"The cure for anything is salt water -
sweat, tears or the sea"
- Isak Dinesen
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
When I Grow Up: Life Goal
It's taken me a few days to collect my thoughts for this post. That, and the first two weeks of school is chaotic for any teacher!
Recently, I have been thinking, and Nick and I have been talking, about life goals and future plans. It's funny, really, since the Army likes to project their acceptance of a family's future 'plans'. Really, in the army, it's just faux planning since the Army already has a plan for the active duty member, which takes precedence over the family 'plan'. This bothers me, a lot, but this particular post does not exist for me to air my hesitations and concerns with the military.
As any type-A human being, I am a planner, an organizer, and someone who likes to have complete control of any and every situation, really (hey- it's honesty!). My personality, then, as you can infer, clashes with my lifestyle, as very little is planned or controlled by me. Which leaves me, as of late, pondering what I do have control over. There's so much I am uncertain of with regards to my future career and my future ultimate education and career goals. But I have made a decision, recently, a new life goal. This is something I can control and moreover, work toward.
My new life goal is simple: I want to be somebody's Barb Milligan.
Most of you (if there is a collective 'you') who read my blog have probably never heard of Barb -- unless, of course, you are from my hometown. This is the part of this blog with which I've struggled: How can I describe Barb to someone who doesn't know her? Whenever I skype with my B, and then tell someone I've done so, I fumble my words.
"She's like my second mom, or-- well... she's my neighbor--no but that's vague. I don't know; she's Barb."
I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Let's back track, first, though.
I knew Barb before I could talk. She went to school with my father. Her youngest daughter (another dear, dear friend of mine) and I played at the park together. My younger brother and I patiently waited on the list of future Spaghetti Heads--- the name of the collective kids Barb takes care of during the day. In elementary school, Luka and I walked, hands held with 'the big kids', down the road, across the street and around the corner into Barb's gate. We would all unlace our shoes, hang our sweatshirts and gather around her kitchen table. Barb scooped us bowls of mac and cheese (or whatever snack was on any particular day) and took drink orders-- always in coffee mugs; then, we took turns talking about our days at school.
B would ask our questions about our stories, ask us what we had for lunch, and she really asked, like our moms would, except they were still at work. If we had a bad day, it went through Barb first. If we had a great stories, our excitement busted and spewed all over Barb's table first. Then, she'd point out all the activities she had set up around the house and in the backyard. Any kid could choose from a plethora of activities to decompress from the day, and yet, each option was still cognitively stimulating. Always make believe or reading or building, perpetual dreaming and growing.
But, like I said, I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Everyone was done, including me. I was stuck in the 4th grade with a hateful bunch of classmates. This was before 'bullying' was a buzzword at faculty and PTA meetings. My parents were at a loss. The school was placating everyone, but it was hollow and shallow. I wasn't a victim. I was never a victim. But the meanness that oozed from the two fourth grade classrooms swelled, sticky and bitter.
I remember throwing on a sweatshirt and my sneakers and marching over to Barb's with my mom in the brisk darkness after dinner. I already knew Barb and loved Barb, but I had never been to her house after dark on a school night. Going was Mom's idea.
Before we knocked on the side door, it swung open. Barb stood at the top of the half-stairs in a tshirt that said: "Fuck you, I have enough friends!"
I was ten. And while I'd definitely heard "fuck" before, I'd never read it on a tshirt that a grown up was wearing. Before I think I even had time to process, Barb assured me that the tshirt was a poignant contribution to the conversation we were about to have.
Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table. Barb poured me a chilled mug of juice (and I'm sure she poured my mother a glass of wine...or five), and there, I had the most honest, real conversation I had ever had with two adults about school and bullying. What was going on was not ok. I learned that that night, and it was that pivotal moment wherein I can trace my strong intolerance for bullying and my emotional love for those who stand up against it. And. My friendship with Barb.
I don't even know how to sum up the subsequent years of my life at Barb's kitchen table.
Many times, I sat there with Barb's daughter, sharing stories and secrets and Mary Kate and Ashley gossip. Barb listened and Barb mentored. I loved and respected Barb as much as I loved and respected my own parents. She was honest. She was loving. And she was real. I have two absolutely wonderful parents; but Barb wasn't my parent. She reinforced everything my parents said, but coming from another adult, who I also considered my friend, her messages held more weight during my teenage years.
