Diary of a LAN Manager

"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.

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 fet...

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 fi...

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...

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.

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. S...

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. Some...

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.

" 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.

"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 an...

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 fat...

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 wa...

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 ...

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?

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.

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.

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 ...

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.

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.

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.