I didn't share the dance-off video with you.
- Mood: nostalgic
Edited because I finally figured out embedding.
- Mood: giggly
I'm sure the booze helped.
- Mood:
cheerful
And it's a good thing, too. See, I'm sick. Sick of a lot of things. Want a list? You DO? JOY!
1) I'm sick of being lectured by my mother-in-law on how to be a good Christian. I've been a Christian pretty much my whole life, and I know the nuts and bolts of it. I don't pretend to know everything, of course, since no one does, but, to my mother-in-law, it's very simple. God is on her side. All the time. Whenever she's got a conflict with anybody else, she automatically wins, because she's a Christian. (She blames thirty years of marital strife on the fact that her husband isn't a Christian and she is. If he'd just become a Christian, then they'd never fight. To which I say, HA!!!!) Never mind that Cheech and I also are Christians, God's on her side. She thinks that if we were more like her, God would bless us more, and then we'd be rich like she is. News flash: that's not how Christianity works. God chooses to bless who He chooses to bless in the ways He chooses to bless them. Her uber-aggressive, warped, "I'm Right And You're Wrong" approach to Christianity is exactly the kind of thing that makes the rest of us normal ones (yes! There are some!) look bad.
2) I'm sick of her criticizing my husband behind his back. He is a wonderful man, for many, many reasons, and it pisses me off to no end when she gripes about him.
3) I'm sick of her constantly complaining about her own mother-in-law, and then a) claiming that she's forgiven 30 years of grave injustice, and b) turns around and treats me the same way. If you've forgiven someone, you don't necessarily have to forget what they did to you, but you DO have to quit bitching about it at every available opportunity. (see point 1).
4) I'm sick of being expected to be a good, dutiful Chinese wife. News flash: I'm not Chinese! If you have any question about this, my blonde hair, blue eyes, and Oklahoma twang should convince you. Moreover, Cheech does not expect me to be Chinese. If he wanted a Chinese wife, he'd have married a Chinese woman. He did not. He married me. He married me because he loves me, because we have a lot of fun together, and because we're truly meant for each other.
I don't like to cook. Actually, that's not entirely true. I do like to cook. But I like to cook when I'm inspired to cook, when I have something I want to make, not because I'm expected to cook because that's what a good wife does. Besides, Cheech is a much better cook than I am, anyway. But his mother absolutely cannot fathom any loving wife not cooking for her husband. That's their culture, and I understand that, but, lady? I'm an American. Born here, raised here, haven't really been anywhere but here. And American wives can be deemed worthy even if we're not five-star chefs. I'm thrilled that your other son's ex-girlfriend cooked five-course meals for you, but, again, that's not me. I show my love for Cheech in other ways.
5) On a related note, I'm sick of feeling like a freakin' domestic servant in my own house. She has cooked a few meals, but when she cooks, she leaves the dirty dishes and expects someone else to take care of them. By my definition, cooking INCLUDES cleaning up after yourself. And it's not just that, it's Caleb, too. I'm expected to take care of all the diapering, feeding, burping, and putting down for naps, but once he is dry, well-rested, fed, and ready for action, she expects to have him all to herself (until, of course, such time as he is no longer dry, well-rested, fed, etc.) Last night, he woke up at 11:00, while she was still awake, and it took us two hours to get him back to sleep. She was awake for about an hour and a half of it, and then she wandered off to bed. Not once did she ask us if we were okay, or offer to help.
6) This feeling like a domestic servant extends to the car. She wants the front seat. I'm expected to take the back. This is actually fine, because I can keep an eye on Caleb and not feel like I have to participate in constant Chinese chatter (which I don't understand anyway, another gripe), but the implication is that when she's here, Cheech is Hers, and my job is to facilitate their visiting by cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, and keeping the baby quiet.
7) I'm sick of constant money talk. She's one of the most materialistic people I've ever met. The goal of life is to make A Lot Of Money, and if you're not doing that, then there's something wrong with you. Cheech and I don't make A Lot Of Money. Therefore, there's something wrong with us, and this visit has largely been an effort on her part to determine what.
