Saying Thank You

Why is it that some people find it so difficult -- or foreign or unpleasant -- to say 'thank you?' I work in donor relations at a university and one thing we do really well is say 'thank you.' In fact, donor stewardship is like a science, although it's difficult to measure the results of providing good stewardship quantitatively. Obviously, if a donor keeps on giving to an institution, then its development staff must be doing something right. And that something is, more often than not, saying thank you. But they don't just say 'thank you.' They say it meaningfully and in different ways, and they show donors what their monetary gifts have done, what differences they've made in the lives of people. This is key.

One part of my job is collecting feedback from scholarship recipients, who are asked to respond to two prompts on a website: 1) Express your thanks and appreciation to your scholarship donor and 2) talk about your studies and your future plans. The most interesting part of my job is receiving these replies from students and editing their responses for grammar, style, and graciousness.

Some students are very gracious - in fact, their stories bring tears to your eyes. "My parents came over in a boat from Vietnam and I am the first person in my family to attend college. We are dirt poor and my parents work at a factory 7 days a week to support my sister's and my college educations. Without your scholarship, I would be working behind Plexiglas at a 7-11 and would have no future. Now, I plan to graduate in civil engineering and specialize in concrete." Yeah!

Then, there are kids who don't seem to appreciate their scholarships. Some can barely bring themselves to say 'thank you;' others don't say it at all. "Without this money, I would have to get a part time job, which would take my time away from my studies." How inspiring. Don't you just want to open up your checkbook right now and give MORE to that student?

I've always been a 'thank you' kind of gal, even before I was in fund raising. It comes naturally. Sometimes I even gush too much. I expect others to be thankful, too, and when they're not, I get a tad bit annoyed. Maybe these people just weren't exposed to gratefulness as kids, or they simply feel entitled.

Try thanking someone for something that you appreciate and see how it makes you feel.

Daily Meditation

I wonder who still reads this blog anymore. I have a feeling my dad does because occasionally he will refer to something I said, albeit obliquely, without mentioning the source. I can only surmise that he has read my blog, as he is not, I don't think, clairvoyant.

I had fallen out of the habit of writing regularly a while ago, when I was going through all sorts of problems that I didn't feel comfortable sharing with the world. Do you know how it is when all you can think about is your specific problem, and nothing else matters or is interesting? Well, that's how life was about a year and a half ago. Not so much now. My life is fairly balanced and steady, and I am, for the most part, happy.

It occurred to me that I should start a new blog, or rename this one. It would be a new start, a new brand, and a new attitude. 'Cuz I have a new attitude. But then I'll read an old post on Baboon, like this one from three years ago, and it will make me laugh my ass right off because I used to be so god-damned funny. And I think, why break the continuity? People should be able to read the old stuff as well as the new, and find it in one place. Besides - my past is what has made me who I am today, so why shed it off like yesterday's snakeskin?

Often when I'm at work I'll muse about something -- a meditation, if you will -- and I will think, "I should blog about that!" But, by the time I get home, I have forgotten the thought and I don't have time to blog. What I would like to turn this blog into is a daily meditation kinda thing -- sort of like Jack Handey's "Deep Thoughts," only in earnest. I'll have to ponder this idea further...

Mid-Life Crisis

I think I’ve figured out what a midlife crisis is: It’s having arrived at a certain age and realizing that you can’t turn back. The decisions you've made have set you on a certain trajectory, and it’s too late to undo them or get another chance. This applies to having a family or not; your chosen profession or lack thereof; and your good or bad health. Perhaps this is why some men around this age buy red sports cars and dump their wives for younger models. It's nothing but a pathetic effort to be young again, and to undo the damage that has already been done.

I don't think I'm having a mid-life crisis: this is just something that occurred to me while eating lunch today. I guess the one irrevocable thing about my life is that I will never have more than one child. And I am okay with that.

