Diary of a LAN Manager

2008-09-09T13:30:00.000-05:00

Bon mot for the day: We tend to live in the past when we can't see much of a future.

2008-08-14T20:00:00.002-05:00

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us!"

It has occurred to me of late that I've spent most of my life knocking around like the proverbial bull in a china shop, leaving hurt feelings and destruction behind me as I go. If I go back and analyze conversations and situations I've been in, I can see how some people I've been around could easily believe I'm a jerk. I cannot make any excuses for my behavior. To say that I didn't mean to be rude or hateful isn't sufficient. To claim cluelessness is to deny that my behavior was my fault. I have no way to make any of it right, nor is there any reason for anyone to believe that my future behavior wouldn't be just as offensive to some. I'm trying to make amends. I just don't know what else to say or do.

2008-08-11T13:32:00.002-05:00

Like a bad penny....

We used to scuba dive as our hobby, a hobby which eventually led to the procurement/construction of a small dive trailer to haul four sets of gear and four cylinders. It was a simple but elegant design - a box on a single axle frame, with the beginnings of a mural painted on both sides, and dive flags at either end. The kids had helped paint it, with Stephen taking special pains with the sharks.

When we moved to Nashville, we sold it. We didn't dive as often, and we had no place to store it. Nearly ten years have passed since that October in '99 when we came up here, and I hadn't thought much about the trailer. I thought I had seen it the last time we went to Greenfield, but I wasn't sure. Then Saturday my mother-in-law called to say the neighbor across the street had our trailer for sale. The neighbor was asking a certain price, and we offered a little less. She called back later to say it was ours for the picking up.

Sunday we made the trip to fetch it. Oddly enough, except for the interior racks/shelving being cut out, it looked exactly the same. The paint had faded, but our names were still painted on the back. The tires hadn't been replaced, so that was the first order of business, but it bounced all the way to Nashville, and we have a piece of our family history back.

2008-07-21T16:43:00.002-05:00

Cancer sucks. I'm not whining, I'm just stating facts. It sucks. It doesn't play by the rules, and it certainly doesn't fight fair. When they said Momma's cancer was back, Iwas frustrated. She already fought this thing. It should have been the end of it, not just the beginning. When they said it was just in her lungs, I was slightly encouraged. There's no cure, but there can be control - it's possible to keep it beaten into submission. But they didn't tell us the whole truth, and they may not have known the whole truth, so I'll try not to lash out at the people I believe are trying to help her, not hurt her. The MRI painted a much darker picture. Three spots on the brain. And oh-by-the-way, what are you doing about the tumors on the spine? WHAT tumors on the spine? Who knew? When did they know? Why didn't they communicate this? But again, it does no good to bash the people who are trying to help. So a new battle plan has to be executed in this fight for her life. Fifteen days of potentially brain scrambling radiation. Three treatments down, twelve to go. Add in who knows how many radiation treatments on the tumors on the spine. Then we do six weeks/months/who the hell knows how many rounds of chemo to handle the cancer in her lungs. I'll say it again. Cancer, my friends, sucks.

2008-07-15T14:33:00.002-05:00

I have a picture on my desk of my dog. I don't keep photos of the kids. I should, but it's something I didn't do before, and while I have them at home, I just don't do it here at work. But I have a photo of Bear, stuck in a gaudy green magnetic "My Dog Is Incredible" frame I got for signing up for a newsletter. The photo was taken back in Greenfield, probably in '97 or '98. She was maybe three years old, tops. I used to joke with people that she liked that picture best, because it was taken when she still had her girlish figure and she didn't weigh the 120 she did five years later. She's all smiles, contented lounging on the floor, ears perked up. It's the way I want to remember her, full of life, contentment, and just happy to be a part of the family.

Today was a rough day. I didn't want to do it. But I knew it was really past time, and that nothing the vet could do could undo aging. She was 13, her hips and muscle mass was fading fast, and she hurt all the time. We finally made the call yesterday to schedule the final appointment. She didn't sleep last night - she kept banging her head against the bed and the floor, twitching as if she were having seizures. When we came home at lunch she was alseep in the kitchen, and I realized just how gaunt she had gotten. It took nearly ten minutes to walk her off the deck and get her into the car. No hopping up - those days were long past. The vet and her assistant were kind, and took care of her as if she were their own dog. It wasn't easy for me, or for Michael, but we're glad the suffering is over.

If there is a dog heaven, then there's a beautiful white shepherd there today, chasing squirrels and running through the sprinkler system, all smiles, and happy.

