Like a waterfall in slow motion, Part One
2 years ago
Showing posts with label Announcements. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Announcements. Show all posts
Monday, October 25, 2010
Now playing
So, it may seem like I've been MIA lately. And yeah, maybe a little. But my absence wasn't all for naught. Nope. Behold, and please update your bookmarks, Google Readers, and Twitter feeds accordingly: www.golly-pop.com
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Something blue
Sean and I (and let’s not forget the all-important hands that hold the checkbook) have been shopping for wedding venues since the weekend after we got engaged. And it’s seemed like all the ones we visited have either been too ugly, too choppy, too expensive, or simply too “meh” for at least one person’s tastes.
The biggest problem was that Sean and I had very specific notions about what we wanted: a wide open room in a stand-alone building that would absolutely wow our guests as soon as they walked in. Unfortunately, fulfilling those specifications turned out to be much easier said than done. For one thing, what we wanted doesn’t really exist in DFW—pretty much all you can get in the fourth-largest metropolitan area in the United States is a hotel ballroom or a country club that seats twenty people per room. And the few places that did fit the bill wanted to A) dictate which caterer we used, B) force us to have our rehearsal during business hours on a Thursday, and C) charge us a $7,000 rental fee and $25 a head for house wine and Bud Light. And I’m sorry, but no one in my immediate wedding planning circle can fathom spending $14,000 just so that my four year old cousin can walk in the door and have a glass of Merlot.
Everyone says couples should book their venue at least a year in advance or risk hosting the blessed event in the backyard, so I was thrilled that Sean’s relatively early proposal gave me a good 15 months to plan. And then our venue search started holding up the whole show. Since we didn’t have a venue, we didn’t have a date, so we couldn’t book our vendors. (Not that we knew what kinds of vendors we’d need anyway, since so many venues come with laundry lists of preferences and regulations.) We were getting so close to the wire (our negative one-year anniversary is next week, after all) that I couldn’t think about my wedding without a roll of Tums, a handful of Zoloft, and a shaker of vodka.
On Saturday Sean and I visited the only remaining viable venue within a 50 mile radius of our residences. Sean thought it was the nicest venue we’d seen so far, I liked it well enough to sign on the dotted line and just be done with the whole ordeal, and my parents were prepared to pay the deposit. When I went to bed on Sunday night, I felt a mild sense of relief that I would no longer have to fret about location and a nagging sense of fear that my wedding was turning into this big, ugly monster that was stomping out of my control. And then on Monday morning, the festering boil on the butt of my matrimony finally burst—all over my place of business.
I was two minutes away from my office when I got word that the venue that I thought everyone had finally agreed on didn’t pass economic muster. And then I spent the first two hours of my workday completely despondent—I sent countless distraught emails and texts and prayed that my coworkers wouldn’t notice my watery eyes or my quivering bottom lip. By the end of the morning, I’d actually gotten the green light to book any venue I wanted, but the damage was already done. Worries about the venue had been polluting my wedding planning experience for so long that they had finally rendered me completely numb to the whole event. I just wanted to skip it. (I know I’m prone to histrionics, people, but believe me when I say that at 3:00 Monday afternoon, the only five words I could speak about my wedding were “I don’t give a shit.”)
When I finally got face-time with my fiancé after work, I practically begged him to pick the venue. After all, he’d been super involved since day one, so surely he could be trusted to propel us through all the mucky muck to the blessed end. But no. He was also so disgusted by the whole process that he refused to play along. Plus he was adamant that his bride-to-be be happy with her own wedding, so he wasn’t about to chose for me.
The conversation that followed would have made George Banks blush: Why couldn’t we find a venue that suited us? Why are weddings so offensively expensive? Why do venues try to control so much of the couple’s day? At one point we were talking very seriously about jumping on the next plane to New Orleans and swapping vows in the French Quarter. And that’s when Sean said it: “I’d rather just rent out a bar and have a big freakin’ party with all of our friends and forget all this wedding crap.” Cue the light bulb moment. Why in the world would we spend an arm and a leg on a venue if we were both at the point of not caring? Shouldn’t we just go with a less expensive place that we’d seen and get it over with? And if we were going to go with a less expensive place, wouldn’t we then have money in the budget to create the wedding that we wanted? And since the less expensive place couldn’t care less about who assembled my cheese platters, couldn’t we just throw a party that’s super fun and super us instead of an overblown reception? WELL OF COURSE WE CAN!
Yesterday morning I called my mom to inform her that Sean and I had finally settled on the venue of least resistance. By yesterday afternoon, my mom had confirmed that it was available. And as of 1:00PM today, I can finally tell you where the party at! And when—October 15, 2011! Save the motherlovin’ date, y’all, because it’s finally freakin’ official.
The venue we’ve booked is pretty enough to stand on its own, simple enough to support our personal touches, lax enough not to micromanage every aspect of our wedding (no list of permissible caterers, no prohibitive bar packages, no stupid premiums that would prevent us from having our wedding during the popular month that we wanted) and priced fairly enough that we might actually be able to serve food to more than half our guests (so, out-of-towners, you won’t have to stop at McDonalds after all!).
