On May 13, 2009, I wrote about Amarillo, Texas, specifically stating I did not anticipate ever moving back.
Guess what. Saturday, May 23, 2009 (a sad and pathetic TEN days later), the decision was made by the Tortoreo Clan - Coconut Creek Division - to move back to Amarillo.
Hmmm. What, you may ask, inspired this shrewd and calculated move?
1. Winters are lovely in Amarillo, a stark comparison to the drab, breezy, 70-something days of Fort Lauderdale.
2. The beauty and spectacle of the elusive and rare Tornado is something not to be missed, and quite harmless in nature, contrary to popular belief (and those darned misleading news reports).
3. Really, how many palm trees does one person need to see in his or her lifetime?
4. There's too much money in South Florida. The spectacle of BMWs, Mercedes, Ferraris, (and on and on) is just the sad attempt of people with money to find happiness in material things, when truly they should be looking for the inner beauty in themselves, and in those people driving 20-year-old, beat up Toyotas and the occasional Fiat.
5. When the polar ice caps melt because of global warming, all of our sun-loving friends will be dead, buried beneath the flooded low-lands of this everglades state. The Tortoreo's will be safe, warm (or cold in winter, depending on when this occurs), and dry.
Oh, Amarillo. Where else could you possibly want to live!
Monday, May 25, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Movie Nut
I love movies. They're an escape, an escapade; a way to touch laughter and lust; historical and hysterical; a way to lose myself to it, or find a piece of myself in it. I suspect that's why people who love movies get into the business. Some early footage of George Lucas shows his work and the passion he had for it. Some might say (I'd like to remain on the fence for this one) that American Graffiti was George Lucas' most enduring and most truthful piece, and we all know it was one of his first. (Some nights when I write, I feel a little like Steve Martin - I'm a ramblin, ramblin. . . )
So, come on, you movie freaks! Give me your thoughts!
I'm a huge Star Wars fan - Episodes IV, V and VI. I'll have to vote for Episode V, since it is the one in which Han Solo get a little dirty and lippy with Princess Leia. Let's be honest - who wouldn't want to get a little lippy with Han Solo? Episodes I, II and III were fine, although I still think casting Hayden Christiansen was a HUGE mistake - he just didn't do it for me.
In about 1990, I went through a 12 to 18 month period during which I watched ALIENS virtually every day. I can still recite the lines verbatim: "We're in some real pretty shit now, man. Game over, man. Game OVER!" "They mostly come out at night, mostly." "He can't make that kind of decision - he's just a grunt. No offense." "None taken." "I may be synthetic, but I'm not stupid." Bunch of badass marines in space, Newt the first real survivor (wait, it's in the future, but. . .), and Ripley KICKS ASS. Who couldn't watch that movie over and over and over again? I wanted to be tough like Vasquez, a smart aleck like Hudson, and what woman wouldn't want to be stuck in an elevator (being chased by a swarm of Aliens) with Hicks? *I will be forever grateful to my sister Sarah for giving me the ALIEN Superpack for Christmas one year. It's the gift that keeps on giving! THANK YOU, SARAH!*
I'm a huge Harry Potter fan, so the saga of Harry Potter is still very fresh and easily watchable for me. I can sit and watch any of them, and am now beside myself with joy after having seen, just this evening, the commercial for the next Harry Potter film, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. While it is true that Daniel Radcliff is charmingly handsome, plays his character to perfection, and frankly now is no longer a minor (so I don't have to feel guilty for this little crush I still have), I am in touch with the ridiculousness of such a thing. (Don't worry - my husband is still my Hunka-Hunka-Burnin'-Love.) I love the idea of magic and witches and wizards, but more specifically, I love the story of good triumphing over evil, and the courage of the human, albeit wizarding world, spirit. GO HARRY!!
All right people - the all time, greatest, no-holds-barred, fat-lady-sings Spielberg TRIUMPH: Goonies! I remember the trailer in the theaters (I worked in a theater at the time, so I was. . . intrigued): Black screen, skull, then only the word "Goonies." I thought it was a pirate movie. No, no, no. . . it was even better. A bunch of kids on an accidental treasure hunt. What genius came up with this idea? Brilliant! "Bullet holes the size of matza balls!" "Mikey, I don't think this is the kind of place you want to go to the bathroom in." "Ruth! Ruth! Ruth! Baby Ruth!" "If you don't get it right, we'll all b-flat." "The octopus was very scary!"
My first memorable exposure to Sean Astin was as Mikey in Goonies. Ten-plus years later, he emerges in another favorite of mine that I just can't pass over if I find it on t.v. while channel-surfing - Rudy. True story - here is a guy people liked but few believed he could ever make of himself what he wanted to make of himself - a Notre Dame football player. He believed it, and tried, and tried, and failed, and tried, and failed, and tried. . . then succeeded. I brought this movie to the classroom in which I worked on "fun Friday" and the kids - middle school, mostly boys, behavior problems, smart alecks, and sometimes little "jerks" - watched it. I'm thinking, "football movie, all the kids around, I'm busy working, no chance I'll cry today!" WRONG. Rudy gets passed over to suit up for the final game he has eligibility to play in, and every football player on the team parades through Coach Parsegian's (I tried to spell it right, I really did) office, vowing to give up his spot just so Rudy can suit out for this one game. The coach tells the team captain, "You're the captain. Act like it." And the captain says, "I believe I am." SEE, I'M TEARING UP JUST THINKING ABOUT IT! OMG, if you haven't seen this movie, you have to see it.
Ladies, let's get estrogen-ized. The BBC's version of Pride and Prejudice, starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth. I know it is about ten years old now and didn't get near the American press that Kiera Knightly's recent movie did, but I don't believe there is a true-er (is this a word?) or more visually stunning rendition of this novel. Granted, it's about a five hour commitment, but so is the original Star Wars trilogy. For me, some days chosing between the two is simply a toss up.
These and many other movies are story-telling masterpieces of fun and I can, and do, watch them over and over again. Then there are others, so moving and powerful and emotionally overwhelming that, while I have to own the DVD, I can't commit to watching them too often.
Schindler's List is so believable that it is hard for me to separate the art from the story. I'm tearful and in terrible emotional pain at the end. I love the movie. I love the beauty of the hope that emerges, even through the most desperate of moments. But in watching a truthful telling of a tragic time in history, I find I immerse myself in what I interpret to be the emotion of each scene, and I cry with deep sorrow every time I watch it. Well done, Mr. Spielberg. Well done.
I've only been able to watch Mississippi Burning once. I feel devastated by man's inhumanity toward man. I can't imagine trying to live my life having to break through barriers, watching people hate me with a malice almost too deep to comprehend. The story is again a reality, and when I watched it, I was overwhelmed emotionally and haven't had to courage to watch it since. I suspect that was one of the intended messages of the movie.
The Passion of the Christ. Having been raised a Catholic, attending Catholic schools for 11 years, and attending the mass every year during lent and Easter, I am keenly connected to the story of the passion because it is so much a part of the Catechetical teachings, the curriculum of religious studies. As my spirituality evolves during my (terribly, ghastly, achingly slow!) aging process, my focus is less on Jesus' mission as the Son of God as it is on the sacrifice of one human for another. Our lessons taught us that Jesus was man and God, but my focus during the experience of The Passion of the Christ was very much about Jesus' manhood. A man has anger and fear and pain. What kind of fear and pain does a person go through being whipped and tortured, beaten to an inch from death, then nailed to a cross and humiliated in front of friends, countrymen, adversaries, and his mother? I become immersed in what it could potentially feel like, and I become overwhelmed emotionally. This movie is one of the only movies during which I didn't just cry. I sobbed.