2008-06-23T15:33:00.002-05:00

A random glance through the local free paper recently led to the realization that Chris Botti was coming to play the Ryman. Over my protests, my daughter purchased tickets, and so it was that Wednesday evening was spent in awe, and my iTunes are still stuck on my Botti playlist. Music may be my second language, but I still don't know the words to describe jazz. My initial fear was that he would be some blow-hard (pardon the pun), stuck on himself pretty boy who only wanted the spotlight on him. How wrong I was. He celebrated everyone's contribution onstage, was self-deprecating, and was genuinely fun to watch. It's almost as if he had come to play in my living room, entertaining a few hundred of my friends. We were thoroughly entertained by a master showman and trumpet player, and his supporting band members. And I will never look at Google's "did you mean" the same way again.

2008-06-16T14:16:00.002-05:00

So I had my summer all planned. Heather graduates: Check. Heather gets wisdom teeth removed: Check. Heather schedules knee surgery to clean up a torn meniscus, and I schedule to take a week off for her recovery, with plans to work on a wedding dress for her older sister: Check. Right before my birthday, all my planning took a detour. I know people think I'm being flip when I say that life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans, but it's just a variation of the old Irish saying, "If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans." Well, I guess He's laughing up a storm. Momma's cancer is back, with a vengeance, and has moved into her lungs. I convinced her to seek treatment here, and I'm in the process of moving her in with me. And that week off? I bought the material. I'll get started on the dress later. I will get it done. But I have other things to take care of as well, and I'm determined not to let things get me down. So what if none of this is what we planned. We'll get through it, and we'll make the best of it, some way, somehow.

2008-05-27T10:28:00.002-05:00

Oh, the mistakes you'll make....

Heather graduated recently. All three of my kids made it through high school, and the older two more or less put themselves through college. I don't take credit, but I am proud of all of them. At Heather's graduation, which was more variety show than "Pomp and Circumstance, ad nauseum," the kids did a production of Dr. Seuss' "Oh, the Places You Will Go." It was amazingly professional, even with understanding the caliber of student who attends this school. Heather's performance with the select group of orchestra members was likewise phenomenal (and yes, I'd say that, even if she weren't my kid). But the Seuss performance was very appropriate, and reminded me of some things I've told my kids, but failed to remember myself, chief of which is that life isn't fair. Fair is a weather condition. Sometimes you'll be surrounded by friends and family who support you. Sometimes you'll be alone. Sometimes you'll do great. Sometimes you'll screw up and have to deal with the consequences. But no matter what, giving up isn't the right answer. You have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep going, even if it means going on alone.

2008-04-29T14:41:00.002-05:00

The cafeteria is crowded with employees and "visiting" families - a euphemism for suffering, because most have that look of pain mixed with hope. The drone of hundreds of conversations is near-deafening. A young man with a hard hat walks up to the piano in the corner, sits down, and carefully places his hat on the floor. Those who notice exchange worried looks; he's wearing a tattered West Coast Choppers sweatshirt and a red bandana wrapped around his head. Gently, he raises his hands, closes his eyes in concentration, tilts his head slightly, then begins to play "As Time Goes By". There is no parody in his playing - he plays with love and emotion, never missing a note, carefully controlling the tempo, leading his keyed partner in a tender dance.

2008-02-12T08:25:00.000-06:00

"Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant"
"Least said, soonest mended"
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can put my heart through the shreddder"

Words have power. No one denies that. Words can build, words can break. Words chosen in anger can crumble a relationship of many years. Words taken out of context to build support for an argument can be devastating. The stronger my feelings are, the less I want to say for fear of saying the "wrong" thing, for fear of being misunderstood. When I snap under the pressure and try to vent, like a pressure cooker that's been cranked up too high, usually everyone involved, myself included, gets burned.

I've been publicly humiliated enough. I surrender. I'm tired of fighting. I give up. I'm the witch you say I am if it will make all of this stop.

2007-05-30T14:28:00.000-05:00

"I don't have time to be sick. There's just too much going on right now." How many times do we say that? How many times do we ignore the warning signs - Slow! Yield! Warning! - until we hit the big red STOP! or else? We tend to pay attention to that one - most of us, anyway. So my stomach hurt. So what. According to the ads on TV, I should just take a dose of Pepto and I'd be right as rain by morning. I ignored it. Worked through it. Popped Tylenol and blamed it on stress or maybe bad chicken. I was fine. It was Memorial Day, and I was GOING to feel better!