Here's an example of her mentorship:
During senior year, I faced off with an activities advisor after I published an op-ed in our local newspaper about the administration at our school. The advisor gave me two choices: I could be a leader at my high school or I could have an opinion. Furious, enraged, all of the other adjectives to describe the burning in my chest that day, I left school grounds without permission. Adrenaline blinded any rational thought. Mom was across town and not on her lunch break yet. Dad's classes always took place at the college, nearly 20 minutes from the high school. But I cognitively assessed this in a millisecond. Rather, I climbed in my car and sped off down the hill toward Barb's kitchen table.
I sipped juice from a chilled mug and refused to relinquish my rage as I relived the story to Barb. And just like any other mentoring moment that happened in that kitchen, Barb had a plan.
She sat down in her chair beside the stove. She spread her cloth napkin out, as if the napkin could be a playing field, and she was going to propose ideas for plays. We talked about possible consequences of my actions (both writing the article and leaving school without permission). She used the socratic method to walk me through contemplating the value of having a strong opinion and (as if it's mutually exclusive) being a leader at the high school. As she talked, she moved the sugar bowl around the cloth napkin. It didn't help her illustrate anything, but it's what she does when she's in mentor mode. And I love it.
Barb had read the article, and I felt strongly supported sitting there in her kitchen. But we talked about the consequences of speaking out against something like a school administration. And before I left her kitchen table, we also talked about the value of having a strong voice and having the courage to share that voice as a thinking, caring, committed member of one's community.
I was still in trouble at school; I anticipated consequences when I returned, both for the op-ed and for ditching grounds, but I was at peace with my decision and my consequences. And I established peace at Barb's.
It's been like this for my whole life. And don't kid yourself; my mother and I have a great relationship. She knows everything. But there is something about sitting at that kitchen table with a mug (or now, a glass of wine or sometimes even a shot of Ouzo) that provides yet another perspective to any situation. I text Barb. I skype with Barb. When I'm homesick, I miss everything about my parents and my house AND I miss running around the corner, into the back gate, hanging my jacket on the hook and sitting down at B's kitchen table.
Nick even said the other day that someday (not any any time soon, so don't speculate here), we'll have to pay our Barb and Mike to travel the world with us because we whole-heartedly want our children to be raised Milligan -- like so many children of Cortland are.
Barb is 1 part mother, 2 parts friend and 100% mentor and ab-fab human being.
So this is my goal. It's huge. It's nearly impossible, as I don't think a single soul on this Earth has the potential to be Barb. But I'm going to try. I am who I am in part because of this woman. I am inspired by her zeal and her fervor. My goal, then, is be that inspiration for someone else.
Recently, I have been thinking, and Nick and I have been talking, about life goals and future plans. It's funny, really, since the Army likes to project their acceptance of a family's future 'plans'. Really, in the army, it's just faux planning since the Army already has a plan for the active duty member, which takes precedence over the family 'plan'. This bothers me, a lot, but this particular post does not exist for me to air my hesitations and concerns with the military.
As any type-A human being, I am a planner, an organizer, and someone who likes to have complete control of any and every situation, really (hey- it's honesty!). My personality, then, as you can infer, clashes with my lifestyle, as very little is planned or controlled by me. Which leaves me, as of late, pondering what I do have control over. There's so much I am uncertain of with regards to my future career and my future ultimate education and career goals. But I have made a decision, recently, a new life goal. This is something I can control and moreover, work toward.
My new life goal is simple: I want to be somebody's Barb Milligan.
Most of you (if there is a collective 'you') who read my blog have probably never heard of Barb -- unless, of course, you are from my hometown. This is the part of this blog with which I've struggled: How can I describe Barb to someone who doesn't know her? Whenever I skype with my B, and then tell someone I've done so, I fumble my words.
"She's like my second mom, or-- well... she's my neighbor--no but that's vague. I don't know; she's Barb."
I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Let's back track, first, though.
I knew Barb before I could talk. She went to school with my father. Her youngest daughter (another dear, dear friend of mine) and I played at the park together. My younger brother and I patiently waited on the list of future Spaghetti Heads--- the name of the collective kids Barb takes care of during the day. In elementary school, Luka and I walked, hands held with 'the big kids', down the road, across the street and around the corner into Barb's gate. We would all unlace our shoes, hang our sweatshirts and gather around her kitchen table. Barb scooped us bowls of mac and cheese (or whatever snack was on any particular day) and took drink orders-- always in coffee mugs; then, we took turns talking about our days at school.