There's lots of other movies I am affected by, or that are simply good fun. I'm sure I've left out some good ones. Tell me a few from your list!!
So, come on, you movie freaks! Give me your thoughts!
I'm a huge Star Wars fan - Episodes IV, V and VI. I'll have to vote for Episode V, since it is the one in which Han Solo get a little dirty and lippy with Princess Leia. Let's be honest - who wouldn't want to get a little lippy with Han Solo? Episodes I, II and III were fine, although I still think casting Hayden Christiansen was a HUGE mistake - he just didn't do it for me.
In about 1990, I went through a 12 to 18 month period during which I watched ALIENS virtually every day. I can still recite the lines verbatim: "We're in some real pretty shit now, man. Game over, man. Game OVER!" "They mostly come out at night, mostly." "He can't make that kind of decision - he's just a grunt. No offense." "None taken." "I may be synthetic, but I'm not stupid." Bunch of badass marines in space, Newt the first real survivor (wait, it's in the future, but. . .), and Ripley KICKS ASS. Who couldn't watch that movie over and over and over again? I wanted to be tough like Vasquez, a smart aleck like Hudson, and what woman wouldn't want to be stuck in an elevator (being chased by a swarm of Aliens) with Hicks? *I will be forever grateful to my sister Sarah for giving me the ALIEN Superpack for Christmas one year. It's the gift that keeps on giving! THANK YOU, SARAH!*
I'm a huge Harry Potter fan, so the saga of Harry Potter is still very fresh and easily watchable for me. I can sit and watch any of them, and am now beside myself with joy after having seen, just this evening, the commercial for the next Harry Potter film, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. While it is true that Daniel Radcliff is charmingly handsome, plays his character to perfection, and frankly now is no longer a minor (so I don't have to feel guilty for this little crush I still have), I am in touch with the ridiculousness of such a thing. (Don't worry - my husband is still my Hunka-Hunka-Burnin'-Love.) I love the idea of magic and witches and wizards, but more specifically, I love the story of good triumphing over evil, and the courage of the human, albeit wizarding world, spirit. GO HARRY!!
All right people - the all time, greatest, no-holds-barred, fat-lady-sings Spielberg TRIUMPH: Goonies! I remember the trailer in the theaters (I worked in a theater at the time, so I was. . . intrigued): Black screen, skull, then only the word "Goonies." I thought it was a pirate movie. No, no, no. . . it was even better. A bunch of kids on an accidental treasure hunt. What genius came up with this idea? Brilliant! "Bullet holes the size of matza balls!" "Mikey, I don't think this is the kind of place you want to go to the bathroom in." "Ruth! Ruth! Ruth! Baby Ruth!" "If you don't get it right, we'll all b-flat." "The octopus was very scary!"
My first memorable exposure to Sean Astin was as Mikey in Goonies. Ten-plus years later, he emerges in another favorite of mine that I just can't pass over if I find it on t.v. while channel-surfing - Rudy. True story - here is a guy people liked but few believed he could ever make of himself what he wanted to make of himself - a Notre Dame football player. He believed it, and tried, and tried, and failed, and tried, and failed, and tried. . . then succeeded. I brought this movie to the classroom in which I worked on "fun Friday" and the kids - middle school, mostly boys, behavior problems, smart alecks, and sometimes little "jerks" - watched it. I'm thinking, "football movie, all the kids around, I'm busy working, no chance I'll cry today!" WRONG. Rudy gets passed over to suit up for the final game he has eligibility to play in, and every football player on the team parades through Coach Parsegian's (I tried to spell it right, I really did) office, vowing to give up his spot just so Rudy can suit out for this one game. The coach tells the team captain, "You're the captain. Act like it." And the captain says, "I believe I am." SEE, I'M TEARING UP JUST THINKING ABOUT IT! OMG, if you haven't seen this movie, you have to see it.
Ladies, let's get estrogen-ized. The BBC's version of Pride and Prejudice, starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth. I know it is about ten years old now and didn't get near the American press that Kiera Knightly's recent movie did, but I don't believe there is a true-er (is this a word?) or more visually stunning rendition of this novel. Granted, it's about a five hour commitment, but so is the original Star Wars trilogy. For me, some days chosing between the two is simply a toss up.
These and many other movies are story-telling masterpieces of fun and I can, and do, watch them over and over again. Then there are others, so moving and powerful and emotionally overwhelming that, while I have to own the DVD, I can't commit to watching them too often.
Schindler's List is so believable that it is hard for me to separate the art from the story. I'm tearful and in terrible emotional pain at the end. I love the movie. I love the beauty of the hope that emerges, even through the most desperate of moments. But in watching a truthful telling of a tragic time in history, I find I immerse myself in what I interpret to be the emotion of each scene, and I cry with deep sorrow every time I watch it. Well done, Mr. Spielberg. Well done.
I've only been able to watch Mississippi Burning once. I feel devastated by man's inhumanity toward man. I can't imagine trying to live my life having to break through barriers, watching people hate me with a malice almost too deep to comprehend. The story is again a reality, and when I watched it, I was overwhelmed emotionally and haven't had to courage to watch it since. I suspect that was one of the intended messages of the movie.
The Passion of the Christ. Having been raised a Catholic, attending Catholic schools for 11 years, and attending the mass every year during lent and Easter, I am keenly connected to the story of the passion because it is so much a part of the Catechetical teachings, the curriculum of religious studies. As my spirituality evolves during my (terribly, ghastly, achingly slow!) aging process, my focus is less on Jesus' mission as the Son of God as it is on the sacrifice of one human for another. Our lessons taught us that Jesus was man and God, but my focus during the experience of The Passion of the Christ was very much about Jesus' manhood. A man has anger and fear and pain. What kind of fear and pain does a person go through being whipped and tortured, beaten to an inch from death, then nailed to a cross and humiliated in front of friends, countrymen, adversaries, and his mother? I become immersed in what it could potentially feel like, and I become overwhelmed emotionally. This movie is one of the only movies during which I didn't just cry. I sobbed.
There's lots of other movies I am affected by, or that are simply good fun. I'm sure I've left out some good ones. Tell me a few from your list!!
Monday, May 18, 2009
When I was a Kid
I think about my childhood a lot - I always have. I don't know why. I wonder if it is because I'm getting older, or I can't believe I'm as old as I am (although 43 is no great tragedy!), or if, in general, I just like those memories.
With the help of the internet, I Google-search for friends from the past, and usually see a name or two, but not much else. I'm not yet on Facebook (although Tom is), so I have only utilized that resource a little bit. But the memories are always there, and the photos are still in my albums, and my hopes are always that my old friends are alive and well and propsering somewhere.
I attended Nazareth School in San Diego, California, from the first to the eighth grade. It was, and still is, a private, Catholic school, and most of my memories from that time in my life are good ones. My longest friends and my first crushes are all centered around that setting, so in my childhood, the school was it's own character, supporting the endeavor's of this story's hero (me!).