8) I'm sick of her constantly interrogating us about our life choices, and then not remembering what we say. She wants Cheech to move back to Boston and help out in the family business. He'll make A Lot Of Money, and therefore be a Worthwhile Person. Never mind that this isn't what Cheech and I want, nor is it what he's called to do. (If she's as well-versed in Christianity as she claims, the concept of being "called" to do something would make sense to her). One minute, she'll tell me how proud she is that Cheech wants to be an acupuncturist, and that she'll do anything to help, and then the very next, she'll tell me that he was so good as an accountant and he has a finance degree; why would he want to go into the healing arts when he could make A Lot Of Money in the business world? And are we SURE we want to move to Wichita? Why, Wichita is practically the Edge Of The Known Universe! Nothing good ever comes from there! (Never mind her previous contention that she'll support his choice to be an acupuncturist, and moving to Wichita is the best way to make that happen). As for me, she thinks I should drop everything and become...drum roll, please...a public school music teacher. I have explained to her, at least five separate times, that I would have to go back to college for an entirely different Bachelor's degree than the one I have now, that I have a baby to take care of, and that I have a promising career as a performer (at least, I will when we live somewhere other than here). I am rather proud of myself, though; I simply told her that being a public school music teacher is absolutely the last way to make A Lot Of Money, and, predictably, she's dropped it. (When in Rome, be as irrational and greedy as the Romans are)
.
9) I'm sick of everything being on her schedule. When she's hungry, we eat. When she's not, we don't. Never mind whether or not anyone else is hungry, or whether the baby needs to eat or be put to bed. She insists that we eat all meals together As A Family, and nobody leaves the table until she's done. Of course, she's the slowest eater in the multi-verse. And don't get my started on her food particularities.
Okay, that's it. I'm done. She goes home tomorrow. Apologies for the self-indulgent rant; I'll be back to normal in less than 24 hours.
- Mood:
pissed off
Click here for the win and awesome, as well as a hefty dose of me being unconscionably goofy with my child.
- Mood:
accomplished
I am very, very blessed to not be one of these women. My husband is an absolutely outstanding father, in every sense of the word. He believes that parents should share equally in raising children, both the fun moments (watching Caleb splash around in the tub) and not-so-fun moments (cleaning a prodigious amount of poop out of the car seat), and, more than that, he's good at it. From the moment we found out I was pregnant, he's done everything possible to take care of not only Caleb, but me as well. He came with me to nearly every doctor's appointment, rubbed my back, massaged my feet, came with me to HypnoBirthing classes, and, above all, was diligent in prayer for our baby and me for nine long months.
During my 42 hours of labor, Cheech was by my side almost constantly. The only time he left was when my parents and I insisted he go get something to eat, and that he did, reluctantly, and only after a fight. When a C-section became the only option, he bravely came into the OR with me and watched them slice me open to deliver our son (although he tells me that he, the medical person, simply couldn't watch that part, which I thought was very sweet). He spent three nights in the hospital with me, voluntarily sleeping in an uncomfortable bed and waking up every few minutes when the nurses came in to check my vitals or bring Caleb to me for a feeding or any of the other countless things they felt were absolutely essential.
When we got to bring Caleb home, Cheech jumped in right away, helping with diapers and baby gear and doing all the things I wanted to be doing, but couldn't. I'm sure it was a rude surprise for him to come home from the hospital with not only a helpless newborn, but also a helpless (and very, very hormonal) wife. Still, he remained my constant; a tangible reminder of God's infinite patience and eternal presence. We learned in marriage class that we, as spouses, are God's primary vehicle for showing love to each other, and Cheech showed me more love in those early days than I've ever seen before.
Watching him play with Caleb is a joy. Caleb's little face lights up like a Christmas tree when he sees his daddy, and the two of them have all kinds of fun together. Cheech isn't afraid of poop or spit-up or drool or any of the other substances babies are constantly leaking, and he'll jump in and change even the most prodigious of diapers. He talks to Caleb, he watches him discover the world, and he delights in every achievement, every discovery, every milestone.
He's also there for me, just as he was during my pregnancy. When I'm weak or tired or frustrated, he calmly steps in and does what needs to be done. He'll get up in the middle of the night to rock Caleb to sleep, and he'll work with him tirelessly when he decides he doesn't want to sleep (which is often). Cheech listens to my rants and worries and threats to run away to Tahiti with aplomb, and he constantly reassures me that things will get better, that I am a great mother, and that Caleb will turn out just fine.
I have no doubt Caleb will indeed turn out just fine...because he has such a wonderfully loving, outstanding, caring, giving father. Being a daddy has come so naturally to Cheech, and it's been a joy to watch him grow into this important role.
Munchkin, if you grow up to be exactly like your daddy, I don't think there's anything you could do that would make me more proud of you.
Happy Father's Day, sweetie. I love you more than you'll ever know, and I hope you have a wonderful day.
- Mood:
loved
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