Boondock Ramblings

It wasn't about me. . . and that was cool.

Today is my birthday. I'm 32. *sigh*

But the best thing about today is that it wasn't about me.

Yet, it was.

See, it wasn't about me because today my dad ran a race; my son sat on a teeter-totter for the first time in his life; my husband cooked an amazing dinner; my best friend's military husband was home from Iraq; and my son was able to spend time with his best friend.

But yet, it was about me because today my dad ran a race; my son sat on a teeter-totter for the first time in his life; my husband cooked an amazing dinner; my best friend's military husband was home from Iraq and my son was able to spend time with his best friend.

And I was able to watch them all, which made the day, sort of, about me because I was able to enjoy watching those I love be happy.

To them I say 'thank you.'

I started out this morning somewhat depressed. I'm 32 today.

What do I have to show for it?

I never won that Pulitzer Prize I told myself I would.

I haven't yet wrote that book I said I would write.

I'm not a famous photographer, or even a professional one.

My family sat down for supper later that day.

Hubby cooked me a dinner of his grandfather's amazing homemade spaghetti sauce and Italian bread.

We were sitting there, our hands linked, heads bowed as I began to pray.

Suddenly it hit me and hard.

My family sat down for supper.

My family. My family.

My husband, our son, and me.

The tears stung my eyes and I had to cover my face as I began to outright cry.

This time, unlike earlier in the day, I cried not for what I didn't have, but for all I do have.

Thank you, Jesus, for your blessings.

I may have started my day worried about my age and my future, but it ended with me overwhelmed with my blessings.

(My Dad)

(Jonathan)

(Jonathan and Isaiah)

And here's to you, Former Roommate

She towered above me — clearly above average in height, similar to how I was “below average.” The game was kick ball, or soccer, or some other such “ball game” that I hated because I hate all “games.” I’m not a sports person. I’m short, stocky and uncoordinated. Sports are not my forte. This game was meant to be an icebreaker for an honor fraternity. Before long I began to wonder if it might also become a “leg breaker” for lil’ ole’ me.

“Get her!” one of my teammates yelled.

‘Her’ was the 6’3” girl and my teammate was suggesting I stop this rocket on her way to the goal.

“You get her!” I retorted. “She’ll kill me!”

And I was quite convinced she could kill me, with just a quick stomp and a twist of her foot. I didn't know her at all, so I didn't know if she had the personality to kill a person, but at the time I thought she had the build.  Luckily I only had to deal with her during these honor fraternity meetings. Or so I thought.

At the end of my freshman year my roommate had moved out and one day I returned from class to find a note scrawled on the memo board on my dorm room door. It was her -- the towering competitor and she was looking to move from the suite, where she bunked with other members of the basketball team (what? You’re surprised she was on the basketball team? I did mention she is 6’3” right?) to the all-girls dorm where I lived. She knew I was looking for a roommate and now she was too.

I was immediately doubtful, fearful and all-out intimidated. Not only was this girl tall, but she had a strong, towering personality. I was quite sure that in addition to physically stomping me she could also destroy me on the court of emotions, social get togethers and academically.

I was right about all three -- to a point. When she met with me to ask if I would consider being her roommate I said, “yes” of course. I mean, seriously, she could have picked me up by shirt and tossed me against a wall with one hand. OK. OK. I’m lying exaggerating. But I did say “yes.” She, by the way, was K.K. (nickname of course) -- she comments on my blog from time-to-time as Former Roommate.

At the beginning of the fall semester of our sophomore years we both started to move in, with her having already chose her side of the room. Our parents met. Her  parents were as tall as she. My parents were as short as I. It was like members of the “Club of Opposites” gathering for their first ever meeting.  Officers were chosen, greetings were exchanged, laughs were ...er...laughed, and it appeared maybe this wouldn’t be as frightening as I first thought.

