Dreams Gettin' Me Sappy

I had a dream last night that had me thinking when I woke up. My mind drifted back to my wedding but from other’s perspective…

I remember what it felt like to stand up for Jessy, Lisa, Sarah and Viki. I felt honored and proud that I was their friend and that I was close enough to them to be chosen for a bridesmaid. I like to think that the attendants, readers, and family involved in my wedding felt the same way.

My dream was about the future and led me to think about weddings from my parents’ friends’ perspective. Those people who were in their wedding, who later heard the announcement that my parents were pregnant with me, who celebrated with them when I was born and then, 25 years later, when I got married.

I woke up smiling at the prospect that some day I will be that friend – sitting in the middle of a pew watching Emily or Alex get married and looking up at my girl friend in the second row crying. I think that when the time comes I’ll cry not for those who are getting married, but at the lifelong friendship I’ll have had with their mother and how, 25 years prior to that, she was with me and celebrated my wedding.

I hope that I’ll be a good enough friend in the present so that these thoughts are a reality in the future.

Happy 80th Birthday, Grandpa

On this, my grandfather’s 80th birthday, I’d like to recall a few memorable things about him:

1) According to my grandmother, he lost his butt around the same time he lost 4.5 inches off his height
2) When my father asks him if he has any “spare cherry” (wood) that he can have, the consistent response: “Hell No”
3) That in his growing age he has a tendency to tell the girlfriends of his grandson’s that they need to model whatever clothes, especially lingerie they have received for their birthday, Christmas, etc.
4) When I tell him I love him he always responds “you too” rather than the full phrase
5) My pride when my mother told me how he and grandma generously donate to Red Cross after every major disaster worldwide
6) During any fishing outing he catches no less than four times as many fish any of his companions
7) The now infamous “Love it” after receiving gifts
8) Consistent stock tips, leads on new businesses coming into the area, and advice on anything wood-working related that comes to Jim and I
9) My concern that he was going to think Jerry Springer was representation of the real world
10) Repetition of the same stories (when Kroger came to him for raisons), jokes (when the pope drove the limo and got pulled over), and phrases ("where ya goin'? No where. Whatcha doin'? Nothing.") over and over to the same people year in and year out

Happy Birthday, Grandpa!

Grandpa at Christmas 2005

Well, tradition continues with a wacky Templin-family Christmas. The star of the festivities was undoubtedly my grandfather (mother’s father, Grandpa Wolf). Here were some of the highlights:

1) At dinner Christmas Eve Grandpa tells me that he and Grandma tried out Nothing But Noodles at my suggestion. He then proceeded to go on and on about how bad it was and demonstrated this fact by gagging and giving it two thumbs down. Problem: I liked it so much and was sure they would that I bought them a $25 gift certificate to NBN! I leaned over and told Uncle Tom about my dilemma and after much debate we came up with exchanging gift cards with one that he and my aunt Mary had up at the house. After a quick wrap job and re-tagging of the GC withTom & Mary Ann’s name things were settled. By present-opening time it seemed everyone in the family but them knew about the mishap. When T & MA opened their “new gift” much laughter rang out and Grandpa, who still had no idea what was going on, started in again on how bad the restaurant was, which made us all laugh even harder.

2) Every gift Grandpa opened had the same routine: tear the wrapping paper off, un-tape the box, crack it open and peer in. He’d then quickly shut the box roll his head and eyes around and go “ohhhh! It’s a good one”. He of course had no idea what was in the box as he’d consistently forget his glasses and would open the box so little that not even light could get in. When he would finally open the box and reveal the gift, half the time he’d have to ask my mom next to him what it was.

3) Mike, my brother, gave Grandpa a dual CD with Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra on it. Grandpa’s response: “Oh, two dead ones! Love it”. “Love it”, the phrase said after every gift he opened, was said in this freaky kind of gay tone which was over the top to hear from an 80-year-old man.

4) Greg, my other brother, got Grandpa PER HIS REQUEST Aqua Velva cologne which smells as cheap as it is. Note that this stuff is like a collector’s item and had to be bought on E-Bay. Grandpa was thrilled to open it and went on and on about how the “Ladies love it” and he’ll have to push them off to keep them away. My grandmother just rolled her eyes.

5) Grandpa bought Jim a fishing pole, reel and accessories for Christmas. After explaining how to assemble the equipment, how each part worked and confirming that Jim understood him he replies “good, now come over sometime soon and I’ll put it together for you.”

Even as I write this I know I’ll be grateful because a few years from now (hopefully) when he’s passed, I’ll be able to look back on this and laugh as we did all weekend when my immediate family told and retold the stories from the weekend. He truly is a special, great man.

Christmas Gift Cycles

The routine of gift-giving has just gotten worse. Jim just moved to a new group at P&G that consists mostly of women. As one could guess, though logically not fathom, they all felt the need to give random Christmas presents to him on Monday. He toted home gift certificates, chocolate towers, photo albums, etc. and looked at me expectantly. At least said women were thoughtful enough to do this all on Monday so I had a day to return the “favor”. And so, being the married woman I am, I head out Monday night to shop on behalf of Jim for presents for people I’ve never met and know nothing about.

Why do we get in these gift cycles. Does anyone really want to spend the time, money and effort on buying gifts for co-workers, long-lost friends, distant relatives? What does this accomplish? NOTHING GOOD. It starts the dumb cycle of gift-buying for the next 20 years as no one wants to be the first one to be rude and not return the gesture.