My first and longest-lasting friendship was with Gina DiVeroli. We met in the first grade, and quickly became the "Giggle Box Twins" because we apparently were always giggling. I don't remember the giggling so much, although I do remember that she was my best friend for much of my eight years at Nazareth. Slumber parties, Halloween contests, and suffering through some difficult school work gave us the bonds of friendship and the many memories I find to be still prevalent. The only reason I went to Our Lady of Peace Academy High School was because Gina didn't want to take the entrance exam alone. Can't think of a better reason to go anywhere!
Gene John Villagrana was my first crush, the first boy I ever thought about in a romantic way (I suspect I was not alone in this yearning). He also attended Nazareth for eight years, and in our eighth year, I finally got to kiss him. I've always kicked myself for how that event played out, because I ABSOLUTELY blew the chance to really get a good kiss - I was so niave at 14 years old. He went to kiss me with a gently opened mouth, and I was overwhelmed with fear, making some ludicrous statement about how I'd never french kissed before. Seconds later, I hear my mother calling (Gene and I were hosting the eighth grade graduation party at my house, and mom realized quickly that we had both disappeared - that woman didn't miss a THING!) and we had to emerge innocently from our private room, never to resume the kiss I so desperately wanted then, and for years after. What a shame!
Debbie McCutcheon was a friend from our earliest years, as her parents and my parents were friends before our births. My older brother and her older sister were born two days apart. As I grew older, I grew to dislike her because I thought she was "stuck up" and "she thought she was so big." Strange how our little minds work. . . What I realized as an adult amounted to my acceptance of my insecurity and intimidatability (still checking to see if that is a real word), and my view of Debbie was really about my own lack of confidence. Debbie just came across as so self-assured, and I was intimidated by that.
Jorge Carillo also attended Nazareth for eight years, if I remember correctly. Over time, I developed a dislike for him. He had a sharp tongue and teased people relentlessly. Again, as an adult, I can see that he may have behaved that way because he was insecure, or rebelling, or actually liked the girls he teased. I never assumed he liked me - I was sure, in fact, that he at most times disliked me. But my fixation on my dislike for him is now very clearly about the intense crush I had on him from about the fifth grade to the eighth grade. One of my most mortifying moments (believe me, I've had many!) was in our eighth grade year, as I walked up the steps to get to our classroom, he was walking toward the classroom from the other direction and I tripped on the steps in front of him. Oh, he saw it all right! Joked about it. It was worse than those dreams people talk about in which they go to school naked. And all I wanted to do was kiss him.
Darcy Hammons was a friend who arrived at Nazareth during our fifth or sixth grade year. She was from a far away land - Wyoming. Jorge and the other boys used to tease frequently - "This is Darcy" and do the woman's curvy outline with their hands; "This is Debbie" and do two straight lines with little "boobie bumps" at the top; and "This is Kathy" and do two straight lines all the way down. As I've said before, I was a late bloomer (Thanks, God, for that really funny joke!), and everybody noticed. For anyone who didn't notice, Jorge and the boys pointed it out. Darcy was great fun, smart, and interesting to be around with her stories of Wyoming. I always thought it was weird that a non-Catholic person would attend a Catholic school. We were close friends for a long time, and I used to spend the night at her house. My parents were out of town one week, and Darcy and her mom had me stay at their home. We decided to play "hookey" one day, and I lied about being sick, because Darcy said her mother would never believe her. And so I pretended to be sick, and her mother gave me Pepto-Bismol. I was none-too-happy with Darcy that day.
The teachers remain emblazoned on my memory. Sr. Thomas was my first grade teacher, so gentle and charming to a bunch of six and seven year olds. Sr. Anscar was my second grade teacher, and about as short as we were. She was the classic singing nun, and everyone looked forward to her Shadow Passion Play every year at Easter. Sr. Bridget was our fourth grade teacher, and everyone thought she was goofy, and for the life of me now, I have no idea why. Mrs. Neville was our fifth grade teacher, and that woman was ancient at the time, and had no business teaching. Kevin Hatfield, a fellow fifth grader, received regular palm-beatings with her ruler, and one day she assulted his palm with a yardstick that broke during the whacking. I found Kevin annoying (as an adult in the mental health field now, I can say with much confidence that he was definitely ADHD) but it broke my heart watching him constantly under physical attack by that old woman. Strange how some of my teachers' names and faces have escaped my memory - I'll have to look them up in my photo albums after I unpack them.
I liked those school years. I have a lot of good memories. I'd love to have an elementary school reunion, but that seems unlikely, since that is not something people really do. I'll have to enlist my husband to start searching Facebook, to see how many of these old friends I can find. Maybe I should get my own Facebook.
With the help of the internet, I Google-search for friends from the past, and usually see a name or two, but not much else. I'm not yet on Facebook (although Tom is), so I have only utilized that resource a little bit. But the memories are always there, and the photos are still in my albums, and my hopes are always that my old friends are alive and well and propsering somewhere.
I attended Nazareth School in San Diego, California, from the first to the eighth grade. It was, and still is, a private, Catholic school, and most of my memories from that time in my life are good ones. My longest friends and my first crushes are all centered around that setting, so in my childhood, the school was it's own character, supporting the endeavor's of this story's hero (me!).
My first and longest-lasting friendship was with Gina DiVeroli. We met in the first grade, and quickly became the "Giggle Box Twins" because we apparently were always giggling. I don't remember the giggling so much, although I do remember that she was my best friend for much of my eight years at Nazareth. Slumber parties, Halloween contests, and suffering through some difficult school work gave us the bonds of friendship and the many memories I find to be still prevalent. The only reason I went to Our Lady of Peace Academy High School was because Gina didn't want to take the entrance exam alone. Can't think of a better reason to go anywhere!
Gene John Villagrana was my first crush, the first boy I ever thought about in a romantic way (I suspect I was not alone in this yearning). He also attended Nazareth for eight years, and in our eighth year, I finally got to kiss him. I've always kicked myself for how that event played out, because I ABSOLUTELY blew the chance to really get a good kiss - I was so niave at 14 years old. He went to kiss me with a gently opened mouth, and I was overwhelmed with fear, making some ludicrous statement about how I'd never french kissed before. Seconds later, I hear my mother calling (Gene and I were hosting the eighth grade graduation party at my house, and mom realized quickly that we had both disappeared - that woman didn't miss a THING!) and we had to emerge innocently from our private room, never to resume the kiss I so desperately wanted then, and for years after. What a shame!
Debbie McCutcheon was a friend from our earliest years, as her parents and my parents were friends before our births. My older brother and her older sister were born two days apart. As I grew older, I grew to dislike her because I thought she was "stuck up" and "she thought she was so big." Strange how our little minds work. . . What I realized as an adult amounted to my acceptance of my insecurity and intimidatability (still checking to see if that is a real word), and my view of Debbie was really about my own lack of confidence. Debbie just came across as so self-assured, and I was intimidated by that.
Jorge Carillo also attended Nazareth for eight years, if I remember correctly. Over time, I developed a dislike for him. He had a sharp tongue and teased people relentlessly. Again, as an adult, I can see that he may have behaved that way because he was insecure, or rebelling, or actually liked the girls he teased. I never assumed he liked me - I was sure, in fact, that he at most times disliked me. But my fixation on my dislike for him is now very clearly about the intense crush I had on him from about the fifth grade to the eighth grade. One of my most mortifying moments (believe me, I've had many!) was in our eighth grade year, as I walked up the steps to get to our classroom, he was walking toward the classroom from the other direction and I tripped on the steps in front of him. Oh, he saw it all right! Joked about it. It was worse than those dreams people talk about in which they go to school naked. And all I wanted to do was kiss him.
