Diary of a LAN Manager

" 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.

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.

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?

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.

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

Okay, let me climb up on my soapbox... Welcome, one and all, to the holiday season. Not the Christmas season, not the Hannukah season, not even Kwanzaa... but the holiday season, since so many celebrations closely coincide at the winter solstice. And in case you haven't guessed - no, I'm NOT offended when it's called a holiday tree, even though I consider myself to be Christian. Yes, I call it a Christmas tree when I see a picture of one. But I find it hard to believe the fundamentalists are getting their drawers in a bunch over what to call an object that is essentially a pagan relic that got melded into our Christmas celebration. I know it must come as a shock to my Baptist brethren, but there was no decorated Douglas fir at the the manger - no, not even so much as a cedar shrub. No holly, no mistletoe, no poinsettias. So why insist on making it a Christian symbol? It's not, folks - never was, and never will be, no matter how hard we try. It belonged to the Egyptian...

This may be my last post. I don't have time to write since I changed jobs and the last thing I want to do when I get home is sit in front of a computer. I'm also tired of all the "comments" which are nothing more than spam for stuff no one wants, needs, or intends to buy. While I'm blocking them from posting without my consent, it is tiresome to wade through mortgage, weight loss, and "job" posting comments to delete them. As a medium for communication, I'm thinking that blogging is overrated and I no longer feel that I have anything of value to offer.

Wow. Another month in the history books. Watching the Republican regime crumble isn't nearly as much fun as I'd hoped it would be. It just makes me sad to know that most politicians are as crooked and as greedy as you can imagine them to be, regardless of their party affiliation. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and this presidency has been a case study. I'm not anti-American, but I'm against this war. I'm not anti-military; in fact, I think our military is shamefully treated as far as pay and support goes. I'm not even anti-Republican, but I think that their aims and goals are about as diametrically opposed to mine as you could get. I'm just waiting - waiting for the bubble to burst, for the recession to start, so that we can hurry up and start digging our way back out.

I'm not dead yet... It's September. I've survived the joy of hosting a foreign exchange student from France for three weeks, the anguish of watching my mother suffer through chemo, and the frustration of changing departments at work. I guess we ran Stephen off, since his summer at home evaporated about two weeks into it. And Miranda is somewhere in sunny Arizona, hopefully attending classes and keeping up her GPA. Momma's better; the second round of chemo is much kinder than the first, so she's able to drive herself to her treatments, which come weekly now instead of three weeks apart. I'm having to let go, to quit trying to control her and her life, which is what I guess I was doing in the name of caring for her. I'm still conflicted about this, and I dread the winter. We'll see how it goes. One day at a time is truly the only way you can live your life. Yes, we can and should look ahead, but we don't always see the potholes and the wrong turns tha...