Last week food poisoning brought a curse upon our home - food poisoning so awful it made my die-hard Green Bay Packers fan of a husband get down on his knees and bargain with God for a Brett Favre Super Bowl in exchange for his well-being. Too little, too late. The playoff game was indirectly responsible for our digestive-tract malaise. Even the cat joined in on the yak-fest thanks to enjoying the rarely gifted table scrap.
I think I'm practicing mental toughness for our potential Leadville Trail 100 race because I suffered through 3/4 of the work day before retreating for home and realizing my fever hit at least 101.5.
The real sickness - one far more long-term - revealed itself when someone rang our doorbell. Obviously we were home, and despite the fact that I we lay near-lifeless on the sofa, I just couldn't ignore someone at the door. They'd know! ::gasp:: Beyond my better judgement I walked out on the screen porch to find a woman standing in the cold with a clipboard, waiting to ask me to help motherless baby monkeys in South America or demand better soil for Minneapolis gardens or something along those lines. Usually I listen to these people, but before she could even state her purpose, I stopped her:
"You don't want to talk to me right now," I said weakly. "I've got the flu really bad."
I lied, not wanting to get into the food poisoning. Why did I even think I had to explain?
"That's okay," she responded, a little too upbeat. "I can talk to you through the door."
Huh? WTF? I just said I was sick. My skin felt hot for the first time in hours.
"Um. No. You don't understand. I'm really sick and I don't want to talk to you right now," I let my voice raise. "Good night."
I huffed into the house. Her nerve! Talk to me through the door? How thoughtful.
But I knew it was all in my delivery. Why had I phrased it the way I had? Why not just say, "Now is not a good time; please leave some info or come back another day"?
Or how about not answering the door at all?
I think I've become more assertive in recent years, but now I know I still have a lot of work to do. When I'm spending every 10 minutes in the bathroom, it's fine to put my needs first without excuse.
This is the same behavior that has screwed me over in job negotiations and other life decisions. It is a fairly sizable flaw. And so I have my 2010 resolution: to fearlessly ask for what I want and need without hesitation.
31 January 2010
30 January 2010
Childless
Babies. At one point in time, the mere mention of me having any inspired the same response as if someone suggested I might one day move to Kansas. Classify under things that will never happen without an act of God.
It's strange to me - all of it, from the fact that people seem so obsessed with the procreation interests of women in their child-bearing years to the fact that I feel so completely detached from this natural part of life.
I've just never had the desire. In college it was kind of a joke that I wanted nothing to do with such matters. When we were dating, I told my now-husband that children were unlikely to be in the cards. Early in our marriage I thwarted outsiders' questions with "maybe someday, but not anytime soon." The inquiring party often responded something along the lines of, "well, you have plenty of time to change your mind."
I teased that my "clock" was on snooze. For a few years, I forgot about it all together. And lately, I am beginning to think my model came without the "clock." Now that I'm into my thirties, I realize my body won't wait forever. The window, while still open, is coming down. Perhaps in the years to come, we will join the ranks of parents everywhere. But my heart hints otherwise. I find myself working to accept that mine may be a childless life.
And while this is a decision my husband and I make together, I say I am working to "accept" it because I catch myself talking myself into it. You never know until you try it, right?
I worry about regret. I wonder about loneliness. I feel a pang of guilt for not giving my parents a grandchild or two. There are no real "reasons" for this choice. I like kids and my life is full of them. Fertility does not seem to be a problem on either side of the family (I come from a family of five, and Chris comes from a family of six). Mostly, I think I question our lifestyle because being a childless, married, heterosexual couple is not really a social norm.
The bulk of my same-age friends are beyond their firstborn and moving onto numbers two and even three. For my husband and I, it is a strange place socially. When we get together with friends, we can't relate to the parenting conversations or our single friends' experiences. Sure, there are a couple of newly marrieds without kids, but they are definitely sitting in the station, waiting to get on that train.
No one pressures us or comments on our childlessness. However, I sometimes feel shallow and selfish because instead of talking about our children's activities, we only have updates on our bike racing and home-improvement projects amongst other self-centered reports.
Perhaps that is where we turn the acceptance into balance. As we grow old and childless together, we must solidify the relationships with the children in our lives and invest in them, reach out to our community and not become too self-absorbed while appreciating and enjoying the life we choose as a childless couple.
It's strange to me - all of it, from the fact that people seem so obsessed with the procreation interests of women in their child-bearing years to the fact that I feel so completely detached from this natural part of life.
