Ode to True Friendship

During this, the last week of her single life, I would like to tell you a little about my good friend Heather.

Good friends are hard to find -- I can count the very best, the closest, the most loyal, in my lifetime on a single hand. I've been privileged to know Heather for probably six or seven years now, and we have been running (or accountability) partners for about three of those years.

Heather is ten years my junior, but she is far wiser than her years, and her senses of fun and style make sure I never tire of her. I'll share with you a picture we took together the night she was engaged. It's not my favorite of me, but she is glowing, of course.

For a friendship to form, you need time, trust, loyalty, honesty, and some fun times thrown in for good measure. Heather and I have had all those in abundance. It's easy to see why she has been chosen as a bridesmaid twenty-four (24!) times: she's just that easy to love.

My friend, I have known for years that you are a catch. I knew that one day you would be caught. I am thrilled that Tim knows how lucky he is to have you, but just as importantly, I know how blessed you are to have found a man like Tim: Godly, wise, thoughtful, kind, loving, sparing nothing of himself to support you in every way. Even though I know our relationship will change, I cannot wait to celebrate with you on Saturday as you become his wife, his bride, the woman he chooses to spend the rest of his life with.

He couldn't have made a better choice.

Barely a Teen

Today is the 19th birthday of my first child.

It's an odd feeling to know that your baby boy -- not so much a bouncing baby any more, but now a freshman engineering major at a major university -- will only be a teenager for one more short year.

We went to dinner tonight, the barely-teen, his father, and I. Son the Younger had other things to do. We have a tradition on the birthday of Son the Older. We go to the Black-Eyed Pea, for there my son can eat his favorite food on earth: broccoli rice casserole. And it's been his favorite food since just after his first birthday. If you'll indulge me, I'll repeat an old family story.

It was a tradition in my family that we went to my grandmother's house on Christmas Eve and my great-grandmother's house on Christmas Day. Since my mother was the oldest of 13 children and my grandmother is the oldest of seven, both of these occasions were pretty much a mob scene. Each adult family member had a dish they usually brought to each function. My mom always brought broccoli rice casserole on Christmas Eve.

When my boy had just turned one, we were in Lubbock for Christmas, and I decided to see if he liked the casserole. He ate it faster than I could spoon it into his little open mouth! He ate the bowlful I had spooned out for him and begged for more. I got him another bowlful, with the same results: he emptied it and wanted moremoreMORE. If memory serves, he ate either three or four bowls full of broccoli rice casserole that night.

When he decided he had had his fill of the casserole, I got a piece of my grandmother's made-from-scratch chocolate cream pie (for myself, naturally) and decided to see if my hungry tyke would like to try some. I gave him a bite, and -- GASP! -- he spit it back out at me. And I asked him, "Whose child are you?" Or so the family legend goes.

Ever since a very young age, he has asked for broccoli rice casserole for his birthday dinner. For several years, that was all he ate -- just two or three sides of the casserole, no entree, no dessert. For tonight's dinner, he had a cup of broccoli cheese soup, grilled chicken breast, mashed potatoes, and the infamous casserole. Good eatin'.

When we went back out to our car, we discovered that there was a very large flock of grackles in the tree we'd parked under. If you're familiar with the bird, you know what that means: our car was covered in large splotches of grackle poo. Yuck.

Then, as we walked up to the car, I felt a telltale splat on the top of my head.

Yep. That's right.

I used to merely dislike grackles. Now I really, really hate them.

And I'm really, really glad that my hubby carries tissues in the car.

Yes, I Am Completely Not Qualified for NaNoWriMo

And I will offer you proof!

This is the oldest writing sample I have. My mom left it for me in a photo book she made me a few years before she died. It's one of the very few non-photo items in the book.

At the top, in inimitable mom style, she notes the date I wrote the piece and that I was 8 years old and in third grade. Awww.