B would ask our questions about our stories, ask us what we had for lunch, and she really asked, like our moms would, except they were still at work. If we had a bad day, it went through Barb first. If we had a great stories, our excitement busted and spewed all over Barb's table first. Then, she'd point out all the activities she had set up around the house and in the backyard. Any kid could choose from a plethora of activities to decompress from the day, and yet, each option was still cognitively stimulating. Always make believe or reading or building, perpetual dreaming and growing.
But, like I said, I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Everyone was done, including me. I was stuck in the 4th grade with a hateful bunch of classmates. This was before 'bullying' was a buzzword at faculty and PTA meetings. My parents were at a loss. The school was placating everyone, but it was hollow and shallow. I wasn't a victim. I was never a victim. But the meanness that oozed from the two fourth grade classrooms swelled, sticky and bitter.
I remember throwing on a sweatshirt and my sneakers and marching over to Barb's with my mom in the brisk darkness after dinner. I already knew Barb and loved Barb, but I had never been to her house after dark on a school night. Going was Mom's idea.
Before we knocked on the side door, it swung open. Barb stood at the top of the half-stairs in a tshirt that said: "Fuck you, I have enough friends!"
I was ten. And while I'd definitely heard "fuck" before, I'd never read it on a tshirt that a grown up was wearing. Before I think I even had time to process, Barb assured me that the tshirt was a poignant contribution to the conversation we were about to have.
Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table. Barb poured me a chilled mug of juice (and I'm sure she poured my mother a glass of wine...or five), and there, I had the most honest, real conversation I had ever had with two adults about school and bullying. What was going on was not ok. I learned that that night, and it was that pivotal moment wherein I can trace my strong intolerance for bullying and my emotional love for those who stand up against it. And. My friendship with Barb.
I don't even know how to sum up the subsequent years of my life at Barb's kitchen table.
Many times, I sat there with Barb's daughter, sharing stories and secrets and Mary Kate and Ashley gossip. Barb listened and Barb mentored. I loved and respected Barb as much as I loved and respected my own parents. She was honest. She was loving. And she was real. I have two absolutely wonderful parents; but Barb wasn't my parent. She reinforced everything my parents said, but coming from another adult, who I also considered my friend, her messages held more weight during my teenage years.
Here's an example of her mentorship:
During senior year, I faced off with an activities advisor after I published an op-ed in our local newspaper about the administration at our school. The advisor gave me two choices: I could be a leader at my high school or I could have an opinion. Furious, enraged, all of the other adjectives to describe the burning in my chest that day, I left school grounds without permission. Adrenaline blinded any rational thought. Mom was across town and not on her lunch break yet. Dad's classes always took place at the college, nearly 20 minutes from the high school. But I cognitively assessed this in a millisecond. Rather, I climbed in my car and sped off down the hill toward Barb's kitchen table.
I sipped juice from a chilled mug and refused to relinquish my rage as I relived the story to Barb. And just like any other mentoring moment that happened in that kitchen, Barb had a plan.
She sat down in her chair beside the stove. She spread her cloth napkin out, as if the napkin could be a playing field, and she was going to propose ideas for plays. We talked about possible consequences of my actions (both writing the article and leaving school without permission). She used the socratic method to walk me through contemplating the value of having a strong opinion and (as if it's mutually exclusive) being a leader at the high school. As she talked, she moved the sugar bowl around the cloth napkin. It didn't help her illustrate anything, but it's what she does when she's in mentor mode. And I love it.
Barb had read the article, and I felt strongly supported sitting there in her kitchen. But we talked about the consequences of speaking out against something like a school administration. And before I left her kitchen table, we also talked about the value of having a strong voice and having the courage to share that voice as a thinking, caring, committed member of one's community.
I was still in trouble at school; I anticipated consequences when I returned, both for the op-ed and for ditching grounds, but I was at peace with my decision and my consequences. And I established peace at Barb's.
It's been like this for my whole life. And don't kid yourself; my mother and I have a great relationship. She knows everything. But there is something about sitting at that kitchen table with a mug (or now, a glass of wine or sometimes even a shot of Ouzo) that provides yet another perspective to any situation. I text Barb. I skype with Barb. When I'm homesick, I miss everything about my parents and my house AND I miss running around the corner, into the back gate, hanging my jacket on the hook and sitting down at B's kitchen table.