Drop-In Guests

My mom, bless her heart, doesn't handle the unexpected very well. She likes to know what she will be doing well in advance, and always gives herself ample time to travel to her destination. (She calls it "senior citizen time.") She also loathes people who are late, or worse -- people who just "drop by" unannounced.

When I was a kid, we had family friends who would drop by unannounced on occasion. Despite her contempt for such behavior, my mom would always be a gracious hostess when such visitors came by, pouring wine and taking the time to sit around and shoot the shit -- until the guests were ready to leave. The drop-by guests were usually on their way to or from somewhere, and it had just occurred to them at the spur of the moment to make a slight detour to come see us. My mom thought these people were selfish and inconsiderate, and spared no words about them once they had left. In contrast, I thought it was nice of our guests to think of us and bother coming to see us.

Like a moth drawn to the flame of sociability, I always welcomed these unplanned visits and enjoyed a chance to play with our friends' kids. I relished the unpredictability of such evenings, which sometimes turned into impromptu dinners, ending quite late.

It seems that nobody drops by anyone's house any more. Hell, nobody even visits any more -- unless they've been invited to a formal party, complete with Evite. I've found that people usually want to meet in public spaces these days, like bars or restaurants. This does make a lot of sense for busy people who have no time to scrub the toilet, bleach the shower-curtain, or vacuum the house in preparation for guests; however, I miss the days of the home-cooked meal dinner party, hanging out at people's houses with no particular agenda, and the drop-in visit.

Just last week, Honeybee and I had just returned from the grocery store and were unloading bags out of the car when Honeybee's preschool teacher pulled up on her bicycle. She was on her way home from work, had seen us, and stopped to say 'hi.' We were both delighted to see her, and I invited her in for a beer. Preschool Teacher graciously accepted, and ended up hanging out in our kitchen while the child and I followed a complicated recipe for jam-thumbprint cookies for a school event the next day. Preschool Teacher was perfectly content hanging out while we worked in the kitchen, and we were delighted by her company.

Soon after Preschool Teacher left, I received a phone call from another friend who said he was in the neighborhood and asked if he might drop by with the baby. I said, "Sure, come on over!" So he did, and Honeybee got to play with a sweet two-year-old while I visited with our friend. Soon after, Papa Dog came home from work and I had to leave for music rehearsal. Our friend hung around a while longer and shot the breeze with Papa Dog. Fun was had by all.

Later that evening, I remarked to Papa Dog: "Isn't it funny that we had two unexpected guests visit today, when we usually have no guests?" Papa Dog agreed, although he did end up putting the child to bed a bit later than planned, due to the socializing. But that's no big deal, occasionally.

The difference between my mom and me -- vis-à-vis drop-by or short-notice guests -- is that she views the interaction as a more formal occasion than I do. She wants the house to be spic and span, the pantry well-stocked, and her make-up put on just right before presenting herself and her home to the outside world. I, on the other hand, wouldn't care if my house were messy and if I were wearing sweat pants and a raggedy old T-shirt. If there are beverages in the fridge and food in the pantry, and I don't have to be anywhere, my friends are welcome to visit and set a spell.

Sonji

I am not myself these days. Normally confident, resilient, and ever-the-optimist, I have morphed into a grumbling, pouting, hypochondrial misery-monger who's convinced she's got some rare disease that will render her limbs useless by the year's end. I ache all over: my neck has areas of pain; my hands tingle with numbness; and my right eye has been red and puffy -- as though bitten by a black widow spider -- for the past week or more. It oozes and has even developed a crust! I went to the doctor a week ago and was told that I have carpal tunnel syndrome -- and to use ibuprofin, wear a wrist splint while I sleep, apply ice, and avoid biking for a while. I've done some of that -- Motrin and the splint -- but have ignored the other advice. I will see another doctor on Thursday to talk about my neck cancer or whatever the fuck it is. I am expecting to be given a battery of tests that will confirm my worst suspicions: that I am a short-timer and will die by Christmastime. My poor family -- what will they do without me? Survive, I am sure. We are a resilient species.