It is titled, "The Little Girl That Became a Princess"

Once upon a time a long, long time ago, there lived a girl who lived in a wood. Her mother made her do all the work of the house. Now this certain forest belonged to a great king whom the maiden had never heard of.


Now one day just as the maiden was getting water from the well, the king rode past the well and asked, "Lovely creature, what are you doing here?" and she answered, "I was born and raised here, and made to do all the dirty work of the house and I am quite used to it now." But has he had no children he said, "Come with me and be my princess. I will raise you well, and never hate you." She answered, "What will my mother do when she finds out?" He answered, "Let us flee and your mother will not be able to find us." (Her mother was a witch by trade in case you didn't know but had no way of finding anything she had lost.)


"Alright I'll go," said the maiden. "As long as I don't have to do any work." So they went off to his palace. There she grew up, married, and spent the rest of her life in that country. And from what I hear, she is ruling yet.

Now, perhaps a little history is in order. I asked my mom about this when she found it, and she laughed and said maybe she made me take out the trash that day. In truth, I was a whiny spoiled brat of a child who did nothing around the house, so I could very well have written something like this in retaliation to a simple request like being asked to take out the trash.

I was also madly in love with fairy tales of all kinds: princesses, kings, forests, all that jazz. The witch who could find things was from a Baba Yaga story in a fairy tale book.

It should be noted that nothing is misspelled in the original story, and I only fixed a couple of minor punctuation errors. Not too bad for an eight year old. I'm going to have to work a little longer to hit 50,000 words though!

Happy Blogiversary to Me!

My little blog is one year old today, starting to toddle around the blogosphere. Watch out honey, don't hit your head on that table! You're gonna fall down!

I went back to revisit its beginnings, and I discovered that I sailed right past the anniversary of my layoff without even noticing. That's good. I bet my former cow-orkers [sic] would be stunned to know that a year has already gone by.

Little bit of trivia, for those who don't know me in real life: I'm used to odd anniversary celebrations, since I celebrate my birthaversary every year, i.e., I was married on my birthday. We joke that that just means he can never forget, but in reality, it means that the bulk of the anniversary gifting falls on my hubby, and he often comes through in grand style. We've gone to San Francisco, New York, and Hawaii for my birthaversary. Before you tell me, I already know he's a keeper, even though he won't buy me that big ol' rock I'm always kidding him about. We agreed a long time ago we'd rather have the memories from traveling together than some hunk of carbon (my sister disagrees, or maybe she'd prefer both).

I don't have any more of a mission statement now than I did a year ago for my small corner of the blogosphere. At just under 150 posts in a year, my real goal is to write more in the coming year and not neglect my blog (and whatever readers I have) so much.

Speaking of which, I would love it if you would do me the honor of telling me you're here today. I'm aware of some of the groups who read my blog: current and former co-workers, people I play World of Warcraft with, people whose blogs I read, other Inspired Bliss writers, people who read my inane twitter ramblings (where I've been mostly absent for several days). But if you're here, I would be honored if you'd say hi and maybe even tell me how you got here. I know lurkers hate to come out of hiding, but I'll give you a virtual cookie if you do!

Hmmm, that reminds me, I haven't had breakfast. Time to root around for some non-virtual food. Thanks for dropping by, peeps!

The Power in Our Words

Have you ever thought about how much power there is in what you say to others?

I have, but I was reminded by a comment on a post on Antique Mommy's blog how much others' words can inspire, sustain -- or crush -- us.

Want examples? I have a few.

Example #1: the academic advisor

When I was getting my electrical engineering degree, I went to see my academic advisor. At the time, my children were four years (Son the Older) and nine months (Son the Younger), and we had just moved into university housing for married students.

After my advisor asked me a few questions about my personal life, he told me that I needed to go home and be a "good mommy" for now. He advised me that perhaps I could pursue an engineering degree once my younger son was in kindergarten.

I was dismayed. Floored. Upset. Angry. But I pulled myself up to my full (short) height and informed him, "I have been admitted to this university. I have moved into married student housing. I believe your job is just to tell me what classes I need to take to graduate, so why don't you do that?"

