Of course it’s pretty obvious that I am most thankful for my husband, along with my family and friends. But Mike is my rock and my comfort, my ear, my shoulder and the person who holds me when I just need to be held. He is the man I never thought I would truly find because every guy before him fell short for me. He loves me so unconditionally and so truly. Plus he plays guitar; that only adds to the desirable factor.
11:53 AM - Everyday Heroes
Category: Life
I have tried my best not to get wrapped up in idolizing or idealizing celebrities for several reasons. One, I don’t think we should pay them the ridiculous amounts of money that we do. Twenty million a movie is just nonsensical. They are entertainers and they should do it for the love, not for the money. I also feel the same about professional athletes, but I do see a better argument for them, since many have pretty much trashed their bodies after years of dunking and taking hits and tackles. Two, it drives me crazy that celebrity magazines and shows cover every nitty gritty detail of a celebrity’s life. Yes, they may be more public than you or I, but I don’t need to see pictures of the cellulite asses or their spoiled children or their high mugshots. Lord knows I don’t need to see their c-section scars as they exit their car because they forgot to put on panties! Three, there are those with talent and those without and in these recent days of reality tv, we are being flooded with shows and concepts that include people who are not talented. They are famous because they are rich or because their parents were talented and suddenly, we are supposed to revere them as something better than us. We are the little people, the useless, the worthless, the vapor. We’re not "hot".
I stood by the Dixie Chicks during all their adversity (though my father often argued with me about it - he’s such a Republican) not because I completely agreed with what Natalie said or felt that America wasn’t giving them a fair shake, but because of the simple fact that they are welcome to say and feel however they want. As long as they are sacrificing small animals and children to pagan Gods, they aren’t going to lose me as a fan simply because they weren’t happy with their leader. The numbers of people who trashed, smashed and burned their cds reacted as they did and I reacted as I did. I won’t let celebrity lives dictate what music I enjoy. I am still just as content to sing along to Toby Keith’s "The Angry American" as I am to sing "Not Ready To Make Nice". It’s exactly why I still love my Britney cds, despite the fact she has fallen off the deep end and needs lots of help in many different areas.
There are the celebrities that have used their fame for good, gathering attention and bringing light to subjects that deserve more than they had been receiving. They become Goodwill embassador and are making use of their celebrity in ways that is commendable. I doubt you will ever have Angelina Jolie put out a shoe or fragrance line. I respect them for that.
The real heroes are the every day heroes. The ones who volunteer in the hospices and the animal shelters and the soup kitchens. They are the military reserves and the Doctors without Borders and the foster parents who taken in as many kids as they can feed and love. They are the social workers and the especially the soldiers.
When we were little, my brother adored my father, idealized Mr. T, but really, the true "heroes" in Andy’s life were soldiers. If we were at a stop light and an army truck painted in camouflage, with the tent over the back of it and the huge wheels and the driver in fatigues was next to us, he’d have stars in his eyes for the rest of the day. If we were in McDonalds or Shari’s or even the grocery store and two or three guys would come in, dressed head to toe in army gear, he was gaga. They were so strong and so brave and their hero status was so easily recognizable, even a four year old spotted it. He didn’t need a magazine to tell him or a show to remind him. He just knew.
Happy Veterans Day and thank you to those who have or are currently serving.
What is it about the Fall and the impending holiday season that has me longing to go to Holiday bizarres each year? I never find anything I like. I rarely enjoy myself, being crammed in with all these other crafty women or not-so-crafty women who like to look like they are. The few things I do like, I tell myself I’ll keep looking and come back for if I want it, but I never remember or I end up losing track of where the table was located.
Even my mother only has one bizaare she attends anymore.
Yet I still here today thinking "Hmm . . . a bizaare would get me into the holiday spirit. . .".
Meh. The pumpkin patch would get me into the spirit. But all I want a pumpkin for is its seeds. Or maybe this year, I’ll actually get around to carving a face onto it too.
In the past, I always watched the Christmas sale commericals on television and longing wished that I could be off of work to do all those fuzzy Christmas things. You know, pause my gingerbread cookie making to dash off to the Wednesday only sale at Kohl’s. Wrap up in a cozy warm scarf and matching hat and brave the falling snow as I make my way around town, completing errands as I hum Jingle Bells or Silver Bells or God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. The bustle of the holiday season, I imagined, I would thrive in. Relish. The apartment would be tastifully, but beautifully decorated and it would smell . . . of cinnamon and fudge and cookies.
But here I am, with the time and the energy and I can’t seem to muster up the spirit to do it. I am avid about the shopping. I have most of it done, with a few last present to purchase and then just need an hour or two to wrap them all. The decorations are nestled are snug in their containers in the storage unit, awaiting another Christmas when I feel like putting them up. There wasn’t a point in trying to put up another tree; Mimi would just help us take it down in about four or five hours. Last year, the tree stood tall and proud for about three hours before she successfully brought it down the first time. I moved it into my bedroom the following day and kept it there for a week before taking it to my parent’s house and allowing them to use it for themselves.