Nick even said the other day that someday (not any any time soon, so don't speculate here), we'll have to pay our Barb and Mike to travel the world with us because we whole-heartedly want our children to be raised Milligan -- like so many children of Cortland are.
Barb is 1 part mother, 2 parts friend and 100% mentor and ab-fab human being.
So this is my goal. It's huge. It's nearly impossible, as I don't think a single soul on this Earth has the potential to be Barb. But I'm going to try. I am who I am in part because of this woman. I am inspired by her zeal and her fervor. My goal, then, is be that inspiration for someone else.
Monday, August 27, 2012
I Can't Help But Share
A day in the life of the newly wedders (we're still 'new' aren't we?) and Hobbes; this post is for the Moms :)
Sunday, 26 August 2012:
Our Sunday tradition of venturing to Honolulu to our breakfast nook dwindled exponentially over the last few weeks. We'll we've gone, we haven't done so a consistently as we'd like. Today perpetuated that trend. Neither Nick nor I could pull ourselves from our comfy covy bed. It was a snuggle up and drift in and out of sleep morning.
So once we did manage to pry ourselves out from under our blankets (partially because the sun was warning the house and we were sweaty, and partially because Nick jump up with determination to not lose our Sunday), we made blueberry scones and fresh fruit for breakfast. A little feast at our very own dining room table.
We met a few of our friends down at the Lagoons around mid-morning and played with little miss Halle. She's a little ham and we love it!
Nick and I wandered back to our neighborhood around noon, already three hours of sun-kissed bliss before lunch.
As we cooled off at our house, we found some pre-season football and I made a big pot of chili. Sure it's 86 degrees out but it's Sunday and there was football on, damnit.
To avoid the whole sweating-while-eating (and subsequently feeling fat) feeling, Nick and I indulged in our central air system (that we never turn on).
A little post chili nap, a long run around Ko Olina town, and a gym adventure later, Nick and I ended our Sunday poolside in our neighborhood with a cooler full of cheese, pepperoni, salad, and fruit with strawberries, blueberries and raspberries. We read one of our favorite blogs, snacked on our lite dinner and then completed our dinner date in the hot tub and then the pool. We ... we were actually chilly on our walk home!
I will quote my Nicholas when I say: "It's days like today when we should say, 'thanks, Army'... but not too loudly. We don't want the army to hear us."
Sunday, 26 August 2012:
Our Sunday tradition of venturing to Honolulu to our breakfast nook dwindled exponentially over the last few weeks. We'll we've gone, we haven't done so a consistently as we'd like. Today perpetuated that trend. Neither Nick nor I could pull ourselves from our comfy covy bed. It was a snuggle up and drift in and out of sleep morning.
So once we did manage to pry ourselves out from under our blankets (partially because the sun was warning the house and we were sweaty, and partially because Nick jump up with determination to not lose our Sunday), we made blueberry scones and fresh fruit for breakfast. A little feast at our very own dining room table.
We met a few of our friends down at the Lagoons around mid-morning and played with little miss Halle. She's a little ham and we love it!
Nick and I wandered back to our neighborhood around noon, already three hours of sun-kissed bliss before lunch.
As we cooled off at our house, we found some pre-season football and I made a big pot of chili. Sure it's 86 degrees out but it's Sunday and there was football on, damnit.
To avoid the whole sweating-while-eating (and subsequently feeling fat) feeling, Nick and I indulged in our central air system (that we never turn on).
A little post chili nap, a long run around Ko Olina town, and a gym adventure later, Nick and I ended our Sunday poolside in our neighborhood with a cooler full of cheese, pepperoni, salad, and fruit with strawberries, blueberries and raspberries. We read one of our favorite blogs, snacked on our lite dinner and then completed our dinner date in the hot tub and then the pool. We ... we were actually chilly on our walk home!
I will quote my Nicholas when I say: "It's days like today when we should say, 'thanks, Army'... but not too loudly. We don't want the army to hear us."
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Bruschetta Chicken
Remember that all-too-fabulous meal my lovely husband made for me a few days ago? The one with the freshly chopped tomatoes, the basil, the fresh minced garlic, the olive oil? Nick poured it all over spaghetti and topped it with a sauteed lemon shrimp and served it up like a chef on a cobblestone street in Venice.