Darcy Hammons was a friend who arrived at Nazareth during our fifth or sixth grade year. She was from a far away land - Wyoming. Jorge and the other boys used to tease frequently - "This is Darcy" and do the woman's curvy outline with their hands; "This is Debbie" and do two straight lines with little "boobie bumps" at the top; and "This is Kathy" and do two straight lines all the way down. As I've said before, I was a late bloomer (Thanks, God, for that really funny joke!), and everybody noticed. For anyone who didn't notice, Jorge and the boys pointed it out. Darcy was great fun, smart, and interesting to be around with her stories of Wyoming. I always thought it was weird that a non-Catholic person would attend a Catholic school. We were close friends for a long time, and I used to spend the night at her house. My parents were out of town one week, and Darcy and her mom had me stay at their home. We decided to play "hookey" one day, and I lied about being sick, because Darcy said her mother would never believe her. And so I pretended to be sick, and her mother gave me Pepto-Bismol. I was none-too-happy with Darcy that day.
The teachers remain emblazoned on my memory. Sr. Thomas was my first grade teacher, so gentle and charming to a bunch of six and seven year olds. Sr. Anscar was my second grade teacher, and about as short as we were. She was the classic singing nun, and everyone looked forward to her Shadow Passion Play every year at Easter. Sr. Bridget was our fourth grade teacher, and everyone thought she was goofy, and for the life of me now, I have no idea why. Mrs. Neville was our fifth grade teacher, and that woman was ancient at the time, and had no business teaching. Kevin Hatfield, a fellow fifth grader, received regular palm-beatings with her ruler, and one day she assulted his palm with a yardstick that broke during the whacking. I found Kevin annoying (as an adult in the mental health field now, I can say with much confidence that he was definitely ADHD) but it broke my heart watching him constantly under physical attack by that old woman. Strange how some of my teachers' names and faces have escaped my memory - I'll have to look them up in my photo albums after I unpack them.
I liked those school years. I have a lot of good memories. I'd love to have an elementary school reunion, but that seems unlikely, since that is not something people really do. I'll have to enlist my husband to start searching Facebook, to see how many of these old friends I can find. Maybe I should get my own Facebook.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Amarillo, Texas
Amarillo, Texas.
People make fun of Amarillo, Texas - I'm sure for lots of reasons: Mid-sized city (yes, it IS, Honey!) with small town attitudes; Route 66; Cowboys, and rednecks, and pick-up trucks and dualies; dry summer heat, and snow storms in the winter. What's not to poke fun at????
I used to complain about it too, until a dear friend (we were 19 at the time), said "You're an adult. If you hate it so much, you can leave. Really, Kathy, I'm tired of hearing it." Thanks for the reality check, Tracy!! Anyway, I realized she was right. I eventually did leave. . . then moved back. My own personal journey led me to realize that it's all in the attitude (thanks, Dad), and you can be happy anywhere, if you choose to be.
So after a while, Amarillo "wasn't so bad." I liked it for a lot of reasons. Still do.
I had my First Love in Amarillo. Harold Moses, big muscle-man, who, as it turns out, was the TWIN of Russell Crowe with a mustache, (before RC was a household name), and "a few" years older. Surely, I'm not the only one who has noticed this! Loves had and loves lost don't always leave you with a great taste in your mouth, but you can't just forget your first love. I've always been a late bloomer and I didn't have my first love until I was 19 years old - no jokes, please, I was just finally glad someone wanted to date me! So hats off, to Amarillo, and Harold, and LOVE.
I owned my classic Ford Mustang (1964 1/2) in Amarillo. It was a COOL car - dual exhaust, powder blue (until I had it repainted royal-sparkley blue), a little trashed but sexy with the young blonde driver. I have special memories of driving little Sarah around, and her safety slogan learned at school: "Buckle up, buttercup!" And all my cassette tapes (man! am I old?) being stolen out of the front seat while my baby was parked at the Tascosa Country Club - what is up with that? Parking in a lot where the Mercedes and BMWs are, and MY trashy little car gets JACKED. Poor little Mustang had a weak heater, so the snowy part of winter was BRUTAL, like driving a motorcycle in the 40 degree weather, but not.
I earned my Master's Degree in Psychology while in Amarillo (okay, the college was in Canyon, but you can't really count that, can you?) . I felt smart, competent, and ever-so-collegiate, and was able to graduate with a respectable GPA. I can't hold my B's against Dr. Gary Byrd - I mean, after all, I'm no genius and I worked damn hard for those B's. (I'm sure I'm not the only one of Dr. Byrd's students who drove home to Amarillo in tears after one of his tests - what doesn't kill us makes us stronger!) I walked across a collapsable stage in the Amarillo Civic Center, proudly carrying my leather diploma case, never having worked so hard at anything in my whole life. My advisor, Dr. Don Johnson (no, not THAT Don Johnson), gave me sound advice early in my post-graduate career, and for this I am eternally grateful: "It's not the smartest people who succeed in a Master's program or in life. It's the people who don't give up." Well, by God, if I can't be the smartest, I can at least be the most persistent! Thanks, Dr. Johnson.
I met and married the love of my life in Amarillo: my husband, Tom Tortoreo - another of the many who has never been a big fan of Amarillo, Texas. My first marriage tanked (that's a whole 'nother story), Southern California brought me no real contenders, and a few mis-steps later, I found myself single at 35, thinking the man carrying the "little swimmers" (sperm - duh) I needed must have long ago made his escape. I had one tearful night, again lamenting my exile into singlehood, but then had a brilliant idea. I joined a dating service - coincidentally started and formerly run by my own former-whatever (that's ALSO a whole 'nother story), and the third man I selected for a date turned out to be the perfect fit for me. After a couple of dates, I realized I had even typed up and prepared his information sheet when he joined the dating service when run by my former-whatever. Cracks me up, even now.
I became a mom to two daughters in Amarillo, when I married Tom. Kelsey, 11 years old, was Tom's "Best Person" in the wedding, and Cassandra, 8 years old, was my Maid of Honor. I couldn't have asked for a better fulfillment of my dream, than to be a wife and mom all at the same time, since, at 36 years old, I was running out of time to start a family - worked out well for me. Hopefully, I haven't damaged them too much in trying to be the perfect mom (no-such-thing, never-gonna-happen, what-the-hell-was-I-thinking?, etc.). I still wonder how my mother kept her sanity with 5 kids, when I struggle with it with fewer than that. But then I remember, mom did have to get counseling at one point. Hopefully, she's forgiven us for that.
I had my baby boy in Amarillo. After two miscarriages, the third pregnancy "took," and I got knocked up, much to the delight of the girls, the husband, and my parents. Yes, my mother did give me the question a couple of times (even when I was still single and looking) about when I might get her a grandchild, but only in good fun, with always a pinch of seriousness. I knew I would have a son, for several reasons. The reason I like the best is when my sister Kristi sent me a recording of her Spiritualist's reading that she felt a male energy anxious to cross over to me. My pregnancy was excellent. I knew it was a boy before the sonogram confirmed it. I threw up only once (but that could have been more about the shrimp and asparagus wrapped in bacon than about the boy), had ZERO headaches after the second month of pregnancy, and have vividly fond memories of Halloween, 2004, during which the baby's kicks and movements were so distinct as to be my "first" movements of the baby. Many of you know about the story of his birth (19 days in NICU, see TheMiracleOfMarcello at BabyHomePages for the full story), and he's been a joy ever since. He loveslovesLOVES his big sisters, and adores his dog, Birdie the Dalmatian.