I wouldn’t say that I am depressed and Lord knows I am not busy. I just didn’t feel like doing it this year. Why put the decorations up to take them back down a month later? I have managed to get some lights up, and the Christmas cards printed and mailed out, but that’s about it. The spirit is in my heart. . . and spending this time with family and friends.
I am so excited that it is time again to carve pumpkins. Not so much for the lighting of the gourds and etching scary faces into the sides of them, but for the seeds and how tasty they are toasted. I may just have to go and pick up a couple tomorrow. . .
The story of the Jack o’Lantern comes from Irish folklore. Jack was a crafty farmer who tricked the Devil into climbing a tall tree. When the Devil reached the highest branch, Jack carved a large cross in the trunk, making it impossible for the Devil to climb down. In exchange for help getting out of the tree, the Devil promised never to tempt Jack with evil again. When Jack died, he was turned away from Heaven for his sins and turned away from Hell because of his trickery. Condemned to wander the Earth without rest, Jack carved out one of his turnips, took an ember from the devil, and used it for a lantern to light his way. He became known as "Jack of the Lantern."
Found on Allrecipes.com
I was recounting my Valentine’s days past to Kate last night at dinner, proving to her why I no longer put much faith or stock in the holiday. Oh, I am not worried that Mike won’t come through. I’m just saying that due to the past 8 years of less than stellar Valentine’s days, I am not expecting much. That could work in his favor. Anything he does will look like the best effort made on a Valentine’s day EVER. While I do agree that greeting card companies and candy manufactures really have blown this short day in February up to unreasonable proportions (especially so soon after Christmas), I have always felt small tokens of affections are sweet. And of course - girl’s gotta have chocolate. 2005 - Though flowers were sent to me (and a gorgeous Tiffany ring from Aja), it was marred by my grandmother’s death and I spent the evening working on her obituary. I never realized family members are the ones that have to write that. They all seem so cold and impersonal, I would assume that some faceless person at the newspaper called you up, got the basics of the facts and wrote it themselves. 2004 - Had a nice dinner with Sean Greeney, but he got me a "diamond" necklace that was so obviously fake, I could tell before I even looked for the stamping. Odd, since he was finishing his Master’s Degree in Geology. This was a clear sign of our impending end. 2003 - My parents came down for a visit to see Zack’s and my little A-frame house on Leisure Drive. I actually think he made dinner (surprisingly) but those two hours he spent with my parents were the most painstaking hours of his life, or so he acted like. They were visiting for four days. . . he spent those 120 minutes with them. Not that they really cared. They’d really only come to see me. 2002 - Zack and I had dinner at Black Angus. I paid, since he was decidedly unemployed and he failed to get me anything. When I brought it up later - in bed, because by God, he was going to get his Valentine’s day sex - it brought forth a fight that ended with me apologizing (yeah, that happened a lot) and him announcing "I was planning on getting you an engagement ring for your birthday, but your attitude tonight just ruined that plan." Forget about couple who throw their wedding rings at each other in fights; Zack just used the idea of one. I ended up lying for him and telling everyone that he got me a nice spa package so he wouldn’t look like such a fucking loser and I wouldn’t look like a fool for being with him. (Ah . . . damn! Too late!) 2001 - I was at school in Spokane, WA and called Zack the night before Valentine’s. He and Aaron and Alison were high and laughing about something and I took it wrong. It ensued a fight that led to him canceling his flowers order and I received nothing from him. A week later, I flew down to be with him on his birthday and he gave me a half Valentine/ half Birthday gift then. Or at least, the picture of what I was getting. I didn’t get the actual diamond pendant and necklace until my birthday in April. 2000 - Zack and I were broken up but still banging each other and I thought I was prego (I wasn’t, praise Jebus). It was a week night, so I stayed at Suzy’s, where she and Tom and Jenn and I had a lovely dinner and Suzy gave her single, 28 yr old daughter and 18 yr old cousin’s daughter (me) gourmet chocolate dipped strawberries she’d made herself. Somehow, the chocolate made it all better. 1999 - My boyfriend Nathaniel was in the Air Force and stationed in Maryland. He had just randomly gotten a tattoo, which sent me out in a tizzy to do something to alter myself as well. I had my upper ear cartilage pierced and Nathaniel sent me half carat diamond studs to "fill" the hole with. Well done and sweet, but he wasn’t there for me to kiss him thank you. 1998 - Sean O’Malley and I had been broken up for a week before to "see other people" but promised to spend Valentine’s together. He and Sierra - the "other" he had been wanting to see - had been out on their first date the night before and he gushed about it all night. They’d seen "The Wedding Singer" together and he’d run out to buy the soundtrack the next day, which we got to listen to as we tried to find our way to the restaurant in downtown Portland in the pouring rain. Right then and there, I vowed to never see that movie (which I maintained for almost four years!). She was new and exciting and they’d done new and exciting things together . . . I couldn’t compete with that. Before that - there was no special guys. I remember the thrill of making a box for my classmates to put my Valentine’s in (My favorite was a jukebox) and Valentine skate at Goldenskate, but true love never came to my 10 year old heart on the skating rink floor as I had hoped. Perhaps it’s good for Mike that I don’t expect much. He had Zack to thank for that. But really, I feel that media and society has a lot to do with that too. I mean, would a small and thoughtful gift seem so small if Kmart and JCPennys and DeBeers weren’t shoving the idea that ONLY diamond jewelry is acceptable? Only Hallmark cards can say "I love you" right. If someone isn’t spoken for by you and branded "Your Valentine", are you a complete and helpless puddle of loser? Fuck no! But I do think it’s sweet that both my brother and his elementary school crush still have Valentines they exchanged years ago. I saw her last October and she mentioned it to me. If those two get married someday, that will be the ultimate in heart-melting Valentine’s Day stories.