Understand, I do not ever speak to someone in a position of authority over me in that tone.

He did what I asked. And I remembered his words the entire time I was in school. They spurred me on and kept me from quitting many times when it was tough. And believe me, it's tough to get an engineering degree, and much more so when you pile on a couple of kids, a part-time job, and the fact that I was female. I'm not a whiner, but I had a few professors who clearly didn't want me there.

Example #2: the pastor

I once had a pastor who I looked up to a great deal, a man I respected and loved and worked with well. He told me two things that I will tell you about here, one positive and one negative. One I've tried to live up to, and the other I've tried to defy.

This man is a master storyteller. He can take any story, from the Bible or otherwise, and keep you enthralled for any amount of time. It is his particular gift. He has honed it from the stage, and I'm not sure I've ever seen his equal.

He once told me that I was a good storyteller. Coming from him, I would love to believe that's true. I should probably work at it, as he has, to make it so if I wish it to be true.

He also told me once that I wasn't creative. This was several years ago, when I wanted to be more involved in a creative area. I'm not sure why he said it, although it may be just a downside of the "engineer" label. In any case, a small part of the joy I find in my creative pursuits is showing that voice in my head that he's wrong.

Before anyone asks, yes, I've gone back and talked to this pastor. I've long since forgiven him. In fact, I'm thankful for what he said: it spurred me to do a lot of things I might not have otherwise done.

Have you considered the impact your words have on others -- your co-workers, your friends, your spouse, your children? What are the words in your life that have changed your course? Spurred you on? Made you better?

How Do I Love Thee, Interweb? Let Me Count The Ways...

Sigh. I've been absent from the blog for a very long time. If you've been reading, you might wonder what in the heck I've been up to. Well, here's your answer.

Sorry for the less-than-stellar picture. Hubby is off at a training class, and he took the good camera with him. Son the Younger's camera is cool, but it doesn't have a macro setting, and I can't figure out how to turn the flash off. So this is the best I could do.

Anyway, if you consider that no bead in the above picture took less than 10 minutes, and some of them took more like 45 minutes, you can see where I've been.

What are they for? Hmmmm. It's a mystery. I'll tell you later.

In other news, if I haven't mentioned lately how much I LOVELOVELOVE the interweb, then I was wrong. Oh so very wrong, and I would like to hereby apologize to the interweb for not professing my love more recently or more strongly. Did you hear me, interweb? I LUUUUUUV YOU!

It's been an interesting couple of days.

Yesterday, I was thinking of one of my college roommates, with whom I completely lost touch after I left school. As in, I haven't talked to her at all in, well, let's just say a really long time. So then I figured, her name isn't all THAT common.

After looking her up on whitepages.com, I had to take that assessment back.

Googling her proved to be much more straightforward. Turns out she's the most famous person with her name. When we were in school, she wanted to be the head vet at the San Diego zoo. She isn't, but she is the head vet at another highly respected zoo. Not a big surprise to anyone who's ever known her.

With the location info, it was easy to figure out which of the dozens of people with her name was really her. I wasn't sure it was ok to just call someone up out of the blue after years and years (and years) of silence, but a few friends encouraged me, so I did.

It's funny: when you talk to someone you've known since you were a teenager, someone who you were really close to, the years just melt away. It was just as if we'd stayed connected all along. Her twisted sense of humor was exactly the same. We laughed and laughed. This is the roommate who used to awaken me at 3am if she dreamed of a good pun; she has not changed a bit. Her professional picture looks like she hasn't changed a bit since college, which makes me a little bitter. But anyway.

One of the things we talked about is how she'd lost touch with another friend of ours. They became roommates when I left the dorm. I stayed in touch a little better with this other friend, who occasionally sends Christmas cards, but I hadn't heard from her and her hubby (both pediatric sub-specialists) in a few years, and I told Ms. Vet that.

