Brave new bird

In the name of research, and not because I have no life, I'm now playing with twitter feed. Let's just call it "professional development" instead of "narcissistic boredom," shall we?

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The S word

I just filled a prescription for two new medications. Out of curiosity, I checked my receipts to see how much they would have cost, had I been one of the uninsured masses. I about choked: nearly $500 for a single month's supply. I recently heard about someone who has lousy insurance and has to purchase a similar medication out of pocket. That person pays about $65 for 100 days worth over the Internet. And where does this cheap medication come from? Why Canada, of course. You know, that continental neighbor that does the unthinkable: ensure that its citizens have affordable health care.

Those commie bastards.

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Everyday Prince Charming

A man and a woman, a couple not too much older than I am, were leaving their office. He went to the coat closet and helped her on with her coat. This simple, chivalrous gesture, carried out with obvious caring in his look and manner, was one of the sweetest things I have seen in a long time. Perhaps it's old-fashioned, but some things are classics for a reason. And it still makes me smile thinking about it.

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The conversations we're REALLY having

It's that special time of year, where couples profess their undying love and the singles pretend not to notice. "What? Oh yeah, is THAT why hearts and roses are plastered on every store end-cap?"

Yep, it's Valentine's Day, the ultimate holiday of the haves and have-nots. And nothing says "I heart u" like those chalky, sugary conversation hearts. This year, I decided to start some conversations that are a tad bit more relevant to my brothers and sisters who, like me, are braving the shallow and muddy dating pool of our 30s and 40s. Let's face it folks, it can be pretty damn scary out there.

So, without further adieu, I give you the "reduced for quick sale" holiday cookies:



Sometimes you're not really looking for something lasting. For those moments, the ONS Collection says it all:



Sure, we all have issues from our childhood, but every once in a while, you meet one of these. If they start saying things like, "I lacked male role models," run. The Parental Collection:



We've all been at this for a while, through the wringer, if you will. Embrace your secondhand status with the Salvo Armani Collection:



We all know the herd has been culled. Why lie? Tell it like it is with the Lowered Expectations Collection:



Raise your hand if you have experienced a crazy. You know what I am talking about. The ones who start using the word "we" after meeting for coffee once and start asking when you will want to meet their parents. The Cuckoo Collection captures this phenomenon with aplomb:



Happy Valentine's Day!

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Kitchen table breakthroughs

I long ago figured out that the dinnertime conversations my children and I have are not exactly of the "Leave it to Beaver" variety. My eldest was musing the other night about things like LSD and 'shrooms and how he wondered if drugs really could expand your mind, like some people say.

"Maybe that's how people could find a cure for cancer. They get super high and then ..."

Well, maybe, sure. It could end with a cure for cancer. It could also end with screaming and fleeing from the scary clown peeking in the window. To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to.

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Farewell friend

He was my next-door neighbor for 12 years, from the first day I bought my house. Everyone else has changed over the years. He stayed put, an aging and fiercely independent widower with no family here in town.

Each spring, I planted an extra basket of petunias and pansies and hung it outside his garage. He always kept it watered. He wasn't overtly social, certainly not the Ned Flanders model of a neighbor, but he was happy to stop and chat about the latest goings-on with his daughter in the Lower 48 or local politics or my job or his health. He watched my children grow up and always had kind words for and about them and about the horde of other kids that now live on our street. He even liked my obnoxious dog and took time to pet her when he went on his forays out to the mailbox. I watched him grow older and I worried, sometimes, about him living alone.

During the winter, if the snow got too deep, I or my teenage son or one of the other neighbors would clear it from in front of the garage. During the winter, he usually only came and went to take the garbage to the dumpster and get the mail. We checked in on him during the holidays. I always sent the kids over with a plate of goodies on Christmas.

And once April and May rolled around, like the rest of the Alaskans, he would emerge from his winter abode into the sunshine. We'd stop to chat in the driveway and he would remark that the kids had grown a lot over the winter.

He won't be meeting me in the driveway this spring. The state troopers stopped by tonight with a familiar and foreboding scenario. Had anyone spoken to him recently? A lone trooper watched the house for a couple of hours. Then the white van arrived. And the gurney. They went into the house and came out carrying a body bag.