Since I now have the freedom to do pretty much whatever I want (and money in the budget to fund it), I’ve decided to make the whole event all about us. I’m going to stop trying to make it the greatest wedding reception ever and start thinking of it as the biggest party Sean and I will ever throw. What kind of food would we serve, what kind of alcohol would we drink, what kind of music would we play, what kinds of treats would I bake if we were having twenty friends over to our apartment? Take that, multiply it by ten, move it to a neutral site, and bingo! Cake cutting fees and corking charges need not apply.
Who cares if the venue doesn’t have all the pomp and circumstance we thought we wanted? In the end, and with a little elbow grease, what our venue will have is the distinctive flavor of Sean and Sarah. And wouldn't you know it--I suddenly and profoundly give a shit about the wedding again!
The biggest problem was that Sean and I had very specific notions about what we wanted: a wide open room in a stand-alone building that would absolutely wow our guests as soon as they walked in. Unfortunately, fulfilling those specifications turned out to be much easier said than done. For one thing, what we wanted doesn’t really exist in DFW—pretty much all you can get in the fourth-largest metropolitan area in the United States is a hotel ballroom or a country club that seats twenty people per room. And the few places that did fit the bill wanted to A) dictate which caterer we used, B) force us to have our rehearsal during business hours on a Thursday, and C) charge us a $7,000 rental fee and $25 a head for house wine and Bud Light. And I’m sorry, but no one in my immediate wedding planning circle can fathom spending $14,000 just so that my four year old cousin can walk in the door and have a glass of Merlot.
Everyone says couples should book their venue at least a year in advance or risk hosting the blessed event in the backyard, so I was thrilled that Sean’s relatively early proposal gave me a good 15 months to plan. And then our venue search started holding up the whole show. Since we didn’t have a venue, we didn’t have a date, so we couldn’t book our vendors. (Not that we knew what kinds of vendors we’d need anyway, since so many venues come with laundry lists of preferences and regulations.) We were getting so close to the wire (our negative one-year anniversary is next week, after all) that I couldn’t think about my wedding without a roll of Tums, a handful of Zoloft, and a shaker of vodka.
On Saturday Sean and I visited the only remaining viable venue within a 50 mile radius of our residences. Sean thought it was the nicest venue we’d seen so far, I liked it well enough to sign on the dotted line and just be done with the whole ordeal, and my parents were prepared to pay the deposit. When I went to bed on Sunday night, I felt a mild sense of relief that I would no longer have to fret about location and a nagging sense of fear that my wedding was turning into this big, ugly monster that was stomping out of my control. And then on Monday morning, the festering boil on the butt of my matrimony finally burst—all over my place of business.
I was two minutes away from my office when I got word that the venue that I thought everyone had finally agreed on didn’t pass economic muster. And then I spent the first two hours of my workday completely despondent—I sent countless distraught emails and texts and prayed that my coworkers wouldn’t notice my watery eyes or my quivering bottom lip. By the end of the morning, I’d actually gotten the green light to book any venue I wanted, but the damage was already done. Worries about the venue had been polluting my wedding planning experience for so long that they had finally rendered me completely numb to the whole event. I just wanted to skip it. (I know I’m prone to histrionics, people, but believe me when I say that at 3:00 Monday afternoon, the only five words I could speak about my wedding were “I don’t give a shit.”)
When I finally got face-time with my fiancé after work, I practically begged him to pick the venue. After all, he’d been super involved since day one, so surely he could be trusted to propel us through all the mucky muck to the blessed end. But no. He was also so disgusted by the whole process that he refused to play along. Plus he was adamant that his bride-to-be be happy with her own wedding, so he wasn’t about to chose for me.
The conversation that followed would have made George Banks blush: Why couldn’t we find a venue that suited us? Why are weddings so offensively expensive? Why do venues try to control so much of the couple’s day? At one point we were talking very seriously about jumping on the next plane to New Orleans and swapping vows in the French Quarter. And that’s when Sean said it: “I’d rather just rent out a bar and have a big freakin’ party with all of our friends and forget all this wedding crap.” Cue the light bulb moment. Why in the world would we spend an arm and a leg on a venue if we were both at the point of not caring? Shouldn’t we just go with a less expensive place that we’d seen and get it over with? And if we were going to go with a less expensive place, wouldn’t we then have money in the budget to create the wedding that we wanted? And since the less expensive place couldn’t care less about who assembled my cheese platters, couldn’t we just throw a party that’s super fun and super us instead of an overblown reception? WELL OF COURSE WE CAN!
Yesterday morning I called my mom to inform her that Sean and I had finally settled on the venue of least resistance. By yesterday afternoon, my mom had confirmed that it was available. And as of 1:00PM today, I can finally tell you where the party at! And when—October 15, 2011! Save the motherlovin’ date, y’all, because it’s finally freakin’ official.