For years my dad would tell the story of how he witnessed K.K. stretch out of her legs from one side of the hallway to the other and climb up the walls to the ceiling without even breaking a sweat. Why did she do it? Who knows. She’s K.K.

We roomed together for two years. During the last year we both thought we’d kill each other. I was laid-back (sloppy and lazy) and she was organized (uptight). I liked to go out and have fun (goof off when I should have been studying) and she liked to lock herself in our room and pour over her books (lock herself in our room and pour over her books).

Luckily I lived at home my final year of college, working full time at a newspaper and commuting to college (the dumbest thing, by far, that I have.ever.ever.ever.done. By the end of that year I was a walking zombie, a raving lunatic -- more so than usual -- I quit my job at the newspaper and started dating my future husband. Wait, that last bit was a bad thing at all. Never mind.) and therefore our relationship never came to homicide.

We were definitely the odd couple on our small college campus. It wasn’t only our size that was odd, but our personalities. I was slightly shy, she was very outgoing; I was not at all athletic (as previously mentioned), she was involved first in basketball and later in track and field. During track and field she threw the shot-put and used to practice in our room. I patiently waited for her to knock my head off someday when that huge iron ball accidentally flew out of her hand and sailed across the room. Obviously that possible tragedy never occurred.

In addition to our differences, there were also similarities. We both dealt with panic attacks. We both never thought we’d find a boyfriend/husband our height. We were both amazingly brilliant. Ha. Yeah...um....no. She was brilliant and I “just got by” when it came to academics. She graduated first in our class and works for the state of Pennsylvania now, doing something with numbers. She was an economics major (I’m sure she’ll correct me on this.) and numbers make my head spin and my stomach feel all queasy.

We taught each other a lot about life. She taught me how to preserve and push through the tough times. She also taught me that what others think about you isn’t as important as you think it is.

I’m pretty sure I taught her the proper way to cry through a Hallmark movie, which includes watching all the commercials (like that one where the dad goes outside in the winter, walks up a hill in his winter gear, ax in hand, then stands on the hill and opens a card, all the while a woman’s voice is narrating about how she and her dad went out every Christmas Eve to choose and cut down a Christmas tree and then the dad *sob* opens the card and *sniffle* *snort* *sob* with tears in his eyes he looks up at the stars and her voice says “I wish I could be there in person this year, but I’m there in my heart,” or some other such sappy nonsense) in addition to the movie so as not to break up the intense crying session.

We both found our “knights in shining armor.” Mine was sitting behind a desk at a newspaper office, ink running through his veins, just like me; hers caught her attention on a safe on line dating site and later they both peered across the tops of heads at Hershey Park’s Chocolate World and fell in love. Her knight, by the way, is 6’8”. Their daughter is already 5’ tall at the age of 2 1/2. OK, not really, but I’m pretty sure she’ll be able to use my child as a step stool by the time she’s 4.

We live about three hours from each other, communicating mainly through e-mail and blog comments these days. We’ve seen the good, the bad, and all that is in between of each other’s lives. And I still find myself looking up to her like an apprentice would to his or her master, like a younger sibling looks up to their older sibling, and yes, like a dwarf looks up to a giant (before anyone else makes that joke).

I need another three or four blog posts to describe what your friendship has meant to me, Former Roommate, so tune in from time-to-time I’m sure I’ll share a few more stories about us.

Independence Day

The reason for the Fourth of July couldn't have been any clearer for my family on Saturday when we traveled to a friend's house to celebrate Independence Day with her family -- her family, except one. Maria's husband, Q is in Iraq, serving with the National Guard.

In a way, it felt a little weird because Hubby, Jonathan and I were the only people there who weren't family in some way. But then Maria's sisters said: "You've been around forever. You're like family to us," and I was reminded that family isn't only about blood relations.

There were eight kids running around the property, one of them mine, the other Maria's. There were three two year olds, a three year old, a four year old, an 11 year old and all ages in between. And amazingly there were no major breakdowns or any major crisis (at least while I was there). Not even with Maria's son, Zaiah, who I was sure would flip out at some point because he didn't have a nap all day. But he didn't. He was feeling good enough even to give my son a quick hug as the two played together under the picnic table.