I've just never had the desire. In college it was kind of a joke that I wanted nothing to do with such matters. When we were dating, I told my now-husband that children were unlikely to be in the cards. Early in our marriage I thwarted outsiders' questions with "maybe someday, but not anytime soon." The inquiring party often responded something along the lines of, "well, you have plenty of time to change your mind."
I teased that my "clock" was on snooze. For a few years, I forgot about it all together. And lately, I am beginning to think my model came without the "clock." Now that I'm into my thirties, I realize my body won't wait forever. The window, while still open, is coming down. Perhaps in the years to come, we will join the ranks of parents everywhere. But my heart hints otherwise. I find myself working to accept that mine may be a childless life.
And while this is a decision my husband and I make together, I say I am working to "accept" it because I catch myself talking myself into it. You never know until you try it, right?
I worry about regret. I wonder about loneliness. I feel a pang of guilt for not giving my parents a grandchild or two. There are no real "reasons" for this choice. I like kids and my life is full of them. Fertility does not seem to be a problem on either side of the family (I come from a family of five, and Chris comes from a family of six). Mostly, I think I question our lifestyle because being a childless, married, heterosexual couple is not really a social norm.
The bulk of my same-age friends are beyond their firstborn and moving onto numbers two and even three. For my husband and I, it is a strange place socially. When we get together with friends, we can't relate to the parenting conversations or our single friends' experiences. Sure, there are a couple of newly marrieds without kids, but they are definitely sitting in the station, waiting to get on that train.
No one pressures us or comments on our childlessness. However, I sometimes feel shallow and selfish because instead of talking about our children's activities, we only have updates on our bike racing and home-improvement projects amongst other self-centered reports.
Perhaps that is where we turn the acceptance into balance. As we grow old and childless together, we must solidify the relationships with the children in our lives and invest in them, reach out to our community and not become too self-absorbed while appreciating and enjoying the life we choose as a childless couple.
07 January 2010
Did I eat what?
With January's arrival, I may now recount holiday family encounters with a healthy dose of humor. I share with you, dear readers, this year's gem.
The entire in-law family gathered to celebrate New Year's. On New Year's Eve, to be exact, we sat around the kitchen chatting and grazing on hors d'ourves when my brother-in-law pulled a decades-old copy of the "Joy of Cooking" from the shelf. There, of all places, we figured one might find a decent hot toddy recipe for my sick sister-in-law.
Of course, we all wanted to know if the edition was old enough to carry the legendary skinning instructions for squirrel and other small mammals. As I was flipping through the pages, a sister-in-law gave me a wide-eyed look, "Did you grow up eating ..."
"Squirrels?" I laughed hesitantly and tried not to let my jaw hit the red, granite countertop. I started questioning how the in-law family viewed me after all. Just a week prior, I'd cooked them an over-the-top gourmet Christmas dinner that cost nearly as much per plate as my wedding feast.
Sure, I didn't grow up in a major metropolitan area, but my family stuck to the standards when it came to eating meat.
"Well, yeah, you know because, you know ..." She trailed, eagerly anticipating my response.
"[Mom's fiance] hunts pheasant and fishes? No. We didn't grow up with him. I mean, my dad hunted birds, and even so, none of us ..." I hated to make her feel stupid, but really? Squirrels?
On second thought, perhaps I should have stolen a line from the classic Christmas tale of such family moments and responded something along the lines of, "yes, until we read they were high in cholesterol.
It almost topped the time another in-law holiday classic when I was asked how Lutherans celebrate Easter. My darling husband quickly came to my aid and explained that we rejoiced in Jesus' resurrection with ritualistic goat sacrifice.
The entire in-law family gathered to celebrate New Year's. On New Year's Eve, to be exact, we sat around the kitchen chatting and grazing on hors d'ourves when my brother-in-law pulled a decades-old copy of the "Joy of Cooking" from the shelf. There, of all places, we figured one might find a decent hot toddy recipe for my sick sister-in-law.
Of course, we all wanted to know if the edition was old enough to carry the legendary skinning instructions for squirrel and other small mammals. As I was flipping through the pages, a sister-in-law gave me a wide-eyed look, "Did you grow up eating ..."
"Squirrels?" I laughed hesitantly and tried not to let my jaw hit the red, granite countertop. I started questioning how the in-law family viewed me after all. Just a week prior, I'd cooked them an over-the-top gourmet Christmas dinner that cost nearly as much per plate as my wedding feast.
Sure, I didn't grow up in a major metropolitan area, but my family stuck to the standards when it came to eating meat.