The venue we’ve booked is pretty enough to stand on its own, simple enough to support our personal touches, lax enough not to micromanage every aspect of our wedding (no list of permissible caterers, no prohibitive bar packages, no stupid premiums that would prevent us from having our wedding during the popular month that we wanted) and priced fairly enough that we might actually be able to serve food to more than half our guests (so, out-of-towners, you won’t have to stop at McDonalds after all!).
Since I now have the freedom to do pretty much whatever I want (and money in the budget to fund it), I’ve decided to make the whole event all about us. I’m going to stop trying to make it the greatest wedding reception ever and start thinking of it as the biggest party Sean and I will ever throw. What kind of food would we serve, what kind of alcohol would we drink, what kind of music would we play, what kinds of treats would I bake if we were having twenty friends over to our apartment? Take that, multiply it by ten, move it to a neutral site, and bingo! Cake cutting fees and corking charges need not apply.
Who cares if the venue doesn’t have all the pomp and circumstance we thought we wanted? In the end, and with a little elbow grease, what our venue will have is the distinctive flavor of Sean and Sarah. And wouldn't you know it--I suddenly and profoundly give a shit about the wedding again!
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Formal Introduction
Facebook friends have already been informally introduced to the new family pet, but silly me, I never officially debuted her on my blog! My family's beloved pooch, Fergie, moved on to that lush dogpark in the sky in June (for the best really--she was deaf, arthritic, and as senile as the day is long). My parents debated getting a new pup for a couple of weeks, but in the end they decided my dad needed a new companion, so two and a half weeks ago they brought home this little one:
Name: Penelope "Penny" Laine.
Breed: Sheltie, natch. This is my family's third.
Age at present: 8.5 weeks (but 6 weeks in the pictures).
Favorite pastime: Chewing on feet.
Favorite toy: A stuffed sheep that my mom picked up at Big Lots and a plastic ball that was intended for the kitty.
Biggest fear: Water. She absolutely dreads bathtime. She's also wary of any part of the house that is not the family room or kitchen. Especially the upstairs (shudder).
"Haha" moments: She's not quite steady on her feet, so she's prone to tripping into walls and furniture.
Opinion of the fam: She's fond of us all, as dogs are wont to be. She loves the sound of my mom's voice, she enjoys hanging out on my dad's lap, and she perks up and wants to play when I get home from work.
And what about the cat?: They were wary of each other at first, but now that Penny's realized that Layla doesn't have claws, she's hell-bent on getting her to play. (She's already mastered the "get the kitty!" command, barking and growling and lunging while Layla tries to look disinterested.) Layla's still not quite sure what to think of Penny, but her wide-eyes, flicking tail, and tense muscles suggest that spontaneous chases are not far off.
Name: Penelope "Penny" Laine.
Breed: Sheltie, natch. This is my family's third.
Age at present: 8.5 weeks (but 6 weeks in the pictures).
Favorite pastime: Chewing on feet.
Favorite toy: A stuffed sheep that my mom picked up at Big Lots and a plastic ball that was intended for the kitty.
Biggest fear: Water. She absolutely dreads bathtime. She's also wary of any part of the house that is not the family room or kitchen. Especially the upstairs (shudder).
"Haha" moments: She's not quite steady on her feet, so she's prone to tripping into walls and furniture.
Opinion of the fam: She's fond of us all, as dogs are wont to be. She loves the sound of my mom's voice, she enjoys hanging out on my dad's lap, and she perks up and wants to play when I get home from work.
And what about the cat?: They were wary of each other at first, but now that Penny's realized that Layla doesn't have claws, she's hell-bent on getting her to play. (She's already mastered the "get the kitty!" command, barking and growling and lunging while Layla tries to look disinterested.) Layla's still not quite sure what to think of Penny, but her wide-eyes, flicking tail, and tense muscles suggest that spontaneous chases are not far off.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Weddy or Knot!
[Oh yes, he went to David Gardner's!]
In the coming weeks and months you can expect that...
1) I will post a real, honest-to-God picture of my beautiful ring that I cannot stop staring at (no, not even to do my job or drive my car IN TRAFFIC). I'd just like to show it off live and in person to my nearest and dearest first.
2) I will share the proposal story in its entirety, but not until A) I've had a chance to spread it around in real life first (three or four times, as I am wont to do), and B) I have a wedding website.
3) I will have a wedding website as soon as my fiance and I have come up with a clever domain name.
4) I will use the language of an engaged lady ad nauseam and in earnest, which means regularly referring to the proposal, to myself as engaged/bride/
5) The wedding-related posts on this blog will increase 10-fold, but will not reveal any juicy wedding secrets, of which, as you might expect, there are already plenty.