Saturday I couldn't cough without crying. It occurred to me that it hurt this bad when my appendix was near the rupture point - but it was gone, and the pain was on my left. There's really nothing over there to hurt like this, right? I was trying to tough my way through another day when my mother called. It was bad news - my aunt Mildred had passed away during the night, after fighting breast cancer and lung cancer for several years. It didn't help that she was blind and that her husband had died the year before, or that she was living in some state run facility where apparently it was too much trouble to go help someone get to the dining room. Then Momma asked what was wrong with me. I explained the pain, briefly, and told her it was no big deal. In her typical no-bullshit way, she said, "You work for a hospital, damn it. Get your ass down there." So I caved in. Fine - I'll go to the clinic. They'll tell me it's a gas bubble and I can get on with getting better and enjoying my holiday.

At the clinic we listed the litany of symptoms: pain getting progressively worse for the past four days, decided that it couldn't be anything good and came here. Yes, I've had a low grade fever. Yes, it hurts when you do that. No, I haven't thrown up and my BM's seem normal. Can I please have a prescription and go home now? No? Why do I need a CAT scan? No, I don't want to go to the hospital across the interstate. I'll go to the ER at Vanderbilt - like Momma told me to.

So I'm in the ER. I get fast-tracked - this surprises me. It's just a belly ache - I know the doc at the clinic said it was diverticulitis, but really - it's no big deal. More listing of of symptoms. More poking and prodding. I hate their pain scale - on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst, how's your pain? I pick a seven - seems like a lucky number, and I'm not exactly screaming or doubled over, so it seems a good guess. Bloodwork - IV - and finally, morphine :) Off to the lovely CAT scan we go, then back to the room, where shortly thereafter, I have a definitive diagnosis - diverticulitis. Great - can I have my prescription and go home now? What do you mean you want to watch me overnight? I'll go home and be good. No chance, eh? Well, maybe if you watch me I'll do a trick.

The morphine and the lack of food took the fight out of me, though, so overnight stretched into Tuesday morning. All I remember is no food until Monday at lunch, and that vanilla pudding never tasted so good, and that I hate IV's and I hate poking and prodding and questions about bowel movements. I'm home now, apparently after dodging a surgical bullet. I'm tired. So I think I'll pay attention to this warning sign and go take a nap.

2007-05-02T14:53:00.000-05:00

A brief discussion of the rights of grandparents.... with apologies for those whom this might offend.

My friend Mike has a lovely little grandchild. His granddaughter was born to his son and his son's live-in (they opted not to marry so as not to mess up her college funding). Subsequently, the two decided they didn't want to spend the rest of their lives together, so the son began proceedings to establish legal parental rights. This process has not gone well, and the girl's mother also wants to block Mike and his wife from access to the child. So off to court they go - and I can't say that I blame them. They want what's best for this child, and the mom isn't quite meeting their standards.

But I'm not blameless in this discussion either. My children had three sets of grandparents, so to speak. My husband's parents, my mother, and my father and his wife and family. Out of respect to my mother, and because I never quite repaired the relationship with my father after I turned 17, we didn't spend much time with my father and his family. I can count the visits pretty much on both hands over a span of 20+ years. I have a half-brother I rarely acknowledge, partly because he's only two years older than Stephen. In retrospect, I realize I made a mistake, but in my desire not to make waves, not to disturb the status quo, not to create a scene, I opted to limit those visits. I'm sorry that I made those choices all those years ago. Daddy had a right to be more than just the guy who sent money on birthdays and at Christmas.

That's the world we live in, though. When the nuclear family went, well, "nuclear", and divorce became the norm rather than the exception; when extended family came to mean all your friends instead of all your blood relatives; when "blood is thicker than water" became a quaint phrase instead of a truism, then I guess the rights of grandparents disappeared too. They no longer have the right to say "my" grandchild just because of blood relation. Frankly, that's just sad.

2007-04-27T13:33:00.000-05:00

Today they held the parade for the 2007 World's Biggest Fish Fry in my hometown of Paris, TN. It's a significant "floating" date for me, because on Fish Fry Friday eighteen years ago, I was in an accident while on the way to take Stephen to ride on a float in the parade. I had stayed up until past 1:00am putting the finishing touches on his sailor outfit that I had made, and maybe lack of sleep clouded my judgement just a bit. We were late. Anyone who knows me knows that's one of my trademarks. I'm always late - time management escapes me, which is why I'd been up late working on the suit. It was a beautiful, clear, April morning, and we were just about halfway between Greenfield and McKenzie, going through a wide spot in the road known as Pillowville. A truck had pulled out in front of me, going about 30 in a 55. Ahead was a passing zone, and nothing was coming. So I did what people do when they're running late and don't want to do 30 all the way to McKenzie - I signaled and swung out to pass. The only turn off was to my right, so I didn't really hesitate. I hadn't quite gotten the front end of my station wagon even with his back bumper when he tapped his brakes to slow down.