It's not that he is gone. He was at least 70 years old. I know his aches and pains had become harder and harder to bear. He and I had talked about aging, and I know that he wanted to die on his own terms, in his own home. Still, I can't help but wonder if we should have checked on him more often, if I could have done something differently.

The spring won't be the same this year. I'm not sure what I will do with that extra flower basket. I'll miss those perfectly prosaic driveway conversations. Each of those moments are, taken alone, of little consequence. Together they form a presence in my life and the life of my family that will be missed. He will be missed. And I hope he knew that before he died.

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Overheard

"When I get an e-mail from her, I feel like the back of my head is in a vise."

Raise your hand if you have one of those people in your life.

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Recession? Reality?

I just did my taxes and found the entire experience quite depressing. Despite a promotion, I'm pretty sure I didn't even keep up with the increased cost of living this year. I'm one of the lucky ones. At least I still have a job. At least I still have a home.

All that said, I am 15 years into my career and am not sure there will ever come a day when I am not holding my breath until the next paycheck. And if things continue at this rate--skyrocketing health insurance rates, less-than-inflation pay increases, energy costs at triple the national average--it will get worse and worse every year. I find myself wondering how I might cope with the possibility of simply not making ends meet and how I ended up even having to think about something like that in the first place. And I wonder how many other people are out there thinking the same thing.

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Come, meet, come (if you're lucky)

A local hotel and restaurant are hosting a "Single Mingle" this weekend. Appetizers, drinks and, well, mingling. The flier boasts, "things are about to get more exciting in the dark ..."

I won't touch on the capitalization. Nor will I say anything about the clumsily executed sexual innuendo, which meshes quite nicely with the wavy Word art.

They dispense with the subtlety in the next section: "Rooms available for $59 plus tax."

C'mon out! Have a food. Drink a little wine. Meet new people. Score.

The waiter said that every call about the event has been from men. I'm shocked (and almost tempted to go and watch.)

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A bubble off

Tonight I sat in my bed in my pajama pants and wrote a press release about my ex. Then I processed pictures of him. It was unnatural. I didn't like it.

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Tenacious past

What if it never goes away, that thing that twists the knife like no other? So many attempts at exorcism, yet the images still remain; it still feels like yesterday. What if there is no finding a way out?

We all go through trials in our lives and time and distance usually renders them harmlessly soft. They are memories--painful, perhaps--but viewed through fog, their jagged edges no longer close enough to slice.

But what of those that refuse to sink into the fog?

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You put in on with what?

Ever heard someone say that a woman looks like she puts her makeup on with a putty knife? Well, apparently L'Oreal has come up with something pretty close:

True-Match roll-on foundation

I wonder if you can buy it at Home Depot along with your putty knife.

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Responsibly busted

Every once in while, my genetic Catholic guilt combined with frustration over lack of money prompts a budget check. I never have any money left over at the end of the month. I must be spending irresponsibly, right? I am 15 years into my career and one of the senior people in my field at my company. I should have money left to save, right. Paycheck-to-paycheck is something for 20-somethings in college, right?

So I pull up Excel and make little rows for my expenses: Utilities, credit cards, transportation. Expenses are high, but my debt-to-asset ratio is ridiculously good, given that I own my house outright. I don't have any expensive habits like smoking or gambling. I don't even have cable TV. I keep my thermostat at 60 degrees at night. I am typing in the dark right now.

Then I plug in my income. I'm feeling very proactive and organized and grown up right about now. I'm being Responsible. I am creating a personal Budget. I am an Adult.

Click, click. Tap, tap. Digits entered. Formula in. What the hell? Seriously? I am supposed to feed and clothe and pay medical expenses for my family of 4 on $1,100 a month. Shit. Groceries are at least $200 a week.

I'm not irresponsible. I'm just effing broke!

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Budding lefties

My children screeched when they found a picture of Dubya in their old school papers. One read the form letter out loud. Another said, "This was not written by George Bush. This was written by someone who actually knows what a comma is."

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Seriously?

Apparently I don't even have to be present to crunch up my pickup. Nor did I have to leave it parked in the middle of some road somewhere.