"Well, yeah, you know because, you know ..." She trailed, eagerly anticipating my response.
"[Mom's fiance] hunts pheasant and fishes? No. We didn't grow up with him. I mean, my dad hunted birds, and even so, none of us ..." I hated to make her feel stupid, but really? Squirrels?
On second thought, perhaps I should have stolen a line from the classic Christmas tale of such family moments and responded something along the lines of, "yes, until we read they were high in cholesterol.
It almost topped the time another in-law holiday classic when I was asked how Lutherans celebrate Easter. My darling husband quickly came to my aid and explained that we rejoiced in Jesus' resurrection with ritualistic goat sacrifice.
31 December 2009
New Year's Present, New Year's Past
The year was 1999 ...
And the world anxiously waited the dawn of a not only a new decade, but also a new millennium. Some feared Y2K, while others (like myself) rolled our eyes and said life shall bring whatever it brings so preparedness is great, but handwringing is pointless.
I worked two jobs. In one, I served as a waitress at The Artists Café on South Michigan. The place was glamorous in my eyes—owned by Greek sisters, most of the staff included twenty-somethings from all over the world; the diners were intriguing sorts who danced in the ballet, taught at the nearby universities and generally seemed to lived lives I envied as a young, broke student from Minnesota. In the other I ran the front desk at a health club in “Boys Town.” I rode my bike down North Halsted and over to Broadway at 5 a.m. each weekday—sometimes after arriving home from my waitressing job well after Midnight. Oftentimes I think I loved that job more than any I’ve had since. I chatted with the members who came in to workout before heading off to their jobs. They were well dressed and attractive. They asked me about school, shared their stories and gossiped about others in the gym. They showed me their published articles and told me about their dazzling careers. I wanted their glamorous, urban adult lives as soon as my sexy student-in-the-city life grew up.
I was giddy with anticipation nearly every day because I was out on my own and I knew my adult life was taking shape.
While I cannot recall much of what I thought as my then-boyfriend and I hunkered down alone in my family northern Minnesota cabin with some strawberry Boon’s Farm on New Year’s Eve 1999, I know with certainty it reflected my attitude toward Y2K and the potential end of the world as we knew it: I knew what I wanted; I prepared for the thrilling (and not so thrilling) possibilities and I believed predictions of any sort were pointless. My 10-year outlook was this: I envisioned myself not only as a member of the gym where I worked, but also as a diner in fabulous restaurants, a world traveler and an editor climbing the ladder at a magazine in Chicago. The guy and I would be crazy in love still and taking the town by storm. No kids, of course. I’d own my own condo and use public transit.
Closing the curtain on the 00s
Basically, none of those things has happened with the exception of the no kids and the restaurants—semi-fabulous ones, anyway. I cook gourmet meals when given the chance. I’m married to a man I met on a blind date and whose kindness, intelligence and carpentry skills amaze me. We own a house. I work in PR and marketing with a little freelance gig or two on the side. We live in Minneapolis. I drive a VW Golf. Forget the gym; I race bikes. I still have yet to set foot out of North America. Little did I know the next 10 years held a lot of heartache and a lot of unexpected joys as far as my love life, my schooling and my journalism career.
It seems that 10 years ago we looked forward with bright-eyed expectations of a new era (and, again, that whole Y2K fear). So much happened. Bubbles of all sorts burst. We entered into war. We got angry. We found hope. On New Year’s Eve 2009, as a nation, we look ahead and hope the next decade is better in light of the economy, health care and peace.
As I reflect on where I was physically and emotionally 10 years ago, I realize that I have not paused to consider where I will be in 10 more. It is weird, coming out on the other end of a decade that coincided with my twenties. While I am a chaser of dreams, I must admit that with so many of those monumental life experiences are out of the way, so much of it feels decided. Looking ahead is … different through my 30-year-old worldview.
I give thanks for where I am right now, especially in light of what so many others are experiencing. I look ahead to the possibilities while dismissing expectations. In the past 10 years I have established a deeper understanding of life and self, and if I hope for anything it is to continue on a path of growth—one lined with copious amounts of laughter and joy, plus a little mischief—and to rekindle a healthy dose of giddy anticipation so I may integrate back into my life. Most of all, I wish not to spend another decade waiting for the next big event, but rather to make things happen every day and enjoy the "now."
And the world anxiously waited the dawn of a not only a new decade, but also a new millennium. Some feared Y2K, while others (like myself) rolled our eyes and said life shall bring whatever it brings so preparedness is great, but handwringing is pointless.