My parents are still in Amarillo, so a piece of my heart is still there too. I miss them a lot, and wish we could visit more often. I know they miss the three grandchildren more than they miss the daughter and the son-in-law, but we feel the love often. We'll probably never move back, but we'll certainly buy a Spring/Autumn home there if we ever win the lottery (summers - too hot; winters - too snowy). I don't need to see the Cadillac Ranch - I've seen it too many times while riding my bicycle on the access road on I-40, heading west into Adrian. I don't need to go to the Big Texan for a 72 ounce steak - that much beef scares me. I don't need to see Palo Duro Canyon too many more times, although I might like to. The musical Texas is always charming, and you only get rained out from it about half the time!!
Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get the chance to visit again soon!
People make fun of Amarillo, Texas - I'm sure for lots of reasons: Mid-sized city (yes, it IS, Honey!) with small town attitudes; Route 66; Cowboys, and rednecks, and pick-up trucks and dualies; dry summer heat, and snow storms in the winter. What's not to poke fun at????
I used to complain about it too, until a dear friend (we were 19 at the time), said "You're an adult. If you hate it so much, you can leave. Really, Kathy, I'm tired of hearing it." Thanks for the reality check, Tracy!! Anyway, I realized she was right. I eventually did leave. . . then moved back. My own personal journey led me to realize that it's all in the attitude (thanks, Dad), and you can be happy anywhere, if you choose to be.
So after a while, Amarillo "wasn't so bad." I liked it for a lot of reasons. Still do.
I had my First Love in Amarillo. Harold Moses, big muscle-man, who, as it turns out, was the TWIN of Russell Crowe with a mustache, (before RC was a household name), and "a few" years older. Surely, I'm not the only one who has noticed this! Loves had and loves lost don't always leave you with a great taste in your mouth, but you can't just forget your first love. I've always been a late bloomer and I didn't have my first love until I was 19 years old - no jokes, please, I was just finally glad someone wanted to date me! So hats off, to Amarillo, and Harold, and LOVE.
I owned my classic Ford Mustang (1964 1/2) in Amarillo. It was a COOL car - dual exhaust, powder blue (until I had it repainted royal-sparkley blue), a little trashed but sexy with the young blonde driver. I have special memories of driving little Sarah around, and her safety slogan learned at school: "Buckle up, buttercup!" And all my cassette tapes (man! am I old?) being stolen out of the front seat while my baby was parked at the Tascosa Country Club - what is up with that? Parking in a lot where the Mercedes and BMWs are, and MY trashy little car gets JACKED. Poor little Mustang had a weak heater, so the snowy part of winter was BRUTAL, like driving a motorcycle in the 40 degree weather, but not.
I earned my Master's Degree in Psychology while in Amarillo (okay, the college was in Canyon, but you can't really count that, can you?) . I felt smart, competent, and ever-so-collegiate, and was able to graduate with a respectable GPA. I can't hold my B's against Dr. Gary Byrd - I mean, after all, I'm no genius and I worked damn hard for those B's. (I'm sure I'm not the only one of Dr. Byrd's students who drove home to Amarillo in tears after one of his tests - what doesn't kill us makes us stronger!) I walked across a collapsable stage in the Amarillo Civic Center, proudly carrying my leather diploma case, never having worked so hard at anything in my whole life. My advisor, Dr. Don Johnson (no, not THAT Don Johnson), gave me sound advice early in my post-graduate career, and for this I am eternally grateful: "It's not the smartest people who succeed in a Master's program or in life. It's the people who don't give up." Well, by God, if I can't be the smartest, I can at least be the most persistent! Thanks, Dr. Johnson.
I met and married the love of my life in Amarillo: my husband, Tom Tortoreo - another of the many who has never been a big fan of Amarillo, Texas. My first marriage tanked (that's a whole 'nother story), Southern California brought me no real contenders, and a few mis-steps later, I found myself single at 35, thinking the man carrying the "little swimmers" (sperm - duh) I needed must have long ago made his escape. I had one tearful night, again lamenting my exile into singlehood, but then had a brilliant idea. I joined a dating service - coincidentally started and formerly run by my own former-whatever (that's ALSO a whole 'nother story), and the third man I selected for a date turned out to be the perfect fit for me. After a couple of dates, I realized I had even typed up and prepared his information sheet when he joined the dating service when run by my former-whatever. Cracks me up, even now.
I became a mom to two daughters in Amarillo, when I married Tom. Kelsey, 11 years old, was Tom's "Best Person" in the wedding, and Cassandra, 8 years old, was my Maid of Honor. I couldn't have asked for a better fulfillment of my dream, than to be a wife and mom all at the same time, since, at 36 years old, I was running out of time to start a family - worked out well for me. Hopefully, I haven't damaged them too much in trying to be the perfect mom (no-such-thing, never-gonna-happen, what-the-hell-was-I-thinking?, etc.). I still wonder how my mother kept her sanity with 5 kids, when I struggle with it with fewer than that. But then I remember, mom did have to get counseling at one point. Hopefully, she's forgiven us for that.
I had my baby boy in Amarillo. After two miscarriages, the third pregnancy "took," and I got knocked up, much to the delight of the girls, the husband, and my parents. Yes, my mother did give me the question a couple of times (even when I was still single and looking) about when I might get her a grandchild, but only in good fun, with always a pinch of seriousness. I knew I would have a son, for several reasons. The reason I like the best is when my sister Kristi sent me a recording of her Spiritualist's reading that she felt a male energy anxious to cross over to me. My pregnancy was excellent. I knew it was a boy before the sonogram confirmed it. I threw up only once (but that could have been more about the shrimp and asparagus wrapped in bacon than about the boy), had ZERO headaches after the second month of pregnancy, and have vividly fond memories of Halloween, 2004, during which the baby's kicks and movements were so distinct as to be my "first" movements of the baby. Many of you know about the story of his birth (19 days in NICU, see TheMiracleOfMarcello at BabyHomePages for the full story), and he's been a joy ever since. He loveslovesLOVES his big sisters, and adores his dog, Birdie the Dalmatian.
My parents are still in Amarillo, so a piece of my heart is still there too. I miss them a lot, and wish we could visit more often. I know they miss the three grandchildren more than they miss the daughter and the son-in-law, but we feel the love often. We'll probably never move back, but we'll certainly buy a Spring/Autumn home there if we ever win the lottery (summers - too hot; winters - too snowy). I don't need to see the Cadillac Ranch - I've seen it too many times while riding my bicycle on the access road on I-40, heading west into Adrian. I don't need to go to the Big Texan for a 72 ounce steak - that much beef scares me. I don't need to see Palo Duro Canyon too many more times, although I might like to. The musical Texas is always charming, and you only get rained out from it about half the time!!
Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get the chance to visit again soon!
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Assigning Value
My sister Sarah used a great word recently - well, to be fair, she's probably used A LOT of great words lately, but this one stuck out in my mind when she responded to my blog. * Arbitrary *
Because we're moving soon, my dictionaries are packed, so I had to go to Dictionary.com on the internet to verify the definition. Now, I'm very wordy, so I kinda/sorta (real intellectual terminology, right, Mom?) know the meaning, but I wanted to make sure I wasn't too off-base. Turns out I was right.