From here on, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I kept passing, but just as I pulled even with him, I could see him turning the steering wheel of the truck, turning it in my direction. Apparently he was turning into what we refer to as a "field road" that I hadn't been aware of, and we were between him and his destination. The impact was brutal. The front tire was ripped from the car and went sailing to the left into the cornfield. The car followed, with me hanging onto the steering wheel for dear life, since I couldn't actually control the car. Because it was a cornfield, the road sloped downward to it, and I could feel the right side rising higher and higher, until I was pretty sure it was going to roll over. That's when I caught the phone pole just behind my door. It countered the rollover, and we continued on until the front end plowed into the ground, breaking the cars frame, knocking the motor off the mounting blocks, and shattering the windshield. As the glass dust and the dirt from the field settled around us, I cut the motor off, removed the key from the ignition, unhooked the seatbelt, and opened my door. The screaming from Miranda and Stephen reassured me that they would be fine, especially since both had been strapped in. I got out, looking for the other guy, because I had no idea where he and his truck had gone. Turns out he ended up on the other side of the road, but was relatively okay.

We, on the other hand, were only so-so. Stephen had a gash at his temple from the handle on the little vent in the side window and bruises from the seatbelt he had JUST put back on after I looked in the rear view and caught him leaning over the back seat; Miranda was just bruised and traumatized. I had a bruised sternum, bruises on my hip bones, and my neck would never quite be the same. The car, needless to say, was a total loss. We still have pictures of what it looked like after they towed it to the junkyard. It's amazing that we were all okay. Funny how I remember it so clearly. Funny how much time has passed.

2007-04-26T13:24:00.000-05:00

When I first heard about blogging, I thought it was cool. I had friends at work with LiveJournal, and I found reading their thoughts, looking at the things they found funny, and listening to their favorite songs to be more entertaining than anything else I could do on the web. I seldom find funny things on the web by myself. I find them because someone else saw them first.

Sooooo.... since my childhood aspiration was to become an author, I thought it would be a perfect fit. I could finally put what I was thinking down on paper, and pretend I was a real writer. Sadly, I realize what a hack I am. Because music is such an integral part of how I communicate, I find myself quoting song lyrics to express a feeling, rather than coming up with any original thoughts of my own. I find myself quoting poetry for the same reason. I'm afraid to put down what I really think or really feel because no doubt I'd step on someone's toes. It's very constricting. Creativity is stifled under these conditions. I might as well log in and say "The weather today is lovely. We enjoyed a nice rain this morning, and everything looks green and fresh." Blah - even that would probably piss somebody off.

So what should I do? I'm open for suggestions.

2007-04-24T14:09:00.000-05:00

We joined a minority a couple of weeks ago - we gave up satellite TV and didn't replace it with cable. Instead, we bought a low-profile antenna and the 5 or so channels it brings. It's not that DirecTV is a bad thing - it's just that after thinking about it, and calculating how much the latest rate hike would actually cost on an annual basis, we couldn't justify the expense. Yes, I love Mythbusters and How It's Made as much as the next person, not to mention anything on Food Network as long as it doesn't include Emeril, but really - how much is that worth? Is it worth $60 a month? Really? Network TV still sucks, don't get me wrong, but considering that Numbers and CSI-Miami are about all I watch on a regular basis anyway, why would I pay for it?

2007-04-19T15:50:00.000-05:00

I've never been a girlie girl. I believe I've established that. But this week I've been thinking of my friend Sara, and how she once rolled her eyes at my poor chapped lips and handed me a Revlon lipstick. "Use this - it's better than Chapstick." I was in my thirties and it was the only lipstick I had in my makeup bag for the longest. I don't remember how long I kept it, but I finally tossed it and replaced it with something from Avon, or Covergirl. Needless to say I never really learned the fine art of makeup, nor do I still grasp the need for lipstick. I've never even used up an entire lipstick - I usually toss them after a year or so. But I keep one in my desk drawer - a lovely, rich gingerspice color - which I occasionally put on before a meeting, or when my lips are chapped and I can't find my Chapstick, or when I think of Sara.