Well, we devoured our spaghetti and shrimp with massive amounts of the tomato basil mix left over. I felt badly throwing away the foundation of one of the best meals I'd had in months. But pausing momentarily, I realized Nick had made bruschetta! So I stored the remaining bruschetta in the fridge, and last night I created an ab-fab (as Barb would say) meal that surely couldn't go unshared.
3 Chicken Breasts - sliced into 1/2inch thick chunks
Olive Oil
Balsamic Vinegar
5-6 slices of white onion
Italian seasoning
Basil
Romaine Lettuce
Ciabatta Bread
In a pan, douse the bottom with EVOO and start to cook the chicken. When the chicken is half cooked, add two turns of balsamic vinegar to the mix. Throw in large onion slices. Top chicken with italian seasoning and basil. Let cook through.
Place chicken in refrigerator to cool off.
Now, here's where you have two options. You can either:
1. Put the chicken over lettuce, top with the bruschetta, and serve cold with toasted garlic ciabatta bread
(which is what we did last night)
OR
2. Using a panini maker (or a warmed skillet), top ciabatta bread with chicken, bruschetta, lettuce and serve as a panini sandwich.
Well, we devoured our spaghetti and shrimp with massive amounts of the tomato basil mix left over. I felt badly throwing away the foundation of one of the best meals I'd had in months. But pausing momentarily, I realized Nick had made bruschetta! So I stored the remaining bruschetta in the fridge, and last night I created an ab-fab (as Barb would say) meal that surely couldn't go unshared.
Bruschetta Chicken
3 Chicken Breasts - sliced into 1/2inch thick chunks
Olive Oil
Balsamic Vinegar
5-6 slices of white onion
Italian seasoning
Basil
Romaine Lettuce
Ciabatta Bread
In a pan, douse the bottom with EVOO and start to cook the chicken. When the chicken is half cooked, add two turns of balsamic vinegar to the mix. Throw in large onion slices. Top chicken with italian seasoning and basil. Let cook through.
Place chicken in refrigerator to cool off.
Now, here's where you have two options. You can either:
1. Put the chicken over lettuce, top with the bruschetta, and serve cold with toasted garlic ciabatta bread
(which is what we did last night)
OR
2. Using a panini maker (or a warmed skillet), top ciabatta bread with chicken, bruschetta, lettuce and serve as a panini sandwich.
Read Your Keys
Preface
[Can blog entries have prefaces?]
My fingers itch to write. It tingles beneath the surface of my tips and reaches to the lining of my stomach. To scratch it, I simply need to hunker into the couch, open a new blog entry, and write (and scratch) and write (and scratch) and write (and scratch) until the relief consumes me and I've composed another entry... I have, after all, been neglecting my blog this summer.
I sat down three times today to compose an entry, but my cauldron of inspiration is dry. I have a few ideas, but they're premature and essentially reiterating what I've already blogged about repeatedly: my love for autumn and my ache for jeans and scarves and peppermint hot chocolate and a dunkin donuts bagel on a frosty morning.
So, I perused an old textbook from college that lists multiple writing exercises, and while surely I could force a story with each, nothing ignited excitement worth pursuing. But I did encounter an interesting exercise:
Articulate your earliest childhood memory. Describe it in sensory detail to your audience.
I've seen this exercise before. I've heard the phrase "earliest memory" plenty of times in conversation, media, books and writing. I am certainly baffled by this prompt, and moreover thankful that none of my former teachers ever required this as an assignment. Perhaps it is particular to me (though surely, I am not so special), but I have no chronological lineage to my early memories. If I were to create a visual depiction of my memory, it would look like a collage, not a timeline. For a girl so organize, my inability to meticulously categorize my memories is frustrating. However, I, too, have verbalized this phrase, though I will admit in this very moment, its orientation to the story is useless, since I cannot prove it true.
This isn't to say that I don't have a concept of timing. In organizational survival fashion, I have paired my knowledge of my past with authentic memories to construct a hybrid that allows for some idea of setting. And in all honesty, I fake the rest.
But tonight, I will jump from this platform of the early memory. While I cannot sincerely and honestly convey to you my earliest memory, I feel I can delve into an old favorite.
Entry
[What? It's not like blog entries have a first chapter.]
I remember the weight of that old maroon sweatshirt. It cradled me around my shoulders. It hugged me on mild afternoons when the sun warmed and the breeze cooled.
That was my football sweatshirt.