Imagine my shock when I found an email from Mr. Doctor in my inbox today. I quickly sent my phone numbers, and he and I just got off the phone after an hour-long conversation (Mrs. Doctor, unfortunately, was working a long day and was unavailable, so I'll have to catch her another day). They have moved from the midwest to a southern state, which makes Mr. Doc very happy, as he is a heat lover. I got to hear the voices of several children during our conversation (they have four), and I really got the urge to take a trip to visit them. The last time I saw this lovely couple, Mrs. Doc was pregnant with their first. It's really sad to me that I haven't met the children of these friends that I love so dearly... but it was so great to catch up a bit on the phone this evening.

So, two evenings, two hour-long phone conversations with dear friends, all made possible by our friend the internet. Say what you will about its evils, but right now I'm singing its praises!

Salute to My Son the High School Graduate

This post is long overdue: Son the Older graduated from high school on June 6. As long as I've delayed this post, I really wanted to get it done before I leave for Taiwan tomorrow.

Let me start with a little history. Bradley was the sort of baby that got comments as we walked through the grocery store (in Dallas in those days). "Is your baby in commercials? He should be!" Yeah, he's cute, I know. Our beagle puppy thought so too. And tasty. Yum!


Our beagle found a good home in Dallas when we moved to Austin, and Bradley continued to grow. It's true that you take more pictures of your first than of your second, as much as we tried to prove otherwise. This was a portrait we had done. He was only too happy to mug for the camera.

And here he is with his two best three-year-old buds, Kelli and Grayson. I had them pose for this; I've always loved this snapshot.



A few years later, Bradley was asked to be the ring bearer in my sister's wedding. He was SO excited: he got to carry the REAL RINGS! And what's cuter than a seven-year-old in a tux? (Yes, she did consider using his four-year-old brother instead, but she wanted him to be able to stay up front and stand still for the ceremony, and Son the Younger wasn't ready for that just yet. She bribed Bradley with a silver dollar, and it worked.)


Jumping forward several years, this is Bradley in his junior year of marching band with his coveted tenors. He practiced hard for two years to work his way up to play these, even coming back early from a family trip to Hawaii. Now that's dedication!

I had other pictures of him with the silly plumed marching band hat, but you can't see him as well, so I like this one better. His high school is really new, so their uniforms are modern and nice as compared to a lot of schools. Except for the aforementioned plume.


Jumping forward another year and a half, this is Bradley's official grad photo. I have a good friend who is a professional photographer, and she took a great set of photos of all of us. This was the best one of Bradley. I haven't ordered the rest of them, but only because I'm afraid I'll go broke -- it seriously is the best set of photos we've ever had taken.


We naturally had to take pictures with cap and gown. This is my son with my father -- two of my favorite guys in the world (the others being my hubby and my other son, of course).


And here is Bradley with hubby's parents. It was so great that both sets of grandparents could be here for his big day!


This is Bradley with his parents. If you don't know us in real life, you may feel free to make comments about how he sprang forth directly from his father without any intervention on my part. I'm used to it. I occasionally hear that Son the Younger looks like me, so at least I get to be a parent somewhere...


This last picture was taken at the party the night of graduation. Although this was the first cake he had ever cut (he doesn't like cake and never has), he thought it was very funny to wield the knife for the camera.


Thus is the end of the pictorial tribute. Now let me tell you a bit about my man-boy.

When he was a toddler, he would occasionally be quite concerned about not having his current toy disturbed when he left the room for a minute (and this was when he was an only child). His expression for this is still a family in-joke. He would say, "Wight back!" (Giving the "talk to the hand" sign.) "Don't touch it!" (Pointing to the object of his concern.)

He's always been an introvert, my son, never one to dive into crowds and be social. In fact, when crowds get too large, he retreats to a place of less chaos. We used to live in married student housing at U.T. when I was getting my engineering degree, and if there were more than four or five other kids on the playground, he would just drift over to his own corner, far away from the cluster of other kids. Playing with a couple of other kids was just fine, but when the noise and chaos escalated, he was outta there!