I worked two jobs. In one, I served as a waitress at The Artists Café on South Michigan. The place was glamorous in my eyes—owned by Greek sisters, most of the staff included twenty-somethings from all over the world; the diners were intriguing sorts who danced in the ballet, taught at the nearby universities and generally seemed to lived lives I envied as a young, broke student from Minnesota. In the other I ran the front desk at a health club in “Boys Town.” I rode my bike down North Halsted and over to Broadway at 5 a.m. each weekday—sometimes after arriving home from my waitressing job well after Midnight. Oftentimes I think I loved that job more than any I’ve had since. I chatted with the members who came in to workout before heading off to their jobs. They were well dressed and attractive. They asked me about school, shared their stories and gossiped about others in the gym. They showed me their published articles and told me about their dazzling careers. I wanted their glamorous, urban adult lives as soon as my sexy student-in-the-city life grew up.
I was giddy with anticipation nearly every day because I was out on my own and I knew my adult life was taking shape.
While I cannot recall much of what I thought as my then-boyfriend and I hunkered down alone in my family northern Minnesota cabin with some strawberry Boon’s Farm on New Year’s Eve 1999, I know with certainty it reflected my attitude toward Y2K and the potential end of the world as we knew it: I knew what I wanted; I prepared for the thrilling (and not so thrilling) possibilities and I believed predictions of any sort were pointless. My 10-year outlook was this: I envisioned myself not only as a member of the gym where I worked, but also as a diner in fabulous restaurants, a world traveler and an editor climbing the ladder at a magazine in Chicago. The guy and I would be crazy in love still and taking the town by storm. No kids, of course. I’d own my own condo and use public transit.
Closing the curtain on the 00s
Basically, none of those things has happened with the exception of the no kids and the restaurants—semi-fabulous ones, anyway. I cook gourmet meals when given the chance. I’m married to a man I met on a blind date and whose kindness, intelligence and carpentry skills amaze me. We own a house. I work in PR and marketing with a little freelance gig or two on the side. We live in Minneapolis. I drive a VW Golf. Forget the gym; I race bikes. I still have yet to set foot out of North America. Little did I know the next 10 years held a lot of heartache and a lot of unexpected joys as far as my love life, my schooling and my journalism career.
It seems that 10 years ago we looked forward with bright-eyed expectations of a new era (and, again, that whole Y2K fear). So much happened. Bubbles of all sorts burst. We entered into war. We got angry. We found hope. On New Year’s Eve 2009, as a nation, we look ahead and hope the next decade is better in light of the economy, health care and peace.
As I reflect on where I was physically and emotionally 10 years ago, I realize that I have not paused to consider where I will be in 10 more. It is weird, coming out on the other end of a decade that coincided with my twenties. While I am a chaser of dreams, I must admit that with so many of those monumental life experiences are out of the way, so much of it feels decided. Looking ahead is … different through my 30-year-old worldview.
I give thanks for where I am right now, especially in light of what so many others are experiencing. I look ahead to the possibilities while dismissing expectations. In the past 10 years I have established a deeper understanding of life and self, and if I hope for anything it is to continue on a path of growth—one lined with copious amounts of laughter and joy, plus a little mischief—and to rekindle a healthy dose of giddy anticipation so I may integrate back into my life. Most of all, I wish not to spend another decade waiting for the next big event, but rather to make things happen every day and enjoy the "now."
27 December 2009
Christmas Present
This year I some of the most thoughtful gifts I can recall receiving - ever. I dislike the notion of giving gifts because they are expected. Because of this philosophy I have avoided falling victim to holiday stress - well, from the shopping standpoint anyhow. It seems this year I more or less reached shopping nirvana. The ideas came quickly. I avoided any peak shopping days. And, I stayed within our limited budget.
Some sort of gift-giving karma was at work because in addition to an unsolicited subscription to Cook's Illustrated (a magazine I have always wanted but never discussed with anyone in my family) from my brother, Dayton Duncan and Ken Burns' book The National Parks from my mother (the book I was going to get her, but couldn't due to family rules - I'll explain in another post), and black pearls and bike-parts jewelry (I adore juxtapositions such as this) from my husband, my step-father gave me this beautiful piece:
As I lifted the cover from the small box it came in, I paused with absolute disbelief. I'd always imagined what it would be like to receive this sort of delicate, antique writing instrument.
The idea came to him without anyone's suggestion. He hunted down the perfect one because he thought I might make a writing space for myself one day and he wanted to help me decorate it. Amazing. If this isn't a sign that I need to realign my priorities and follow my passion more diligently, then I don't know what is.
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