I don't know how old I was, maybe five or six, but it was already a father and daughter Saturday tradition to walk to the college for the game. My memory starts in the same place each time: Mom wrestled on my sweatshirt and laced up my sneakers. Dad slapped on his long brim hat and reached for my hand. Through my dark Buster Brown bangs, I tracked our trek, and we always walked the same route: down Delaware, across Broadway, and through the neighborhood by the college stadium. It was always chilly, but never cold. We passed Mary decorating her front porch with pumpkins and corn stalks. We waved at Mike on his ladder. We leapt over the train tracks, checking, always, for squashed pennies on the rails. Sometimes Dad told stories. Sometimes I did. We talked about school and football.
"We're playing Brockport today. They're going to be tough." - he'd say.
When we arrived at the field, the ticket teller stamped our hands. Waves of red, white, black and gray flooded the stands. College kids chanted taunts at the opponents, their faces painted and words slurred. But we never went directly to the bleachers. Our routine was as old as our tradition. We, first, walked to the concession stand. Standing in line, Dad hollered at the offense. Other fans around us did the same. I could never see the field when we stood in line, so I watched the cheerleaders flip and shimmy their pompoms.
Dad ordered a coffee, a water and two hotdogs, always. We smothered our dogs with ketchup (mustard on Dad's), and walk to the end zone near the smokers and uninterested children rolling in the grass.
There. Dad taught me football. I pinched my face between the triangles of the fence as Dad pointed out the holes in the lines. He named positions. He challenged me to watch one guy for each play.
"Goddamnit! Read Your Keys!" - he'd shout between lessons.
Every Saturday, we spent the first quarter in the end zone.
For the second quarter, Dad and I moved to the bleachers to continue my lesson. I loved the bleachers because I didn't have to squish my face or miss the ball. I could see everything. Dad pointed out plays and instructed me to watch the defense anticipating the offense and the offense outsmarting the defense. The commentator crackled in the dated sound system. The crowd erupted in a collective roar when the offense carried the ball into the end zone. Dad stomped his boots into the bleachers and grabbed my hand in celebration. Fans around us did the same, and an irreversible love for the game and the camaraderie of the fans swelled with every weekend.
Needless to say, this tradition is a standing 24 year tradition, to include half of the regular season in 2011.
Preseason football starts in these next few weeks and I am longing for a heavy sweatshirt, a hot dog and a walk to the stadium with Dad. While Hawaii has it's own idea of football weekends, it's certainly not the same. So, I am counting down to football season 2014 when Nick and I will be back on the mainland and Dad and I will be back in the Cortland stands - at least for a game or two. :)
Monday, August 6, 2012
Defer 'til Ya Die
One of my very dear friends, John Sinsabaugh, is a creative genius. His artistic eye catapulted him into his own business called Mindful Designs Studio where he's works his own freelance design contract with some pretty impressive cliental - like the Rochester Red Wings.
But he never forgets about his friends back home. And since most of us are submerged in the college loan crisis, John designed a shirt for us, to which he will probably market, sell rapid and subsequently pay back his own massive debt. And somewhere, along his way, a nosey reporter will ask how he freed himself from the shackles of sallie mae, to which he will tell the story of this profound shirt he created for his friends in 2012 in an effort to occupy the deferment department of our loan companies. The irony of it all.
To all fellow bloggers out there - when he sells these shirts, I will link you to the site. You should buy four and help a fellow debter with his monthly payments.
Love you Johnny! :) xo
But he never forgets about his friends back home. And since most of us are submerged in the college loan crisis, John designed a shirt for us, to which he will probably market, sell rapid and subsequently pay back his own massive debt. And somewhere, along his way, a nosey reporter will ask how he freed himself from the shackles of sallie mae, to which he will tell the story of this profound shirt he created for his friends in 2012 in an effort to occupy the deferment department of our loan companies. The irony of it all.
To all fellow bloggers out there - when he sells these shirts, I will link you to the site. You should buy four and help a fellow debter with his monthly payments.
Love you Johnny! :) xo
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Team Starmweber
As if my marriage really needed any reinforcement, today I was reminded why I picked Nick as my ultimate teammate.
It was a hard day.
No.
Today was a day that would have sparred any girl to burst into tears multiple times.
