At the gym the other night, the vice president of my division was there. Now granted I don't have a ton of interaction with her on a daily basis, but I have been at the College for almost two years.
She was on the mat next to me and Whitey while we did abs. Here's the conversation:
Whitey: I went to Cooperstown this weekend -- my first time.
Ellie: Cool -- and how is 25 Main Street?
Whitey: It was amazing.
Ellie (very excitedly): What was your favorite part?
Whitey: We couldn't even get through the whole museum -- we'll have to go back.
Ellie: Did you see the Babe Ruth room? And the Ted Williams diorama? That's my favorite. Even when I was little, that was always my favorite thing to see.
Ms. VP (looking at me): Are you a baseball fan?
Stunned silence from both Whitey and me.
Ms. VP: I should know this, shouldn't I?
Ellie: You've never been in my office?
Ms. VP: I'm embarressed to say I don't think so.
In my office.....nine bobbleheads on the shelf over my desk, a large framed picture of Yankee Stadium, a framed picture of me and Cal Ripken, and various autographed pictures (me and Mussina, Yogi Berra, Derek Jeter, etc).
Friday, April 28, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
711
After going 0 for almost all of April, Barry Bonds has hit three home runs in the past week to inch that much closer to the number 2 spot on the all-time home runs list.
I was driving home from work last night when I heard that he had come in to pinch hit number 711. And I'm not ashamed to say that while I didn't cry, I suddenly got somber. And I know, I truly will cry when he hits 714 and 715.
As a baseball fan, I feel cheated because he cheated. Clearly without the juice, his knees are shot and he doesn't have the strength he had in previous seasons to pull the ball. He looked like an old man hobbling around the bases the other night -- though not in the dramatic fashion of Kirk Gibson in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series. He wasn't an everyman hero.
As a Babe Ruth historian -- and I think I can legimately call myself that having been "his" public relations director for five years -- I am saddened. Not because he is being passed. Not because he's going to be third on the list. But because the person who will soon be number 2 has no respect for the history of the game. And no respect for what Babe Ruth accomplished as a player.
Barry Bonds sees color. He sees race. Babe Ruth played in an all-white league, and so his numbers, his stats, have no integrity. We got into a verbal pissing match with Barry Bonds a few years back, when at the All-Star Game, he made comments about passing Ruth, but leaving Hank Aaron's record alone.
He made a comment like, "once I pass Ruth, I don't want to hear anything more about him. He's done. Over. No more Ruth." I'm paraphrasing -- I don't remember his exact quote, but that was the gyst of it. My boss wrote a scathing "letter to the editor" addressing the comments, and for five hours, I used both the office fax machine and the fax machine on my computer, as well as my e-mail. I had the MLB media directory in hand and sent our official repsonse out to as many media outlets as I could.
The google alerts went crazy the next day. And, as expected, Bonds fired back. "The Babe Ruth Museum doesn't know me. They should mind their own business."
Babe Ruth would have gotten into the Hall of Fame as a pitcher. He was that good. And yet, four years into his career, nearing the 100-wins mark of his pithcing record, he moved to right field. And then, and only then, did he begin his introduction to the league of the long ball.
For those of you who aren't sports fans -- and are still reading, I'm impressed -- that would be the equivalent of Wayne Gretzky (hockey's greatest scorer) doing what he did and then becoming a goalie, and excelling at that position as well.
And so it looks like, maybe even over the weekend, certainly in the next few weeks, Babe Ruth's 714 will move to third. And I wouldn't be surprised if Barry Bonds hits 715 -- or maybe a few more -- and then hangs it up. Retires. Leaves the scrutiny behind. Because, in his mind, it is about race, and by replacing Ruth, he will have accomplished something. What? I'm not sure.
I can't address the race issue as well as Thom Loverro of the Washington Post -- so I'll let him. Make up your own mind. Records are made to be broken, so cheer if you want. I won't be.
If it were Junior Griffey closing in on 714, or Alex Rodriguez (and he still could do it) -- I would be on the edge of my seat. It would be like the summer of 1998 all over again (when we all turned the blind eye to the steroid possibilities of McGwire and Sosa) -- excitement for every game. Did he hit one? How many to break the record? At this point, I can only hope that A-Rod has it in him and can replace Bonds within a few years.