It's only been eighty six hours, but I'm pretty sure engagement and I are going to go together like champagne and strawberries.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Pinch me
This Sunday, May 16, 2010, will mark the one-year anniversary of the day I graduated from the happiest place on earth. I'll spare you the torrid details of how my life has changed since then because A) if you've been tuning in regularly you are probably already familiar with them, and B) I'm planning on recapping them on Sunday anyway. However, because it's pertinent to this post, I'm going to give you a quick and dirty review: I graduated, I had plans, I cried, I changed my plans, I cried, I was broke, I cried, I bad-mouthed my major, I cried, I cursed myself for graduating, I cried, I applied for jobs, I cried, I spent a lot of time in employment limbo, and all of a sudden people started calling me for interviews! And recruiters were seeking me out for positions I'd never even heard of! And a few people I interviewed with seemed to like me! And then on Monday, May 10, 2010--a day that will live in infamy--I got my first true job offer.
Without getting too specific (or dooced before I've even started) it's like this: a large company with an office in the Metroplex wants me to join their marketing team and write just about everything from web content to creative copy. They want to give me more benefits than I'll know what to do with, and oh yeah, they want me to spend my first week on the job (as well as a few weeks of every year) training and mingling with the rest of the marketing team at their headquarters here:
[Source: MetroScenes]
Hum...I don't know let me think about it ok I accept! But wait, how is this happening to me? Are you sure you called the right number? When am I going to wake up? Never mind, don't answer any of that, let's just go with it.
I'd like to apologize to God for considering giving up on writing and on finding full-time employment--sorry, Lord, I never should have doubted that the abilities you gave me would eventually lead to something sort of perfect; to my parents for being a moody boomerang child--thanks for the living quarters, free food, and laundry service, mom and dad. Kitty and I will be out of your hair before you know it; to my intended for being wishy-washy and weepy--you are a rock and an angel, love, especially since you found the job posting for me; and most of all, to my major for the unkind words I've had for it--if it weren't for you, English rhetoric, I would not be set to spend week one of June in my favorite city in the world.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Size matters
Social media outlets have been replete of late with my cryptic messages about April 22--tweets about excitement, status updates full of countdowns, and a whole blog post devoted to sharing the news. Yes, it's true! I spent the better part of two days peppering my April 15 post with subtle clues that ended up standing out to absolutely no one (not even people who knew what was going on).
I would have been forthcoming earlier, but I was too busy debating whether or not I wanted to be discreet. ("Debating" might be a bit of an overstatement. It was more like "trying halfheartedly to convince myself that a lady does not blog about such personal matters.") In the end, of course, I've decided to err on the side of indiscretion, mostly because I'm in too good of a mood to worry about decorum. All I ask is that this announcement never make it to Facebook, because it's really none of Jane "1st Row, History of Rhetoric" Smith's or John "Another Shot of Captain?" Doe's business. So if you want to know what happened on April 22, take a look at that post (opens in a new window) to see what clues you missed and then proceed to the jump:
I would have been forthcoming earlier, but I was too busy debating whether or not I wanted to be discreet. ("Debating" might be a bit of an overstatement. It was more like "trying halfheartedly to convince myself that a lady does not blog about such personal matters.") In the end, of course, I've decided to err on the side of indiscretion, mostly because I'm in too good of a mood to worry about decorum. All I ask is that this announcement never make it to Facebook, because it's really none of Jane "1st Row, History of Rhetoric" Smith's or John "Another Shot of Captain?" Doe's business. So if you want to know what happened on April 22, take a look at that post (opens in a new window) to see what clues you missed and then proceed to the jump:
Friday, April 23, 2010
Yesterday.
Was perhaps the most monumental and exciting day I have lived thus far, and I spent approximately 18 hours celebrating it with sleep, whine, trudgery, slovenliness, and curmudgery. And it was awesome!
Thursday, April 15, 2010
One week.
- Sarah, Sarah, what a boob you are! I spent all of Tuesday thinking it was Wednesday and all of Wednesday thinking it was Thursday (even though I reminded myself of the actual day just before bed on Tuesday night). Not only has my confusion made my week seem longer, but it has also interfered with the timing of this post. Worry not, though, the title is correct.
- Until very recently, I'd been stuck in a breakfast rut--nothing passed over my lips but yogurt before 11:00AM. I liked yogurt because not only was it tasty and varied, but it was also full of satiating protein and low in calories. Eventually, though, it became a bit monotonous. It got so bad, in fact, that I finally started skipping breakfast all together, and any nutritionist'll tell you that this is not a habit to get into--not only do you not jump-start your metabolism in the AM, but you also set yourself up for a binge in the evening. If I wanted to keep my diet on track, I had to nip that practice in the bud. Enter apples and peanut butter: it's high in deliciosity and hunger-busting fat and protein and still low enough in calories that I don't feel guilty om noming it every single morning.