Arbitrary: undetermined; not assigned a specific value.
I started thinking about this blog entry as "What is Beautiful" or "Who is Beautiful" because I think that's an interesting concept. But if you examine it, as the aeons-old phrase notes, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," you understand even at an early age that what is beautiful to one person isn't so beautiful to another. Why? You know why - because we're all different. What we notice is different, the value we assign to something is different, so consequently, we view beauty as diversely as we view everything else.
So this blog, "What / Who is Beautiful" becomes "What / Who is Beautiful to Me."
My family is beautiful, because I value them beyond what I value anything else.
My sister-in-law Sean is beautiful - she is deeply intelligent, loves my brother, and raises my terribly clever nephew.
My parents are beautiful - they love me beyond my mistakes, and always forgive me.
My sisters are beautiful - Kristi is fearless, bold and graceful / Jen is confident, funny and sharp / Sarah is daring, expressive and adventurous.
My brother is beautiful - he is opinionated, devoted, and so much like my father.
My brother-in-law is beautiful - he is witty, intelligent, and made quite the adorable little girl with my sister.
My husband is beautiful - he is devoted, goofy, and in love with me!
My daughters are beautiful - Cassandra is grounded and genuine / Kelsey is strong and caring.
My son is beautiful - he is sweet, talkative, and loves to hug me.
But, what else? I mean, really, let's expose what is really beautiful to THIS beholder:
Patrick Stewart (Captain Picard, Star Trek: The Next Generation) - I used to tell my friends I wanted to take his bald head and rub it between my bare breasts. If you can't handle the visual, just don't think about it.
Hugh Jackman (X-Men: Wolverine) - Come on, have you looked at his body? Wow!
Angela Basset - Stella got her groove. . . and might have stolen a little of mine.
Lake Mead, Nevada - Waterskiing? In the desert? Ah, memories of when I was cute and trim, and could out-waterski most of my family. DO NOT DENY IT!
Jeep Wrangler - THE coolest car ever made.
Jimmy Hendrix - Dancing to Fire on a four-foot stucco wall, when I was single, living with Roxie and Yvonne, learning that there are some songs and some musicians who will never wilt under the passage of time. (No, Roxie, not Led Zepplin)
Harry Potter - Imagination becomes real, becomes a movie, becomes an industry, becomes the one sweet thing that makes some of my headaches go away. Thanks, Ms. Rowling.
Movies that make me cry - If even the most ridiculous movie reminds me about the importance of humanity and love and connection, then it is beautiful. Rudy - Go Sean Astin! Finding Nemo - Did you see how much Marlin loved his little boy? Cars - I mean, Lightning McQueen gave up the Piston Cup to give another man (okay, another car) his dignity back. That is beautiful! Scrooge (Albert Finney version), It's a Wonderful Life (Duh), virtually any Christmas movie that doesn't have Tori Spelling. . .
Seriously, I could go on and on, but. . . as my brother might point out, I already have.
Beautiful is witnessing the learning moment of a child. Beautiful is working your ass off for a year and completing a marathon (you knew I would eventually mention that, right?) Beautiful is walking across a portable stage and receiving a diploma for which you suffered blood, sweat and tears (you're damn right, TEARS!). Beautiful is finally understanding Shakespeare, even if it took three movie versions of Hamlet to get there.
What is beautiful? You tell me.
Because we're moving soon, my dictionaries are packed, so I had to go to Dictionary.com on the internet to verify the definition. Now, I'm very wordy, so I kinda/sorta (real intellectual terminology, right, Mom?) know the meaning, but I wanted to make sure I wasn't too off-base. Turns out I was right.
Arbitrary: undetermined; not assigned a specific value.
I started thinking about this blog entry as "What is Beautiful" or "Who is Beautiful" because I think that's an interesting concept. But if you examine it, as the aeons-old phrase notes, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," you understand even at an early age that what is beautiful to one person isn't so beautiful to another. Why? You know why - because we're all different. What we notice is different, the value we assign to something is different, so consequently, we view beauty as diversely as we view everything else.
So this blog, "What / Who is Beautiful" becomes "What / Who is Beautiful to Me."
My family is beautiful, because I value them beyond what I value anything else.
My sister-in-law Sean is beautiful - she is deeply intelligent, loves my brother, and raises my terribly clever nephew.
My parents are beautiful - they love me beyond my mistakes, and always forgive me.
My sisters are beautiful - Kristi is fearless, bold and graceful / Jen is confident, funny and sharp / Sarah is daring, expressive and adventurous.
My brother is beautiful - he is opinionated, devoted, and so much like my father.
My brother-in-law is beautiful - he is witty, intelligent, and made quite the adorable little girl with my sister.
My husband is beautiful - he is devoted, goofy, and in love with me!
My daughters are beautiful - Cassandra is grounded and genuine / Kelsey is strong and caring.
My son is beautiful - he is sweet, talkative, and loves to hug me.
But, what else? I mean, really, let's expose what is really beautiful to THIS beholder:
Patrick Stewart (Captain Picard, Star Trek: The Next Generation) - I used to tell my friends I wanted to take his bald head and rub it between my bare breasts. If you can't handle the visual, just don't think about it.
Hugh Jackman (X-Men: Wolverine) - Come on, have you looked at his body? Wow!
Angela Basset - Stella got her groove. . . and might have stolen a little of mine.
Lake Mead, Nevada - Waterskiing? In the desert? Ah, memories of when I was cute and trim, and could out-waterski most of my family. DO NOT DENY IT!
Jeep Wrangler - THE coolest car ever made.
Jimmy Hendrix - Dancing to Fire on a four-foot stucco wall, when I was single, living with Roxie and Yvonne, learning that there are some songs and some musicians who will never wilt under the passage of time. (No, Roxie, not Led Zepplin)
Harry Potter - Imagination becomes real, becomes a movie, becomes an industry, becomes the one sweet thing that makes some of my headaches go away. Thanks, Ms. Rowling.
Movies that make me cry - If even the most ridiculous movie reminds me about the importance of humanity and love and connection, then it is beautiful. Rudy - Go Sean Astin! Finding Nemo - Did you see how much Marlin loved his little boy? Cars - I mean, Lightning McQueen gave up the Piston Cup to give another man (okay, another car) his dignity back. That is beautiful! Scrooge (Albert Finney version), It's a Wonderful Life (Duh), virtually any Christmas movie that doesn't have Tori Spelling. . .
Seriously, I could go on and on, but. . . as my brother might point out, I already have.
Beautiful is witnessing the learning moment of a child. Beautiful is working your ass off for a year and completing a marathon (you knew I would eventually mention that, right?) Beautiful is walking across a portable stage and receiving a diploma for which you suffered blood, sweat and tears (you're damn right, TEARS!). Beautiful is finally understanding Shakespeare, even if it took three movie versions of Hamlet to get there.
What is beautiful? You tell me.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
The Number 11
Do you ever have stuff that happens more often than you would think "average" and wonder if it is some kind of cosmic message or real-life foreshadowing? - No, I'm not an idiot!
The number 11 is like that for me. That I can think of, it's only been since I've been married to Tom, but strange nonetheless - Yes, yes, Tom IS very strange, but that is a whole 'nother blog!