Jonathan had fun pushing his friend in the toy car. Daddy found time to read a book. I enjoyed taking photographs and catching up a little bit with some of Maria's family, while her brother and nephew played horseshoes. It was a real American Fourth of July -- a cookout, good company, water mellon, children laughing, and throughout the day a constant reminder in the backs of our minds of why we have the rights and freedoms we do. We miss you, Q and can't wait until you come home!

Guten Tag, meine Freundin

{Note, for some reason I had two copies of this post up, so when I deleted the one I deleted the comments. I have added them to the bottom of this post from my e-mail, so if anything looks weird, that's what happened. I think my weird day from Thursday may be  continuing today. Wait until you read about all that craziness!}

I met Karen when I was in high school. I was a junior and she was the foreign exchange student from Germany. I guess the seniors thought she was “weird” (being Eurpoean and all, her personality didn’t mesh with theirs, I suppose) so they rejected her for the most part. Luckily my friends and I were”weird” as well so we adopted her.

She would sit at our lunch table with some brown substance that looked like chocolate smeared between two pieces of white bread.“What is that?” I asked one day, pointing to the brown substance with a perplexed expression on my face.“It’s Nutella,” Karen said and offered me some to try.

She might as well have offered crack to a drug addict. Dang, that stuff was amazing.

I spent the next few years looking for it in our supermarkets and one day -- tada! There it was -- probably not as good as the German, original, version. What is this heavenly creation you ask? It is a chocolate and hazelnut spread which you can place on bread, waffles, a spoon, your fingers, the floor...wherever and then savor it bite by bite.

Karen had smuggled it into the country in her suitcase and when she ran out her parents shipped more to her. If only customs had known of the addiction, they never would have allowed it to be shipped.

Karen returned to Germany the end of my senior year of high school. Julia and I went to a going away party for her, where we had a violent pillow fight, and then we both traveled to the airport to bid her good-bye.

A couple years later she came back for a visit. I visited her that first time she came back. A few years after that she came again, with her fiance Sven. I missed her because of some stupid idea stuck in my head that I had to spend all my time with some guy (who I later married). Love does strange things to you, like making you miss a visit with a person who is only in the country for a couple of weeks.

In April Karen e-mailed me and said she’d be in the United States this summer. I thought she meant June or July, but one day a couple of weeks ago she e-mailed to say she was boarding the plane the next day. I was glad to make up for my previous misjudgments this weekend when Karen and I were able to get together -- this time with our children in tow.

I wish we’d had more time together. The day seemed to fly by too fast. Her son, Nils, speaks only German, which didn’t bother Jonathan at all. He tagged along behind Nils part of the visit and played with Karen’s host parent’s grandchildren’s toys the rest of the visit.

Nils, for his part, seemed oblivious to Jonathan’s presence, considering he has a sister Jonathan’s age at home in Germany who also toddles along behind him. The funniest moments were when Nils would yell something in German while playing and Jonathan would imitate not only his actions, but his words.

“Eins!” or some such German word, Nils would yell and flip a stick into the mud puddle.

“Eins!” Jonathan would yell and flip his smaller stick into the mud puddle.

Nils would drag his stick through the mud puddle while skipping down the road and behind him was Jonathan, unable to skip, but dragging his stick through the mud as well. Nils put his hands on his head to smooth back his long, blond curls and Jonathan put his hands on his head to smooth his short, straight hair.

At one point Karen told me she was sure she even understood what Jonathan had said in German. Karen will leave at the end of the week -- back to her husband and daughter and to a plan of more children. I’ll miss her.

She’s told me next time it is my turn to visit her in Germany. Have I ever mentioned that, in addition to all my other anxiety issues, I have a deathly fear of flying? This is a fear Hubby shares with me, therefore the only way I’ll get over to visit her is if someone knocks me out and shoves me in the baggage department.