Did I mention that I've been behaving like a raging bitch? I have been feeling really fucked up since Oso died in May. Perhaps all of this pain shit I'm experiencing is psychosomatic -- that my grief over the dead dog has chosen to manifest itself in an assortment of weird physical symptoms. Everybody's always talking about the mind/body connection: there's got to be some truth to it.

If you follow me at all on Facebook, you may have noticed that I've been a bit dog-obsessed lately, since our beloved Akita/Husky dog Oso died. I have been posting dog pictures, updating my status to say "Twizzle is dog crazy!" and other things that would lead one to believe that I am off my rocker. I have also been perusing Akita rescue sites, as well as Akita breeder sites. I've even gone as far as communicating with people in Southern Californa about Akitas who are up for adoption.

One dog in particular, Sonji, won my heart a couple of weeks ago. A three or four year old Akita, Sonji was being kept at the Oakland Animal Shelter, but her adoption was being facilitated by a local Akita Rescue organization. I talked to the Akita Rescue guy (whom I'd met more than five years ago) about Sonji, and even went as far as letting him know that my family would be willing to foster the dog if the Oakland shelter (which is a kill shelter) got too crowded. Akita Rescue guy was grateful for my offer, but didn't seem to think that Sonji's situation would come to that. He did encourage me to go to the dog pound to meet her. So, in preparation for a visit, I printed out Sonji's picture from the internet, hung it on the refrigerator, and talked about her to Honeybee and Papadog incessantly. (I had fallen in dog-love.)

We arrived at the dog pound on Saturday, shortly after it opened at noon, and found Sonji among the dogs in the first row of cells. In contrast to the other hounds, most of whom were loud, barky, jumpy, or pathetic, there sat Sonji: poised, quiet, alert, smiling, wagging, and friendly as all get-out. We stuck our fingers through the bars of the cell to pet Sonji, but they were too close together, making it nearly impossible to touch her fur. After a few minutes, our name was called and we were told to meet the attendant with Sonji outside.

Sonji looked better in person than she had in any of her photos: Fawn colored with white feet; a black muzzle; and a curly tail. She was of a medium build (about 75 lbs) and her eyes looked intelligent, as Akitas eyes generally do. Her triangular ears stood at attention, and her sense of smell seemed to be extra keen. There was wagging.

We followed the attendant and Sonji into the yard, a large fenced area where visitors can take prospective dogs out for a "test run." Because Sonji hadn't peed in almost 24 hours, the first thing she did was squat. Then, she bounded around the yard, collar- and leash-free, expending some of the energy she'd saved up while in her cell for the past several hours. It was almost shocking to see a young dog exhibit so much energy, compared to tired and moribund old Oso, who couldn't even walk at the end of his life. I had forgotten how fast and strong young dogs could be! I trotted Sonji around the yard a couple of times, then Papa Dog did the same. He also made her sit and lie down, which she did when enticed with a dog biscuit. Honeybee excitedly ran after the dog until the attendant said, "Uh, maybe you shouldn't let your child chase the dog like that. Sonji doesn't quite know her own strength." "Yeah," we parents agreed, feeling a bit foolish. Sonji seemed so kid-friendly, it hadn't even occurred to us that there could be any danger.

After we had all taken turns running around with and petting Sonji, we thought we'd better get ready to leave, as other people were waiting to see the dog. The attendant assured us that we should take our time, that we should not hurry at all. "That's okay," I said. "Thank you very much for showing us Sonji." And we walked away.

Today I checked the Akita Rescue website (as I have been doing obsessively since Saturday) and found that Sonji had been adopted. She was probably taken home by the people who had seen her immediately after we did. Even though our family had never seriously considered adopting this dog, my heart sank when I read the update. It was actually a weird mixture of sadness and relief.