- Right around the time I graduated, I thought that self-employment would be a hoot! After all, I could make my own hours, work when I needed to, and generally lead a pretty relaxed life. WRONG! I'm currently juggling 2.75 jobs to ensure that I rack up enough hours to pay the bills (and buy pretty clothes and entertain myself). Whatever could that mean? Well, I still have my web job (that's one), I was recently hired for a new writing job (that's as much as I'm allowed to reveal about job two), I still drive my sweet freshman home from school every day (that's job .5--not hard or particularly time-consuming, but a daily task none the less), and I'm an occasional Spanish tutor for some kiddies in the area (that's job .25; I said "occasional"). I get up early and work super late just to keep up, which means...
- Good golly I'm tired! All of the responsibilities and late-nighters make me feel like I'm in college again, and not necessarily in a good way (there's no summer break or bar in sight!). I'm cleaving to the idea that I can sleep when I'm dead. Or maybe on my vacation next month!
- Egads, Mad Men is a good show! It's nostalgic, artful, and absolutely titillating! (Not to mention subtly offensive and enjoyably enraging.) Sean and I started Netflixing it a couple months ago and just received our last DVD in the mail yesterday. I'm down right depressed that I'm going to have to wait until the new season begins to find out what happens to the marginalized girls and macho boys at Sterling Cooper. Who thought it would be a good idea to make the seasons of such a well-written and well-dressed show just 13 measly episodes long?
- Remember when I said I was going to try to figure out a way to push up the wedding date? Fuhgeddahboutit. With all the other things that are going on (including but not limited to the aforementioned 2.75 jobs), it seems impractical to throw wedding planning into the mix now as well. Besides, Sean and I are both gung-ho about having the exact wedding we want, and I'm afraid that if I tried to plan it in six months some of the details would be left out. My mom's friend wondered if Sean and I would be able to live separate lives for the next year and a half, to which my only response was a series of "I think I cans." In any case, I appreciate all of the so sweet comments a few of you ladies left on that post!
- Yesterday I had to exfoliate my knees. MY KNEES! Why? Because they looked and felt like neglected elbows. Why? Because I bust my butt doing a TON of girly push-ups every other day as part of the Power 90 regimen, and the carpet in my workout room is very rough indeed. However, while my knees may say "floozy!" my guns totally say "bang!"
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Sentimental fool
My brother and I were in 3rd and 6th grades, respectively, when my parents finally gave in to my brother's cries for a cat. On Memorial Day weekend, 1998, my dad drove us to Petco for cat adoption day. My brother, the cat advocate, was gravitating toward a sweet, playful, fluffy kitten that Trey claims looked a lot like Miss Layla but seemed a lot less insane. I, however, had a thing for orange tabbies and a keenly developed inclination to always get my way, so we got Tilly.
[I wanted to post a picture of Tilly from a time when she was less massive, but alas, I couldn't find one. Probably because she's had the same enormous, irritated look about her since 1999. Here she is instead with her guilty pleasure.]
Tilly was none too pleased to be carried out of Petco that day, and she more or less balanced that chip on her shoulder for the rest of her life. She was the most cat-like cat in the history of the world: onery, sleepy, disdainful, anti-social (but NOT skittish), possessive, and loath to be carried around. (I'm not that's quite sure the type of information you're supposed to share in one of these things, but "sweet" and "loving" would simply never cut it. Note to self: never go into obit writing.) Tilly was also profoundly smarter than the average bear--she came when she was called, she learned how to sit after only one try, she talked back to people that talked to her, she followed through when she was told to "go to her spot," and she knew exactly what the "get the kitty!" command meant for her serenity.
Tilly woke up every morning at 6AM and hurled herself against my parents' bedroom door until they fed her Whiskas pouched cat food. After breakfast, she'd saunter to her bed and watch us plebs go about our business. When she and the Fergie dog were younger, they would play together in the early evenings. When the dog got too old to play, Tilly played with Layla instead. If the family gathered in the family room to watch TV, Tilly climbed on the back of the sofa or into my dad's lap to hang out with us. If anyone was eating pudding or ice cream, she begged for the leftovers. When everyone turned in for the night, Tilly would leap onto her blanket on my bed and doze.
When I adopted Layla nearly three years ago, Tilly was beside herself. She HATED the new girl, and she hated me even more for bringing her home. She spent the first six months of Layla's time with our family growling and hissing at both of us. Then she got over it and the three of us became besties, so long as Layla didn't try to sleep on my bed, too.
[See? Besties.]
Just before spring break, Tilly started throwing up. Just after spring break, Tilly stopped eating, stopped playing with Layla, and stopped getting out of her bed. The vet tested her blood, gave her shots, prescribed appetite stimulants, ordered x-rays, and poked and prodded to no avail. He thought that perhaps she'd gone so long without eating that she'd lost interest in it, so he force fed her. On the first day he tried it, Tilly responded positively--she purred, the talked, and she even nibbled at her food on her own. On the second day, Tilly couldn't hold it down, so the only remaining option was to go in for a diagnostic peek.
The vet called my mom while Tilly was still under. Cancer, he said, everywhere. He could put her to sleep while she was out. Tilly died just after her twelfth birthday.