Don’t get any ideas, people!

How about you? Have any friends from a country other than your own?

 

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Alas, poor Pippi is dead

(This is written in conjunction with Sprite Keeper's Spin Cycle. I suggested the idea of "pets" for a theme before I wrote this post, but not because I was going to write it for a Spin Cycle. Actually, I never even thought about including it in the Spin Cycle, if Jen chose "pets" because it really isn't about my pets. But it is still about pets in one way or another. Why am I explaining all this? Because I inherited the "over explaining gene.")

The other day a co-worker told me her boyfriend has a pet parrot. This led me to think about my friend’s Julia and Sarah who had pet cockatiels. Evil pet cockatiels. OK. Fine. Only one of them was evil. Her name was Pippi (like Pippi Longstocking) and she used to raise her wings and squawk at me like a vulture when I came near her. She hated me.

[Stop me if I’ve told this story before. Nah, don’t. I’ll keep telling it anyhow. I’m like my dad. We tell stories over and over and over again. And they get better every time.]

I believe Julia and I both were in high school when I called one day to tell Julia I would be down to visit (she lived about two miles from my house). Growing up Julia and Sarah were like sister’s from a different mother to me. I spent more time at their house in the summer sometimes than I did my own.

Anyhow, back to that day I called the house and Julia answered with her voice heavy with emotion. Julia didn’t cry. Ever. She simply didn’t cry. Not that I ever saw. She was picked on in school incessantly because she was smart, read books all the time, and told it like it was and didn’t care if other people didn’t like her. But on this day she was crying. I thought her grandfather, who had been sick, had passed away. Instead I heard Julia choke out:

“Sasha ate Pippi.”

Let me explain who Sasha was. She was a German Shepard owned by the local pastor who, for some unknown reason, Julia’s family had offered to watch for the week. They kept their menagerie of birds (yes, they had more than one) on one side of the house (free to fly wherever they wanted) and Sasha on the other, making every effort to be sure the beasts did not meet. Unfortunately, one day, they did and Pippi became dog food.

I felt like a total heel that day because when those words came out of Julia’s mouth: “Sasha ate Pippi,” I absolutely had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. I was not, absolutely not, laughing at Julia’s grief. Not at all. I was, however, laughing because for some reason it all struck me as funny. And for that reason I felt like the worst friend ever after we hung up. In fact, I still feel like a horrible friend because right now I’m still giggling.

The Pippi incident made me think of another Cockatiel lost in the House of Birds, as I began to call my friend’s house. I can’t recall the White-Cockatiel With-The-Yellow-Plume’s name. What I can recall is how Julia, Sarah and I (often called the three munchkins, or the Lollipop Guild, due to our small stature) were upstairs jumping off the top of the bunk bed to a mattress below when Julia and Sarah’s grandmother came into the room and made a matter of fact statement: “I told your mother to let the water out of the kitchen sink. Your bird fell in and is dead.”

And indeed the bird was dead, floating in a sink full of dirty dishes after trying to land on a sponge and losing it’s grip. We were in grade school then.

Despite all these bird tragedies I asked Julia and Sarah to watch my aging parakeet several years later when my parents and I traveled to North Carolina for our annual Christmas excursion. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I called one night to check on the bird and learned he had been discovered feet up at the bottom of his cage that morning.

Feet up at the bottom of the cage is a bad sign in the world of birds. Julia and Sarah blamed themselves, but I never did. The bird was getting older, had been acting a little off already, and probably had a heart attack after being screamed at by one of Julia’s “vultures.” It was bound to happen.

We buried “Perky” in a small box in the backyard, under the pine trees where all of our other deceased family pets had gone. It was our own version of a pet cemetery, without the gravestones. Perky, however, did get his own little cross, which I’m sure Dad eventually mowed over when buzzing our huge yard on the ridin’ mower.