Here is a picture of my truck innocently parked all straight and proper, exactly where I left it at 9 a.m.:



Here is the front end of my truck when I returned at 6:45 p.m.:



Wait a minute. Rewind. WTF? How the hell does a vehicle parked head-in up against an embankment end up with a crunched front end? That was exactly my thought when I saw the note on my windshield and walked around the truck to see the crushed grill, bent bumper and obliterated front headlight assembly.

An errant boulder? A couple of hockey players in a parking lot brawl? Joyriding considerate thieves who decided to return the vehicle to the exact same parking space? Demonic possession? Climate change?

I called the number on the slip of paper and was greeted by something nearly as absurd.

My truck was attacked by an embankment-jumping Ford Focus that had been parked right about where that bumper from another car is poking out in the left-hand side of the first photo. Seems the person starting the Focus didn't know about that pesky quirk standard transmissions have. You know the one. It dictates that a person would be wise to take the vehicle out of first gear before starting it. One turn of the key and apparently this little Focus popped right over the curb and down the embankment, neatly lodging its tenacious self in my front grill.

Super Focus was gone when I got there this evening, a note from the driver and a crunched truck all that remained from the circus. I still have no idea how they got the damn thing dislodged. I'll have to ask the kid next time I talk to him.

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Final count

Posted today at the borough's Web site. Questioned and absentee ballots are included in this count.

Tammie Wilson--8263 (47.57 percent)
Luke Hopkins--9107 (52.43 percent)

Whew!

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Three dozen

It's after midnight and I have entered the last half of my 30s.

I'm always a bit contemplative at anniversaries of any sort. I find value in pondering the past, seeing where I have come from. And I have, but just briefly. The last year was, by most accounts, among the darkest in recent memory. I know where I was this time last year. It warrants just a glance. An acknowledgment, and little else, of how much of the present I missed then.

My teenage son woke me up this morning with "Mom, can I have $5? Oh, and happy birthday." I slipped him the cash, laughed and dozed off. My colleagues brought cake and coffee. My phone and chat window and e-mail chirped with greetings throughout the day, short, but noticed, reminders of the richness of my life.

After work, I joined some friends for dinner at a local restaurant. I looked around the table. My youngest daughter and my friend's daughter were giggling at the far end. My teenage son and daughter sat across from them, looking genuinely happy and amused at their antics. At my right was a man I adore and across the table was a woman who took time she could scarcely afford to spend a few hours with us. My dear friend, and architect of the evening, and her husband rounded out the group. And as they sang and I blushed, I wondered if any of them knew how happy I felt just to have them all there.

I arrived home to a message from my father, wishing me a happy birthday. My children scurried to their bedrooms to gather the gifts they had wrapped two days prior, the ones they bought when my parents drove 220 miles round trip to take them shopping for me. My son rummaged for candles, his voice, childlike with a man's tenor, directing me to sit down at the dining room table. They sang as they marched out carrying presents and cake, their faces bright. A flurry of paper and singing cards and "open this one next, Mom" followed, the little one wiggling with excitement and the teenagers simply themselves; cool doesn't matter.

At times in my life I have expended great amounts of energy chasing some distant happiness. And while goals are important, I hope that I can remember the value of looking, not ahead, but around. So much of what I need, I already have.

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Munkisms overheard

This is what your kid is REALLY doing instead of paying attention in class.

"I do all sorts of things when I am bored: play with pencils, stare at the zipper on my pants."

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The virtual I, resurrected

Cocktails

Looking for results? Visit the Fairbanks North Star Borough online.

Grab a beer, sit down and join us:




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Black hole

I was reminded yesterday of how truly awful people can be to each other. It is remarkable how, under the guise of some twisted idea of love, a person will hold on so tightly to another. His suffocating grip first extinguishes all joy from the life of the object of his obsession. And as this poor soul, like a kitten in the grip of a clueless toddler, tries to escape, her captor simply holds on tighter. Eventually, joy is not the only casualty. Eventually the life leaves her eyes, her ambition dies, as does every other thing that gave her worth as a human being. What's left is limp, empty, lifeless, a shadow of its former self. And still the captor clings desperately to his possession. She might be nearly dead, but she is still his.

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