I wake up several times every night, which has always been pretty typical of me - yeah, I might need a Sleep Number bed. When I wake up, I check the time, then I know if I can snuggle back into my covers and go back to sleep. Three or four times a week (sometimes less), I look at the clock and the display is 11:11. How wierd is that?
I suppose that's maybe not so "wierd" as it is. . . well, I don't know. I mean, statistially speaking, how likely is it that three times per week I would look at the clock at exactly the same moment? From the time I go to bed, usually about 10:30, to the time I wake up in the morning, usually about 6:00, there is an accumulation of 450 minutes - yes, I did have to get a pen and paper for that. Now, I'm no statistical genius (obviously), but the likelihood of looking at the clock at the same time several nights per week is pretty low. So, what kind of freaky, paranormal thing is going on?
Some (the logical thinkers in my family - dad, Mark - no, not Tom) might say that my body has just become accustomed to waking up at this average time, meaning nothing, really, except that's just how my body works! This is a legitimate theory, but leads me to ask "Why not some other type of typical-Kathy-body-function such as strangely high metabolism or boobs-that-aren't-starting-to-sag (I am 43 after all!)"? Some other more creative thinkers (Kristi, Sarah) might speculate that something in the life-forces of our universe are pulling me toward something, suggesting I should be aware of what may come. Interesting, and supports much of the spirituality behind the myth of Star Wars. (I could elaborate on this, but this has already been done more eloquently in a book entitled "The Spirituality of Star Wars" - can't remember the author, I packed the book already in anticipation of our move.) Still others (Mom, Jen, Tom) might slap me back to reality with a quick "What. . . are you kidding?"
So let's examine this. (1) I may have been about 11 when I finally kissed a boy for the first time - Armondo Flores. He was very cute, and a year younger than myself. It happened during lunch or recess at school, and I had one of my friends take a picture of it. I have no idea what happened to the picture, which is a shame. I mean, how many of us actually get to visually document our first kiss? (I may have been 12, but for this working theory, I'm being a little liberal.) (2) I was born in 1966, which, similar to 11, has two of the same digits. Hmm, very interesting. (3) More significantly, as a fan of the Indy Racing League, my favorite driver is Tony Kanaan, whose car number is - you guessed it - 11!
The evidence of cosmic intervention is mounting! This, my friends, is why I buy lottery tickets. Little signals from the beyond. . . beyond. . . beyond. . . that I must heed for my own livelihood - nay, survival!! Hey, maybe I'm supposed to be making sure the number 11 is in my lottery tickets! Geez, no wonder I never win.
* Addendum: Tom checked our PowerBall Lottery tickets later this afternoon. We won $1.00. The winning digit series had an 11 in it. *
The number 11 is like that for me. That I can think of, it's only been since I've been married to Tom, but strange nonetheless - Yes, yes, Tom IS very strange, but that is a whole 'nother blog!
I wake up several times every night, which has always been pretty typical of me - yeah, I might need a Sleep Number bed. When I wake up, I check the time, then I know if I can snuggle back into my covers and go back to sleep. Three or four times a week (sometimes less), I look at the clock and the display is 11:11. How wierd is that?
I suppose that's maybe not so "wierd" as it is. . . well, I don't know. I mean, statistially speaking, how likely is it that three times per week I would look at the clock at exactly the same moment? From the time I go to bed, usually about 10:30, to the time I wake up in the morning, usually about 6:00, there is an accumulation of 450 minutes - yes, I did have to get a pen and paper for that. Now, I'm no statistical genius (obviously), but the likelihood of looking at the clock at the same time several nights per week is pretty low. So, what kind of freaky, paranormal thing is going on?
Some (the logical thinkers in my family - dad, Mark - no, not Tom) might say that my body has just become accustomed to waking up at this average time, meaning nothing, really, except that's just how my body works! This is a legitimate theory, but leads me to ask "Why not some other type of typical-Kathy-body-function such as strangely high metabolism or boobs-that-aren't-starting-to-sag (I am 43 after all!)"? Some other more creative thinkers (Kristi, Sarah) might speculate that something in the life-forces of our universe are pulling me toward something, suggesting I should be aware of what may come. Interesting, and supports much of the spirituality behind the myth of Star Wars. (I could elaborate on this, but this has already been done more eloquently in a book entitled "The Spirituality of Star Wars" - can't remember the author, I packed the book already in anticipation of our move.) Still others (Mom, Jen, Tom) might slap me back to reality with a quick "What. . . are you kidding?"
So let's examine this. (1) I may have been about 11 when I finally kissed a boy for the first time - Armondo Flores. He was very cute, and a year younger than myself. It happened during lunch or recess at school, and I had one of my friends take a picture of it. I have no idea what happened to the picture, which is a shame. I mean, how many of us actually get to visually document our first kiss? (I may have been 12, but for this working theory, I'm being a little liberal.) (2) I was born in 1966, which, similar to 11, has two of the same digits. Hmm, very interesting. (3) More significantly, as a fan of the Indy Racing League, my favorite driver is Tony Kanaan, whose car number is - you guessed it - 11!
The evidence of cosmic intervention is mounting! This, my friends, is why I buy lottery tickets. Little signals from the beyond. . . beyond. . . beyond. . . that I must heed for my own livelihood - nay, survival!! Hey, maybe I'm supposed to be making sure the number 11 is in my lottery tickets! Geez, no wonder I never win.
* Addendum: Tom checked our PowerBall Lottery tickets later this afternoon. We won $1.00. The winning digit series had an 11 in it. *
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Thinking about God
I have random thoughts about Spiritual Stuff, and also random-or-consequently-linked thoughts about being Catholic. Having been raised a Catholic, I am anchored in the traditions of the church and Sunday Mass, but as a human in this time / era, I've developed Spiritual thoughts which don't really support, or aren't supported by, the religion.
The reason this comes up today is because I was stressing pretty hard about the transition in which my family is currently mired, and I got a little overwhelmed with fear about things not working out. * Side Note #1 * I have demonstrated over the last near-seven years of marriage that I am quite capable of FREAKING OUT. What I've learned is that freaking out never solves the problem, it just makes me feel worse. And ultimately, I end up having to address the problem in some way, so let's cut out the freaking out part and just make a plan. (I still react emotionally, but much better at not freaking out.) *And I'm back * So, I needed comfort, and turned to the rosary I keep in my purse. I needed someone to tell me not to worry, and although Tom (husband) told me that several times, I just needed more. I was driving, and put the rosary around my neck.
* Side Note #2 * Rosaries are not necklaces. Contrary to the Eighties-era photos, it is inappropriate to wear them as jewelry, and most Catholics know this (I think). They're prayer chains, not jewelry. But, let's be honest - You don't go to hell for wearing a rosary around your neck. * And I'm back * Even though I have never done this, I slipped it over my head, thinking that just for today, maybe the feeling of the rosary close to my heart would remind me that I'm not alone, that everything will work itself out. I noticed it all day, kinda sweaty against my skin in the South Florida pre-summer heat. Truthfully, I didn't feel comforted, but feeling the beads just made me remember that things will get worked out.
The thing is, I'm struggling right now with the "power of prayer." When Marcello was born, and consequently in the hospital for 19 days struggling to survive, so many people prayed for him and his health, and I appreciated every moment of that prayer. But at the same time, what was more important for me was that he was in the right place at the right time, in the right hospital, being treated by the right doctors with the right experience. I don't think I prayed as much as I should have, but I was convinced Marcello wouldn't die. Thanks to exceptional medical care, and lots of prayer, he survived.