Also from a young age, he's managed to find friends who share his quieter nature and hang out with them. His current crop of friends is, to a man, smart, quick-witted, and generally uninterested in the high school social hierarchy.

Bradley is his own man. Long hair isn't "in," but he likes his hair long, so he keeps it that way. For a long time, he didn't really like music, but then he found some he really liked. Know what it is? Mostly early '70s rock. Rush, Thin Lizzy, Cream, Blue Oyster Cult. It's not what's popular, but he doesn't care. He's gonna be great at Texas A&M with his long hair and his classic rock.

That's m'boy. Rock on, Bradley. I love you, son.

At Least He's Not Traumatized

Son the Older was working on an English assignment last night -- his "Happy List," in which the class was assigned to list one thing that makes them happy for each year they've been alive. They were specifically directed not to list a BF / GF since the teacher said anytime that has been listed, a breakup has occurred within a week. D'oh!

So the boy-man and I were discussing the things that make him happy (geek things, broccoli-rice casserole, etc.). He got tired and leaned his head back, and I was massaging his temples when I noticed, for the first time in months, the vertical scar on his forehead (I'll have to post a pic later; it's really not visible in any other pic I've posted of him). Since he got the scar when he was three, I asked if he remembered anything about it. He said he remembered running, a lot of pain, waiting, and the nice nurse who gave him a coloring book.

Here's what really happened.

I worked at the child care center he attended, but I was away on a field trip when it happened. He was running in Miss Jill's Dalmatian room and ran straight into the metal door jamb, which stuck out from the door frame about a half inch and was exactly forehead height on him. There was a lot of blood, of course, since it was a head injury and since he was crying so hard.

My boss and good friend, Gloria the director, called my hubby at work. Now at this point in time, the child was waaaaay in north Austin, and hubby was waaaaaaaaay in south Austin, to the tune of about a 30-40 minute drive, assuming no traffic. So Gloria tells Robert the boy has been hurt. He replies, "Lisa can take care of it when she gets back from the field trip." Gloria, frustrated, says two of the things you never say to a parent: "I think he should go to the hospital. He needs stitches." She was attempting to get some sort of emotional response out of Mr. Vulcan. No dice. His response was the same: "Lisa can take care of it when she gets there."

She was a little perturbed. When I got there and discovered my injured boy sitting with her in the office, perturbed was not really what I was. I put on my best "calm but really maniacally angry" voice and called my darling husband to say, "Hello dear... you will be meeting me in the emergency room with your son. See you in 30 minutes."

I told that part to Son the Older last night, and he said, "Yyyyyyyyyeah. I don't like that voice, Mom." Yeah, kid. There's a reason for that.

Hubby did meet me in the ER ('cause duh, he's still alive), and the boy did need stitches -- internal and external -- he had sliced his head almost to the skull. They had to put him on a board and papoose him in to do the stitches, and I'm not terribly ashamed to say that I didn't do so well with that. He screamed bloody murder, and I tried to kiss his little face. The medical staff informed me that I needed to remove myself from his face so they could get their work done, and I hastily complied. They got it done pretty quickly once I was out of the way.

And when they were done, a nice nurse gave my poor traumatized boy a coloring book, which I barely remember, but which apparently made quite the impression on him.

I remember being concerned that the papoosing part of the whole ordeal would traumatize the poor kid, although I hadn't thought about it in years. I asked him if he was bothered by being restrained, and he said he didn't think so. I pointed out that he probably hadn't spent a lot of time with his arm movement restrained, and he agreed. So we jokingly put him backwards into one of his dad's jackets and I pulled the sleeves around as a modified straitjacket. Aside from being a little snug, it didn't bother him at all.

So I guess the moral of the story is kids don't traumatize as easily as we might think. And coloring books are way cool when you're three.