When we received a sympathy card from Tilly's vet over the weekend, we all got misty-eyed. We still glance at Tilly's bed from time to time and expect to see her in it. We assume that Fergie and Layla are interacting more now that they've lost their mutual friend. Her personality may have been prickly, but it's what made her fun. And behind that tough-as-nails facade, she really was a loyal cat. Tilly made me the crazy cat lady I am today. We miss her.
[I wanted to post a picture of Tilly from a time when she was less massive, but alas, I couldn't find one. Probably because she's had the same enormous, irritated look about her since 1999. Here she is instead with her guilty pleasure.]
Tilly was none too pleased to be carried out of Petco that day, and she more or less balanced that chip on her shoulder for the rest of her life. She was the most cat-like cat in the history of the world: onery, sleepy, disdainful, anti-social (but NOT skittish), possessive, and loath to be carried around. (I'm not that's quite sure the type of information you're supposed to share in one of these things, but "sweet" and "loving" would simply never cut it. Note to self: never go into obit writing.) Tilly was also profoundly smarter than the average bear--she came when she was called, she learned how to sit after only one try, she talked back to people that talked to her, she followed through when she was told to "go to her spot," and she knew exactly what the "get the kitty!" command meant for her serenity.
Tilly woke up every morning at 6AM and hurled herself against my parents' bedroom door until they fed her Whiskas pouched cat food. After breakfast, she'd saunter to her bed and watch us plebs go about our business. When she and the Fergie dog were younger, they would play together in the early evenings. When the dog got too old to play, Tilly played with Layla instead. If the family gathered in the family room to watch TV, Tilly climbed on the back of the sofa or into my dad's lap to hang out with us. If anyone was eating pudding or ice cream, she begged for the leftovers. When everyone turned in for the night, Tilly would leap onto her blanket on my bed and doze.
When I adopted Layla nearly three years ago, Tilly was beside herself. She HATED the new girl, and she hated me even more for bringing her home. She spent the first six months of Layla's time with our family growling and hissing at both of us. Then she got over it and the three of us became besties, so long as Layla didn't try to sleep on my bed, too.
[See? Besties.]
The vet called my mom while Tilly was still under. Cancer, he said, everywhere. He could put her to sleep while she was out. Tilly died just after her twelfth birthday.
When we received a sympathy card from Tilly's vet over the weekend, we all got misty-eyed. We still glance at Tilly's bed from time to time and expect to see her in it. We assume that Fergie and Layla are interacting more now that they've lost their mutual friend. Her personality may have been prickly, but it's what made her fun. And behind that tough-as-nails facade, she really was a loyal cat. Tilly made me the crazy cat lady I am today. We miss her.
Friday, January 29, 2010
This day in history
Do you know what's special about today? I mean other than the fact that it's Friday (which is, let's admit, the most specialist day of all)? No? On this day in 2008, Sean and I became a happy couple. That's right, we've been mooning over each other (and only very rarely making each other crazy) for two whole years! To celebrate this joyous occasion, Sean's buying his and hers bottles of wine (Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, respectively) I'm buying complementary cheeses (Edam, Jarlsberg, and Gruyere, respectively), and we're going to watch Sideways and overindulge in his living room.
"Whoa-ho-ho," say you, "Really going all out, eh? Taking the celebration to the next level?" To which I reply, "Have you watched Sideways? It's spectacular. Have you imbibed a glass of Chardonnay with a side of rich dairy? It's delicious. Have you seen the engagement ring I want? It's gorgeous."
"Whoa-ho-ho," say you, "Really going all out, eh? Taking the celebration to the next level?" To which I reply, "Have you watched Sideways? It's spectacular. Have you imbibed a glass of Chardonnay with a side of rich dairy? It's delicious. Have you seen the engagement ring I want? It's gorgeous."
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Macro-blogging about micro-blogging
As the Manager of Social Marketing for The Company that I work for, it's my job to set up and maintain Facebook and Twitter accounts for The Company's clients (among other things). It's a pretty sweet deal, except for one baby hiccup--I've never used Twitter. Oh, I joined of course when all the hoopla started, but I never did manage to write that first tweet, and I've been lambasting the service as pointless and self-indulgent ever since.
"But wait," say you, "You are an avid blogger and a fairly consistent Facebook user--140 characters wouldn't even begin to cover all of the shameless self-promoting you do!" "Right on," say I, and after setting up a couple of accounts on Twitter, I'm suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to express my own opinions with "r u"s and "want 2"s. So I've decided to just go ahead and tweet already, and ho boy, it's amazing how much nicer hypocrisy feels after you've owned up to it in front of God and the Internet!