2007-04-17T10:47:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was my daughter's seventeenth birthday. I had planned on posting something, but the news got in the way. How do we protect ourselves and our loved ones when someone goes over some edge mentally? Can we? I know it comes as a surprise to my friends who think I'm a raving Democrat that I do, in fact, believe in the right to bear arms (and while I joke that I'm a card carrying member of the NRA, I'm not). Would gun control really have helped, or would this young man still have found a way to get his hands on a weapon? I don't have any answers. My heart goes out to the families of the victims of this tragedy - including the family of this poor, disturbed young man.

2007-04-13T15:47:00.000-05:00

I don't like funerals. I'm not sure that they're truly helpful to the family, but it is an expected part of the process. It just seems to me that their only true purpose is to serve as a vivid reminder that life is short, and that we never get enough days to do the things we want.

I also don't like arguing with people. I think discussion is good, as long as its productive and doesn't devolve into namecalling, but I've always considered myself a peacemaker. I thought that was my job, to mediate and try to keep the peace between warring parties; it was a by-product of my parent's divorce. Perhaps that's the root of the passive-agressive tendency - I don't feel I can say what I really think, so I try to find a diplomatic way to say it without hurting anyone's feelings. Apparently I'm not as good at it as I think, so perhaps I should consider a more direct approach.

The funeral was moving, and I'm glad that I went. But it does make me wonder what my eulogy will be. I wonder what impact if any I've made on this planet. I wonder if it's too late to try to make up for lost time.

2007-04-09T08:28:00.000-05:00

Yesterday a close family friend of ours lost his battle with leukemia. Without his assistance we would never have started our own business; without him we might not have succeeded in many things. He would not want us to sit and cry, but he's not here to tell me that. Funeral services are Wednedsday at 2:00.

2007-04-06T08:42:00.000-05:00

Today is Good Friday. It doesn't feel much like a holiday, and I'm sitting at work. It feels strange still to work on a religious holiday, but here I am. I have no plans for Easter this year. Unlike most feast days, I've not been notified that I'm hosting some kind of dinner, which is why no one has received any invitations. I'm not really planning on driving to West Tennessee to see my mother or my mother-in-law, so I guess we'll sit at home and eat TV dinners. I might buy a small ham. I just don't know yet. Heather's just about too old for Easter baskets, and I can't even remember if I got her one last year. Another in a long line of parental shortcomings and failures. Mothers are supposed to be superhuman creatures, and I just keep falling short.

2007-04-05T08:57:00.000-05:00

I've never been good with expressing emotions. I always felt that emotions were a sign of weakness - part of being raised as my father's "son", I suppose. Lately I'm having a hard time bottling up those things that bubble up when people start flinging arrows and stones. Some I deserve. Others, less so. Innocent comments get taken out of context and used to further some cause. I make a genuine post about an overwhelming feeling I have, and someone turns it into an accusation, based on some sort of internet statistic that proves I've posted in response to something else. Frankly, I don't see the connection.

I get angry more often than I used to, but I often feel like I've been kicked in the gut too. I'm not accustomed to that one. It usually brings tears. Intended kindnesses are perceived as attempts to control. And this post will be labeled as an attempt to send someone on a guilt trip - but hey - if the shoe fits, baby, wear it out.

2007-03-15T13:03:00.000-05:00

Yesterday a friend came by to show off his little bundle of joy - and what a bundle she was. I love babies. I adore babies. I'd have six more if I could, but don't panic - I can't, I won't, and I'm not begging for grandchildren. But holding that little angel, feeling her tiny toes through her little socks while I stared into those intelligent, inquisitive blue eyes that were sizing me up to see if I were good enough to hold her.... even though there was no blood relation, at that moment, if anyone had tried to lay a hand on that child, I would have responded like a crazed mother bear, and ripped his head off with a single swipe of my hand. And I would have had no regrets for doing so.

2007-03-08T13:08:00.000-06:00

Realization - I am not a goal-oriented person.
Realization - I'm working in a goal-oriented business.
Realization - If someone tells me what I need to accomplish by X date, I can generally do it.
Realization - I need to figure out how to do this for myself.

Problem - Now what? I've spent most of my life looking for what it is I want to do with my life. This was never meant to be my career, but it evolved into what I do for a living. But is it where I'm supposed to be? I'm over 40 - is it too late? Can I make this what I want it to be? Woulda-coulda-shoulda won't help. All I can do is start from this point forward. But which way to go?

2007-03-02T08:41:00.000-06:00

February is thankfully the shortest month of the year - a good thing, considering how bleak and miserable it usually is. This one, while it had its moments, didn't disappoint in that respect. Welcome to March.

2007-01-30T11:45:00.000-06:00

I'm back, after an extended mental vacation. The rant is on.