Later today, I made the mistake of telling Honeybee that Sonji had been adopted by some other people. "What?!" she asked, tears welling up in her eyes. "You mean we're not going to adopt Sonji?" "No," I said, tears forming in my eyes, too. "We had never been serious about adopting her; we just visited her at the Animal Shelter because we wanted to meet her -- in case we got to foster her." Then the floodgates really broke loose, and loud wailing commenced. "I want Sonji!" Honeybee cried. "Why can't we adopt her?" "Because some other people have adopted her, that's why." I explained, feeling like the biggest shit-heel of a mother, ever.

The tears have subsided, but sad feelings about this dog linger, in both Honeybee's and my hearts. It was a dumb thing for me to do -- suggesting that we visit a beautiful, available dog at the pound whom we had no intention of taking home -- and getting the child's hopes up about getting another dog soon. Honeybee often talks about missing Oso and wanting another dog. Lately, because of the picture of Sonji on the 'fridge and my obsessive blathering about this dog, the object of the child's canine desire has been Sonji. I probably shouldn't have even mentioned that the dog was adopted. It's not as though the child needed closure or anything. It was I who needed closure. And now this door is shut.

Unemployment = Creativity

I've been unemployed since January 23, 2009 and have yet to receive an offer. I've come close a couple of times: one nonprofit told me that I was the second-best candidate and the competition was very fierce. Another prospective employer (a major university) told me that I was "GREAT PERSON" and had "so much to offer," but another candidate was slightly more qualified than I and got the offer. I have phone interviewed and interviewed for many other positions, and have usually not been called back afterward, except to hear that I did not get the job. Getting no further than an interview in the job search process does indeed suck; however, there is a silver lining: unemployment has enabled me to exercise my creativity for the first time in more than a decade.

I recently reconnected with an old friend from the mid-eighties through Facebook. This guy, let's call him Bucknell, is a visual artist and musician who has, for as long as I've known him, made "art postcards" for friends, and has encouraged them to do the same. A few months ago, I told Bucknell that I was interested in doing the art postcard exchange with him, so he sent me a postcard. It was a strange painting, on a piece of cardboard, of a close up of an ant's head – focusing on the antennae. It was exceeding well done. Feeling compelled to send something back, I put quickly cobbled together a collage featuring the faces of my favorite two icons: Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and President Richard M. Nixon. Bucknell seemed gratified to receive my card, and sent me another one quickly. I didn't respond to it for a couple of months, feeling constrained by my lack of art supplies. Collage is a fine form, but I wanted to paint.

After much procrastination, I finally bought some acrylic paints. I had never painted with acrylics before -- only water color -- and man, I found out what I had been missing! For one thing, acrylic paint is very versatile: unlike watercolors, you can glob the shit on, or water it down to a watercolor-like consistency. And you can mix colors to your heart's content! I have done a couple of paintings that I really like, and have high hopes that I’ll be cranking out more good work soon.

You may not know this about me, but I play a bunch of different instruments: flute, saxophone, guitar, piano, zither, bass, and ukulele. (I think that's all.) Last month, I volunteered to accompany, on guitar, Honeybee's preschool class's singing of the Irish tune, Molly Malone, at their graduation ceremony. I practiced with them about five times and discovered that I was really looking forward to "performing," even though I was just the accompanist standing in the background. The ceremony went swimmingly!

So, I went and joined my church's bluegrass band, which plays Appalachian bluegrass hymns and gospel music during church services about twice a month. The Angel Band is one of the things that attracted me to my church to begin with, and I had always pined to be a part of the group, but figured that one had to have more bluegrass experience than I did. (My only credential was having been obsessed with the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack since the movie came out.

The band practices Wednesday nights and for an hour on the Sunday mornings when we're performing. Yesterday morning was my first performance with the band. We played Uncloudy Day.