"But wait," say you, "You are an avid blogger and a fairly consistent Facebook user--140 characters wouldn't even begin to cover all of the shameless self-promoting you do!" "Right on," say I, and after setting up a couple of accounts on Twitter, I'm suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to express my own opinions with "r u"s and "want 2"s. So I've decided to just go ahead and tweet already, and ho boy, it's amazing how much nicer hypocrisy feels after you've owned up to it in front of God and the Internet!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Hold your head up, you silly girl
"So, what do you do?" There's not much on this planet that I dread more than that question (except maybe OBGYN appointments. Okay, definitely OBGYN appointments.) Maybe it's because I do so many things and really not that much all at the same time. I substitute teach; I write for a web development company; I nanny for my cousin; I take teacher certification classes; I try to figure out how in the heck I can use my God-given talents and life-long passions to earn some moo-lah in this economy. So I ask, dear readers, that you pretend to be me for just a second and try to think of a better answer to that horrid question up there than "I'm a writer."
If, when you tried to put yourself in my shoes, you started humming "Martha My Dear," you actually knew what band penned it and from which album it came, and you suddenly experienced an urge to live happily ever after with Sean and ten feline children, then congratulations! You've successfully tapped into my psyche! (Tell our sweet tooth to cool it--those oatmeal cream pies that mom bought and left out on the counter are not for us!) And since you're here, you probably cannot not fathom a better answer to the question, right? Right.
If you happen to still be feeling like me, I bet you're freaking thrilled that you suddenly have so many new responsibilities at your (still part-time) job as a writer for the web development company. I bet you're loving how often you're getting emails from your bosses that require immediate attention. I bet your mind is awash with new ideas for posts for the company blog, half-planned magazine articles, and an imaginary alarm clock that's shouting deadlines and interview times at you even as you sleep.
So go ahead and call yourself a writer, pseudo-Sarah baby, because your boss sure does! And no matter what happens, don't ever forget how good it sounds coming out of your mouth.
If, when you tried to put yourself in my shoes, you started humming "Martha My Dear," you actually knew what band penned it and from which album it came, and you suddenly experienced an urge to live happily ever after with Sean and ten feline children, then congratulations! You've successfully tapped into my psyche! (Tell our sweet tooth to cool it--those oatmeal cream pies that mom bought and left out on the counter are not for us!) And since you're here, you probably cannot not fathom a better answer to the question, right? Right.
If you happen to still be feeling like me, I bet you're freaking thrilled that you suddenly have so many new responsibilities at your (still part-time) job as a writer for the web development company. I bet you're loving how often you're getting emails from your bosses that require immediate attention. I bet your mind is awash with new ideas for posts for the company blog, half-planned magazine articles, and an imaginary alarm clock that's shouting deadlines and interview times at you even as you sleep.
So go ahead and call yourself a writer, pseudo-Sarah baby, because your boss sure does! And no matter what happens, don't ever forget how good it sounds coming out of your mouth.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Winner winner, chicken dinner
ATTENTION READERS: If you are Facebook friends with my sweet beau and are not yet privy to his current status, I pray thee look at it before you read my post. Pretty please with sugar and a cherry on top (and those pretty silver dragées too, if anyone can tell me where in the heck I can find them). I'm not interested in stealing his thunder, I merely want to express how outrageously thrilled I am that--you've read the status, yes? And left a comment (or at least a "like")? Ok--how outrageously thrilled I am that, after one-and-a-half years of heavy hunting, he finally found a job in Big D and will be working/living within 30 miles of my house by the beginning of September! That's right, folks, long distance no more! Imagine all the dinners we'll share in the middle of the week! And the lunches we'll meet up for during the work-day! And oh, what's that you hear? Why, it's the Earth rejoicing over how much gas we'll save now that our commute to see one another has experienced a 90% decrease. Sing, ye birdies!
The first order of business is to find a fabulous one-bedroom oasis for Sean that's near a park, in a good area, equipped with a fireplace for roasting marshmallows, and not terribly expensive. The next is to furnish said oasis with second-hand wares that we won't mind discarding should we find something better when we get hitched. I, of course, have embraced both of the challenges with so much gusto. I'm excited to be involved in the hunt because I know I'll be spending an inordinate amount of time in the oasis, so I want it to be awesome. And I'm especially excited about the furnishings because I've been itching to put all of my new HGTV knowledge to use for the past six months and this is my chance oh dear Sean PLEASE LET ME PAINT AT LEAST ONE WALL!
The third (and perhaps most important) order of business is to celebrate this exciting new chapter in Sean's life. And where else should we opt to go but the one city in the world that's always game for a celebration--Vegas, baby! As soon as Sean's tenure is up with his current employer, we're hitting the strip. Maybe we'll come back so rich that Sean won't even have to start his new job. Or maybe we'll come back married. Who knows? The only things of which I am certain are that we will eat at In-And-Out Burger, we will see Cirque Du Soleil, and we will, for once in our lives, enjoy Fabulous August!