Two years prior to this event, Tom and I were struggling financially, making bad decisions based on bad information. Night after night, I prayed to God, begged for intercessions on our behalf to the Virgin Mary, my three beloved and deceased grandparents, Tom's beloved and deceased father. Night after night, I cried while laying in bed, and only finally falling asleep while saying the rosary, each hard little bead clutched in my fingers. My humble and pain-filled prayers never eased the suffering, never brought about a job offer, never fixed our stupid mistakes. The praying focused my mind away from my fears and allowed me to relax enough to sleep.
So I'm operating on the theory currently that God doesn't reach his hand down very often to intercede in our human trials and tribulations. * Side Note 3 * Oh, I absolutely believe in miracles! There are moments when things occur that are unexplainable by human science of any kind. But I think those are few and far between. I believe that Marcello is alive because of exceptional medical care, and hopefully devine inspiration, but definitely scientifically explainable medical care. "The miracle of life" is explainable by the biology and chemical explanations of our earth and humanity (I stilll think the start of life from non-living is a miracle), so while the birth of every baby is an absolute good and wonderful thing, it is explainable by science, and therefore not a miracle. * And I'm back. * So who am I to be so bold as to request God's hand intercede in my life, when many more humble and more worthy people need His hand much more than me.
I think God put us on this earth to learn, the make the journey and see what we would and could do with this life He gave us. We have to utilize every resource we have, every working and intelligent thought, and every moment of sentience to (forgive me for being cliche) make the journey. I don't believe God has a set plan for me, that I was "meant to do" something. I think this life that God gave me allows me the opportunity to experience love, joy, sorrow, growth, error and forgiveness, and every choice I make affects me and those around me. The theory of a destiny takes away any notion of my freedom of choice. If we are responsible for choosing right and wrong, then we have the choice. If there is no choice, and we walk only a predestined path, how can we be held responsible for our wrongs, for pain and suffering we inflict upon others?
I do fervently believe in God, in That-Which-Is-Much-Larger than myself (yeah, I could call it The Force). I want to believe in the power of prayer, but I think I more realistically believe in the power of each person's choices affecting the rest of us. One man's choice to go to medical school, focus on neonatal care, move to Amarillo and spearhead the development of the Neonatal ICU, as well as many other people's choices to devote their lives to the medical care of newborns, enabled my son to live. However God fits into their lives is unknown to me, but they healed my son, with the talents God gave them.
I still pray - my rosaries still mean a lot to me. I still talk to God sometimes. But I don't wait for him to fix things. Frankly, I don't even ask. I utilize whatever talents God gave me to work, along with my husband and family, toward fixing things myself. I don't think that's a rejection of God, I think that's what God wants to see us do. Yeah, I'm still a Catholic, and I think I am a good one. But more importantly, I consider myself a good person, and I think that is ultimately what a good Catholic has to be.
The reason this comes up today is because I was stressing pretty hard about the transition in which my family is currently mired, and I got a little overwhelmed with fear about things not working out. * Side Note #1 * I have demonstrated over the last near-seven years of marriage that I am quite capable of FREAKING OUT. What I've learned is that freaking out never solves the problem, it just makes me feel worse. And ultimately, I end up having to address the problem in some way, so let's cut out the freaking out part and just make a plan. (I still react emotionally, but much better at not freaking out.) *And I'm back * So, I needed comfort, and turned to the rosary I keep in my purse. I needed someone to tell me not to worry, and although Tom (husband) told me that several times, I just needed more. I was driving, and put the rosary around my neck.
* Side Note #2 * Rosaries are not necklaces. Contrary to the Eighties-era photos, it is inappropriate to wear them as jewelry, and most Catholics know this (I think). They're prayer chains, not jewelry. But, let's be honest - You don't go to hell for wearing a rosary around your neck. * And I'm back * Even though I have never done this, I slipped it over my head, thinking that just for today, maybe the feeling of the rosary close to my heart would remind me that I'm not alone, that everything will work itself out. I noticed it all day, kinda sweaty against my skin in the South Florida pre-summer heat. Truthfully, I didn't feel comforted, but feeling the beads just made me remember that things will get worked out.
The thing is, I'm struggling right now with the "power of prayer." When Marcello was born, and consequently in the hospital for 19 days struggling to survive, so many people prayed for him and his health, and I appreciated every moment of that prayer. But at the same time, what was more important for me was that he was in the right place at the right time, in the right hospital, being treated by the right doctors with the right experience. I don't think I prayed as much as I should have, but I was convinced Marcello wouldn't die. Thanks to exceptional medical care, and lots of prayer, he survived.
Two years prior to this event, Tom and I were struggling financially, making bad decisions based on bad information. Night after night, I prayed to God, begged for intercessions on our behalf to the Virgin Mary, my three beloved and deceased grandparents, Tom's beloved and deceased father. Night after night, I cried while laying in bed, and only finally falling asleep while saying the rosary, each hard little bead clutched in my fingers. My humble and pain-filled prayers never eased the suffering, never brought about a job offer, never fixed our stupid mistakes. The praying focused my mind away from my fears and allowed me to relax enough to sleep.
So I'm operating on the theory currently that God doesn't reach his hand down very often to intercede in our human trials and tribulations. * Side Note 3 * Oh, I absolutely believe in miracles! There are moments when things occur that are unexplainable by human science of any kind. But I think those are few and far between. I believe that Marcello is alive because of exceptional medical care, and hopefully devine inspiration, but definitely scientifically explainable medical care. "The miracle of life" is explainable by the biology and chemical explanations of our earth and humanity (I stilll think the start of life from non-living is a miracle), so while the birth of every baby is an absolute good and wonderful thing, it is explainable by science, and therefore not a miracle. * And I'm back. * So who am I to be so bold as to request God's hand intercede in my life, when many more humble and more worthy people need His hand much more than me.
I think God put us on this earth to learn, the make the journey and see what we would and could do with this life He gave us. We have to utilize every resource we have, every working and intelligent thought, and every moment of sentience to (forgive me for being cliche) make the journey. I don't believe God has a set plan for me, that I was "meant to do" something. I think this life that God gave me allows me the opportunity to experience love, joy, sorrow, growth, error and forgiveness, and every choice I make affects me and those around me. The theory of a destiny takes away any notion of my freedom of choice. If we are responsible for choosing right and wrong, then we have the choice. If there is no choice, and we walk only a predestined path, how can we be held responsible for our wrongs, for pain and suffering we inflict upon others?
I do fervently believe in God, in That-Which-Is-Much-Larger than myself (yeah, I could call it The Force). I want to believe in the power of prayer, but I think I more realistically believe in the power of each person's choices affecting the rest of us. One man's choice to go to medical school, focus on neonatal care, move to Amarillo and spearhead the development of the Neonatal ICU, as well as many other people's choices to devote their lives to the medical care of newborns, enabled my son to live. However God fits into their lives is unknown to me, but they healed my son, with the talents God gave them.
I still pray - my rosaries still mean a lot to me. I still talk to God sometimes. But I don't wait for him to fix things. Frankly, I don't even ask. I utilize whatever talents God gave me to work, along with my husband and family, toward fixing things myself. I don't think that's a rejection of God, I think that's what God wants to see us do. Yeah, I'm still a Catholic, and I think I am a good one. But more importantly, I consider myself a good person, and I think that is ultimately what a good Catholic has to be.
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