Yes, Christmas has gotten WAY too commercialized and the new traditions have nothing to do with “the meaning of Christmas” – they have to do with the required, auxiliary gift-giving routines everyone follows.

Weekend of 12/17

I am Christmas cantata’d out. We (J & I) went to church on Sunday (close your mouth!) and instead of a traditional service they had a hour and fifteen minute Christmas cantata. While I really enjoyed most of the music, and did actually give deep thought (I’m not joking) to the meaning of Christmas, it went on entirely too long. Poor Jim, who does not like live music in general, was about ready to hang himself.

Later last night we drove out to Red Bank Road to watch friends’ Christmas singing performance. They did a really good job and sang a mix of “traditional” Christmas carols and a bunch of the random ones people write and dream will become classics.

Between this and the other hanging out we did (thanks for dinner, Jon & Kristi; and for game-night Jess & Sean) I believe that we have successfully conveyed to people how busy we are. Twice I heard “these are our friends, Jim & Karen. These are the people you have to book a month in advance with if you want to hang out.” These comments made me happy for two reasons: 1) I feel flattered that I have enough friends and activities to be busy all the time, and 2) people are learning not to get offended if we tell them we have other plans and can’t make their event.

NOTE: This does NOT mean you should stop inviting us places.

Talking Sex With Mom

http://www.cnn.com/2005/US/09/28/talking.sex/index.html

Interesting article about a CNN reporter facing his mother’s new book: a auto-biography of her sex life. Here’s a teaser of the story:



Talking sex with Mom

I used to think there was nothing worse than imagining your own parents having sex. I was wrong.

You know what's worse? Learning your parents' sex life is more interesting than your own.

As a kid, sex was something I never really discussed with my parents.
WASPs generally don't talk about such things.

The really weird thing is, a few months ago my mom's sex life became an open book. Literally.
She decided to write a memoir discussing the men in her life. It turns out there have been rather a lot of them -- romances and hookups, big names and big drama.

Fall 2005 Semester Officially OVER!

DONE. My presentation with the group was last night and went well. I have to say it went well because I did 90% of the presenting and have no intentions of insulting myself.

My final in Economics, on the other hand, did not go so well on Monday night. I took a ½ day of work to study and did for nearly 4.5 hours. When I got to the exam, I breezed right through the True/False (12 pts), Multiple Choice (12 pts) and Short Answer (26 pts). Then, holy shit, I got to the essays worth 25 pts. each. How is it possible that out of the three I had to choose to do 2 from, that I didn’t know how to do any of them?! That’s when I started freaking out. By the time the second last person left, leaving me sitting there alone, the last freakin’ person in the room taking the test, my hands were shaking and my handwriting was crap. Somehow I muddled through, made up what I’m not sure was even a half decent answer, and turned it in.

It was awful. Hopefully my other good grades up to that point will be enough to counteract the C I surely got on the damn test. 15 weeks of work to maintain an A in what has been called the hardest class in the MBA and it’s potentially shot after one stupid final.

Yeah, I’ll shut up now because I hear myself starting to sound like Hermione Granger.

I'm Afraid

OK, I know this means you all will do it now...

While re-reading my posted blog I hit "next blog" in the top right corner, thinking I'd find someone, like me, posting random things. It took me to some Riley chick's porno blog with several pictures! I got more than an eyefull of all kinds of her.

EEK.

Group Projects

As many of you know, I'm currently getting my MBA at XU. When I finish my degree (next May) that will constitute 19 years of my life having been spent in school. What I'm about to write was true 19 years ago, is true today, and I'm sure will be true 39 years from now: GROUP PROJECTS SUCK.

I'm in a MGMT class right now and am presently working on my second group project with the same horde of people. While everyone is very nice in real life, why is it not possible to find a group of people who all have the same diligence of working, caliber of writing skills, and intent to get an ‘A’?

On the last go-around at this 2 months ago the editor my group sent out the “final” draft of the paper for last-minute reviews. When I read it I was appalled that anyone would consider submitting it for a grade. Grammar was horrid, punctuation was about non-existent, and half of the content was repetitive. I had to spend an hour during work revising the paper just so I wasn’t embarrassed to have my name on it. No surprise that now, for our final project together, the same results ensued.

The concept of working together and learning how to deal with conflict is admirable, I suppose. But can’t professors achieve that goal in a non-graded format?! Why is it that my ‘A’ has to be in the hands of 3 total strangers?

All you teachers out there- listen up. No good comes from group projects. Ever. The only thing that ever results is that the high-achievers in the class get irritated and the slackers pull off an undeserved grade because the other sect can’t stand not getting good grades. Group projects suck.

Damn thing made me cry!

Quite possibly the most touching forward i have ever gotten!! it had all the ladies in my office reaching for tissues!


THE OLD PHONE
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone's number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.

I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. "Information, please" I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information."
"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open the icebox?" she asked. I said I could.
"Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math.
She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called, Information Please," and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Wayne always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone, "Information Please."
"Information," said in the now familiar voice. "How do I spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me.

Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy..

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please."

Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well. "Information." I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."
I laughed, "So it's really you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?"
I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your call meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
"Please do", she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, "Information." I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" she said. "Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."
Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute, did you say your name was Wayne?" "Yes." I answered.

"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you." The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean." I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.