The first order of business is to find a fabulous one-bedroom oasis for Sean that's near a park, in a good area, equipped with a fireplace for roasting marshmallows, and not terribly expensive. The next is to furnish said oasis with second-hand wares that we won't mind discarding should we find something better when we get hitched. I, of course, have embraced both of the challenges with so much gusto. I'm excited to be involved in the hunt because I know I'll be spending an inordinate amount of time in the oasis, so I want it to be awesome. And I'm especially excited about the furnishings because I've been itching to put all of my new HGTV knowledge to use for the past six months and this is my chance oh dear Sean PLEASE LET ME PAINT AT LEAST ONE WALL!
The third (and perhaps most important) order of business is to celebrate this exciting new chapter in Sean's life. And where else should we opt to go but the one city in the world that's always game for a celebration--Vegas, baby! As soon as Sean's tenure is up with his current employer, we're hitting the strip. Maybe we'll come back so rich that Sean won't even have to start his new job. Or maybe we'll come back married. Who knows? The only things of which I am certain are that we will eat at In-And-Out Burger, we will see Cirque Du Soleil, and we will, for once in our lives, enjoy Fabulous August!
Monday, August 3, 2009
Living the dream
On Friday, July 31 2009, yours truly officially became a published writer (albeit of the ghost variety). Click here if you'd like to read the article (you'll need to type "58" in the "__/66" section at the bottom to jump to the "What's on the Web" page of the magazine).
With or without a byline, Free.ed.gov is all mine, and at least one copy of the 'zine is going up on the wall in my bedroom in a proud salute to myself. Still, I'm thin-skinned, so try not to judge my work too harshly :)
With or without a byline, Free.ed.gov is all mine, and at least one copy of the 'zine is going up on the wall in my bedroom in a proud salute to myself. Still, I'm thin-skinned, so try not to judge my work too harshly :)
Monday, June 22, 2009
Notes from the office
My challenge for last week was to find a job--any job--to pay the bills and kill time during the summer. On Monday I applied online for a position at an arts and crafts store, but after spending two hours extolling my love of creativity and customer service, attesting that my coworkers would describe me as "friendly" and "helpful," and completing a 12-page assessment wherein I was required to know the opposite of the word "qualm" and the first letter of the word who's definition is "a grassy, open-air space with many hills and few trees," I decided I wasn't really intellectually equipped to sell glue sticks.
Then on Tuesday night, while having drinks with a group of her friends, my mom mentioned that I was an English composition and rhetoric major in desperate need of summer employment. Her friend told her that she was looking for someone to write copy and press releases for her web development company and wondered if I'd be interested in such work. And oh yeah, would I also be able to do it all from home? My mom figured that position was right up my alley and told her friend I'd give her a call. Now, you know that question that counselors ask that is supposed to help you figure out what to do for a living? "If you won the lottery and never had to work again, what would you do with your spare time?" Well, "sit on my duff and write" was pretty much my answer verbatim, so yeah, I gave her a call. She asked for a resume and writing samples and I spent all of Wednesday afternoon perfecting everything and sent it in six hours later. Early the next morning she sent me an email and asked if I had time for a "meeting," so we scheduled one for 2:00 on Friday afternoon. I was so nervous about my perceived interview that I spent the hours leading up to 2:00 pacing and quizzing myself over grammar rules because I HAD TO GET THAT JOB OMG. Then at 1:00 my mom's friend called and told me that she and her business partner would have to reschedule AND THEN SHE SAID, "but we really want you to get started right away: can you write a magazine article for us?"
So here I sit in yoga pants and a t-shirt next to a friends' poodle in the friends' house that I'm looking after for the next two weeks, taking a break from the article by watching Designers' Challenge on HGTV in high-def. Minimum wage and glue sticks be damned.
Then on Tuesday night, while having drinks with a group of her friends, my mom mentioned that I was an English composition and rhetoric major in desperate need of summer employment. Her friend told her that she was looking for someone to write copy and press releases for her web development company and wondered if I'd be interested in such work. And oh yeah, would I also be able to do it all from home? My mom figured that position was right up my alley and told her friend I'd give her a call. Now, you know that question that counselors ask that is supposed to help you figure out what to do for a living? "If you won the lottery and never had to work again, what would you do with your spare time?" Well, "sit on my duff and write" was pretty much my answer verbatim, so yeah, I gave her a call. She asked for a resume and writing samples and I spent all of Wednesday afternoon perfecting everything and sent it in six hours later. Early the next morning she sent me an email and asked if I had time for a "meeting," so we scheduled one for 2:00 on Friday afternoon. I was so nervous about my perceived interview that I spent the hours leading up to 2:00 pacing and quizzing myself over grammar rules because I HAD TO GET THAT JOB OMG. Then at 1:00 my mom's friend called and told me that she and her business partner would have to reschedule AND THEN SHE SAID, "but we really want you to get started right away: can you write a magazine article for us?"
So here I sit in yoga pants and a t-shirt next to a friends' poodle in the friends' house that I'm looking after for the next two weeks, taking a break from the article by watching Designers' Challenge on HGTV in high-def. Minimum wage and glue sticks be damned.