In summary: We woke up to our washer/dryer unit in an inch of water, with lint spattered on the walls like a bomb exploded out of the back of the dryer. A typical Sunday for my me and my hubby consists of an early morning venture into town for coffee at our favorite breakfast cafe. Well, today we broke our tradition and instead spent the morning sopping up linty water from the washer pan in our laundry closet. Through sweat and grunting, we (mostly Nick) managed to hoist the dryer off of the washer and into the hallway so we could proceed to clean up the quandary of laundry waste.
Oh it gets better.
After we contacted our property manager for advisement on the unit (which was after the clean up and after Nick tinkered with possibly exploring the problem himself), we decided to tackle the next issue that had come to fruition a few days earlier: my cell phone. The phone has broken twice in the last four months, which angers me blind. We spent the remainder of the rest of the day making two trips into Kapolei to visit the Verizon store, gathering mis-information from incompetent verizon retailers, and calling att to see if we should nix our contract all together. Needless to say, it was already 4:30 before Nick and I finished our second battle of the day.
We spent the remaining hours of daylight crunching numbers and budgeting to include my student loan payments (help me, I'm poor!), while trying to pad our savings account, and as the sun pulled the light from the sky, it sucked my emotional energy with it.
But never once was I alone as I toed the battle lines.
MOREOVER–- as I finished applying for automatic debit for my student loans, sent off a wedding gift and attempted to register our vehicles the state of Hawaii, Nicholas jumped in the kitchen and began preparing the most exquisite Sunday dinner that I have had in a while. As I finished on the computer, Nicholas placed a summer shrimp pasta in front of me. Fresh diced tomatoes, basil, fresh minced garlic and olive oil over spaghetti and accented with sauteed shrimp. Ciabatta garlic bread on the side with a colorful garden salad (and pepperoncinis on mine!), and all paired with a chill moscato. Yum!
I'm not sure I can articulate how wonderful it is to combat days like today with Nick. He is the perfect balance and sanity to the challenges we face as new 'grown-ups'. And to end the day with a delectable dinner and a walk with our Hobbes makes a challenging day like today among my top favorite Sundays of this whole first year of marriage.
A homage to Nick: my husband, my teammate and the one who can ground me in sanity while coloring my life with the magic of love :)
It was a hard day.
No.
Today was a day that would have sparred any girl to burst into tears multiple times.
In summary: We woke up to our washer/dryer unit in an inch of water, with lint spattered on the walls like a bomb exploded out of the back of the dryer. A typical Sunday for my me and my hubby consists of an early morning venture into town for coffee at our favorite breakfast cafe. Well, today we broke our tradition and instead spent the morning sopping up linty water from the washer pan in our laundry closet. Through sweat and grunting, we (mostly Nick) managed to hoist the dryer off of the washer and into the hallway so we could proceed to clean up the quandary of laundry waste.
Oh it gets better.
After we contacted our property manager for advisement on the unit (which was after the clean up and after Nick tinkered with possibly exploring the problem himself), we decided to tackle the next issue that had come to fruition a few days earlier: my cell phone. The phone has broken twice in the last four months, which angers me blind. We spent the remainder of the rest of the day making two trips into Kapolei to visit the Verizon store, gathering mis-information from incompetent verizon retailers, and calling att to see if we should nix our contract all together. Needless to say, it was already 4:30 before Nick and I finished our second battle of the day.
We spent the remaining hours of daylight crunching numbers and budgeting to include my student loan payments (help me, I'm poor!), while trying to pad our savings account, and as the sun pulled the light from the sky, it sucked my emotional energy with it.
But never once was I alone as I toed the battle lines.
MOREOVER–- as I finished applying for automatic debit for my student loans, sent off a wedding gift and attempted to register our vehicles the state of Hawaii, Nicholas jumped in the kitchen and began preparing the most exquisite Sunday dinner that I have had in a while. As I finished on the computer, Nicholas placed a summer shrimp pasta in front of me. Fresh diced tomatoes, basil, fresh minced garlic and olive oil over spaghetti and accented with sauteed shrimp. Ciabatta garlic bread on the side with a colorful garden salad (and pepperoncinis on mine!), and all paired with a chill moscato. Yum!
I'm not sure I can articulate how wonderful it is to combat days like today with Nick. He is the perfect balance and sanity to the challenges we face as new 'grown-ups'. And to end the day with a delectable dinner and a walk with our Hobbes makes a challenging day like today among my top favorite Sundays of this whole first year of marriage.
A homage to Nick: my husband, my teammate and the one who can ground me in sanity while coloring my life with the magic of love :)
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