If you ever ask my brother what happened to him at the Hill’s Christmas Party, twenty years ago tomorrow, he’ll tell you that I pushed him down a flight of stairs and he broke his leg. Don’t believe him. It’s not true. Yes, he fell. Down a flight of stairs. And yes, he broke his left leg. But I was nowhere near him when it happened. And this vicious lie he loves to tell is something he cooked up about five years ago . . .
Kari Hill’s house was the best place for playing. She would setup scavenger hunts for us kids, her two daughters, Megan and Kori and my brother and myself and we would play and play. In the basement of their home (one of the few homes I knew of at that age with a basement here in Vancouver) they had a huge play room and while we spent plenty of time down there, Kori and Andy both had to be careful walking down the stairs. Her house would later be the site for our Daisy Girl Scout meetings and wonderful memories I still cherish. Come Christmas time, the Hills invited pretty much every child in our then small, close-knit church group to their Christmas party. I can’t even remember who all was there. Probably the Beimas. Definitely the Klumps. Most likely the Wallenborns too.
I remember sitting at the dining room table, eating Christmas cookies and looking over to the stairs down to the basement. Standing there along the wall were my brother, Kori Hill and Justin Klump. I still have this image in my head, clear as my lunch today. I looked back to my cookies and continue with the merriment of the room when we all heard this thunderous BOOM, BOOM, BOOM down the stairs. Looking back over, I see Kori. I see Justin. I don’t see Andy. I do see Kari’s husband Jeff bolting out from the living room and running down the stairs. And I hear crying. Pure, painful, gut wrenching crying. Jeff returns back up the stairs with my toe-headed brother in his arms.
It didn’t take long for my mom to get over to their house; we only lived two blocks away. But to four year old me, it felt like forever. I tried to play big sister and comfort him, but really, what the hell did I know? I surely didn’t know what was wrong with him, other than the fact that whenever he tried to stand, he’d start to bawl. My mom came in and of course to her, it was clear as day that he had broken his leg.
He ended up with a cast on his leg that wrap all the way up to his hip. There was no chance of him walking with it and so for the next six weeks or so, he had to be carried. Everywhere. Come Christmas morning, despite the wonderous gifts we had waiting for us, he refused to get up to see them. He thought our parents were punishing him with that cast. It’s the only taped Christmas morning where I decended onto the Christmas tree alone (because all of them have been taped. Even parts of last year). We finally were able to get him to come out and forget about his leg for a bit.
I think he still has the cast. I think. Not sure. I know that wonderous toy that Santa brought him this year met it’s fate at a garage sale around ten years later. Andy did not inherit the Pack Rat gene as I did. But he is tight with his cash. You look at it now and you wonder how he ever could have been that small, as he towers over me these days.
My other memory tied to this incident would be another family video from probably the end of January. We are at our house and either the Hill girls, the Steidl girls or the Houck girls are over playing with us too. And we are running around my brother and playing and dressing up and being sweet, obnoxious little four year olds. My mom is innocently questioning my brother about his leg from behind the camera.
"What happened Andy?"
"I broke my egg."
"Where Andy?"
"At Karwee’s house."
"Where Andy?"
"At Karwee’s house."
"What did you do?"
"I broke my egg."
"And what is your name?"
"Andy Ogue."
Mind you, he was two. And couldn’t pronounce his ‘L’s. And every time she made him answer, he got more and more indigent. More frustrated. More pissed off. If a two year old can be pissed off.
he ignores me. says he’s busy and can’t be bothered. so I touch myself to keep me sane. my fingers coax me places where he isn’t too busy but would rather spend all day beneath the sheets, inside of me.
I'm Betsy.
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