I absolutely love playing in a band again! As you may recall, my beloved dog died a few weeks ago, which has put me in rather a depressive slump as of late. But I have found that picking up my guitar and singing my heart out with other talented musicians makes all the sadness go away. When I am playing, I become completely immersed in the activity and think of nothing but the music. Isn't there a word for the feeling of being so completely engaged in an activity that you forget everything else? Is it "flow" or "Zen?"

So, being unemployed, while not so great for the pocketbook, has paid off in other, more meaningful ways: it was given me the time and mental space to rediscover my creative side, which I thought had pretty much died after going back to work post-childbirth. During my last job, I never had time to do anything other than keep my head afloat and take care of the child's needs. I was barely able to schedule a haircut for myself every six months! While I am still pursuing full-time employment, I have carved out some space in my life to make art and music -- which makes me happy. And I am possibly a better mother because of it.

Uncloudy Day
Lyrics and Music: Rev J Alwood


It is well-known as a hymn and gospel song, as well as being covered by Willie Nelson and others.

They tell me of a home far beyond the skies
And they tell me of a home far away
They tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise
They tell me of an unclouded day

Chorus
The land of cloudless days
The land of an unclouded sky
They tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise
They tell me of an unclouded day

They tell me of a home where my friends have gone
And they tell me of that land far away
Where the tree of life in eternal bloom
Sheds its fragrance through the unclouded day

[chorus]

They tell me of the King in His beauty there
And they tell me that mine eyes shall behold
Where He sits on a throne that is whiter than snow
In the city that is made of gold

[chorus]

They tell me that He smiles on His children there
And His smile drives their sorrows away
And they tell me that no tears ever come again
In that lovely land of unclouded day

[chorus]

Like a Dawg

My apologies to Messieurs Samberg and Rogen for parodying their clever video, "Like a Boss." This is a tribute to my loyal companion, Oso, who passed away on May 23, 2009.

Like a Dawg

Oso, thanks for coming to your Obedience Training review.
No problem.
So you're the canine around here, is that fair to say?
Absolutely, I'm the dawg.
Okay, so take us through a day in the life of the dawg.

Well the first thing I do is...

Stretch and yawn (like a dawg)
Have my head scratched (like a dawg)
Eat some kibble (like a dawg)
Drink some water (like a dawg)
Lick up crumbs (like a dawg)
Whine to go outside (like a dawg)
Lift my leg up (like a dawg)
Take a long piss (like a dawg)
Sniff some dirt (like a dawg)
Take a gnarly dump (like a dawg)
Chase my tail (like a dawg)
Chase a neighbor’s cat (like a dawg)
Too fuckin’ slow (like a dawg)
Be disappointed (like a dawg)
Go inside (like a dawg)
Hang dog expression (like a dawg)
Lick my master’s face (like a dawg)
Lick my own balls (like a dawg)
Get in the car (like a dawg)
Go to the dog park (like a dawg)
Chase a mastiff (like a dawg)
Get in a fight (like a dawg)
Get my ass kicked (like a dawg)
Hang head in shame (like a dawg)
Hump a poodle’s head (like a dawg)
Get yelled at (like a dawg)
Roll in a cow pie (like a dawg)
Get hosed off (like a dawg)
Get the car seats filthy (like a dawg)
Go back home (like a dawg)
Lap up some water (like a dawg)
Snack on biscuits (like a dawg)
Take a nap (like a dawg)
Go to the vet (like a dawg)
Have my balls chopped off (like a dawg)
Now I’m neutered (like a dawg)
Live for twelve years (like a dawg)
Now I'm dead (like a dawg)

Uh huh. So that's an average day for you then?
No doubt.
You have your balls chopped off and die?
Hell yeah.
And I think at one point there you said something about licking your own balls.
Nope!
Actually I'm pretty sure you did.
Nah, that ain't me.
Okay, well this has been eye opening for me.
I'm the dawg.
Yeah, no I got that. You said it about four-hundred times.
I'm the dawg.
Yeah yeah I got it!
I'm the dawg.
No I heard you, see ya later.
LIKE A DAWG!