I was driving home from work last night when I heard that he had come in to pinch hit number 711. And I'm not ashamed to say that while I didn't cry, I suddenly got somber. And I know, I truly will cry when he hits 714 and 715.
As a baseball fan, I feel cheated because he cheated. Clearly without the juice, his knees are shot and he doesn't have the strength he had in previous seasons to pull the ball. He looked like an old man hobbling around the bases the other night -- though not in the dramatic fashion of Kirk Gibson in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series. He wasn't an everyman hero.
As a Babe Ruth historian -- and I think I can legimately call myself that having been "his" public relations director for five years -- I am saddened. Not because he is being passed. Not because he's going to be third on the list. But because the person who will soon be number 2 has no respect for the history of the game. And no respect for what Babe Ruth accomplished as a player.
Barry Bonds sees color. He sees race. Babe Ruth played in an all-white league, and so his numbers, his stats, have no integrity. We got into a verbal pissing match with Barry Bonds a few years back, when at the All-Star Game, he made comments about passing Ruth, but leaving Hank Aaron's record alone.
He made a comment like, "once I pass Ruth, I don't want to hear anything more about him. He's done. Over. No more Ruth." I'm paraphrasing -- I don't remember his exact quote, but that was the gyst of it. My boss wrote a scathing "letter to the editor" addressing the comments, and for five hours, I used both the office fax machine and the fax machine on my computer, as well as my e-mail. I had the MLB media directory in hand and sent our official repsonse out to as many media outlets as I could.
The google alerts went crazy the next day. And, as expected, Bonds fired back. "The Babe Ruth Museum doesn't know me. They should mind their own business."
Babe Ruth would have gotten into the Hall of Fame as a pitcher. He was that good. And yet, four years into his career, nearing the 100-wins mark of his pithcing record, he moved to right field. And then, and only then, did he begin his introduction to the league of the long ball.
For those of you who aren't sports fans -- and are still reading, I'm impressed -- that would be the equivalent of Wayne Gretzky (hockey's greatest scorer) doing what he did and then becoming a goalie, and excelling at that position as well.
And so it looks like, maybe even over the weekend, certainly in the next few weeks, Babe Ruth's 714 will move to third. And I wouldn't be surprised if Barry Bonds hits 715 -- or maybe a few more -- and then hangs it up. Retires. Leaves the scrutiny behind. Because, in his mind, it is about race, and by replacing Ruth, he will have accomplished something. What? I'm not sure.
I can't address the race issue as well as Thom Loverro of the Washington Post -- so I'll let him. Make up your own mind. Records are made to be broken, so cheer if you want. I won't be.
If it were Junior Griffey closing in on 714, or Alex Rodriguez (and he still could do it) -- I would be on the edge of my seat. It would be like the summer of 1998 all over again (when we all turned the blind eye to the steroid possibilities of McGwire and Sosa) -- excitement for every game. Did he hit one? How many to break the record? At this point, I can only hope that A-Rod has it in him and can replace Bonds within a few years.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Monday, Monday
Even though I worked last week, I feel like I'm just coming back from vacation. Everything in my world is as it should be now. I'm back home, I'm back to the gym, and at my desk by 7:30 this morning.
I'm doing interviews this week -- phone interviews for the other position in my office, and in-person interviews with the final candidates for the Director of Admission. And my boss told me last week that I made the semi-finalist cut -- in a pool of very strong candidates -- for the media relations position I had applied for.
I think I mentioned that I joined the new gym in town last week. It's amazing. I worked out over the weekend, and then went into the campus gym this morning and worked out with my trainer. We did weights this morning, so when I go in this after work, I'll just do cardio. I'm going to do a couple two-a-days this week, just to push myself and to get back in the saddle after my lazy week last week. And to get ready for Baltimore -- less than two weeks away. Oh my god, when did that happen?! May is next week!
I'm doing interviews this week -- phone interviews for the other position in my office, and in-person interviews with the final candidates for the Director of Admission. And my boss told me last week that I made the semi-finalist cut -- in a pool of very strong candidates -- for the media relations position I had applied for.
I think I mentioned that I joined the new gym in town last week. It's amazing. I worked out over the weekend, and then went into the campus gym this morning and worked out with my trainer. We did weights this morning, so when I go in this after work, I'll just do cardio. I'm going to do a couple two-a-days this week, just to push myself and to get back in the saddle after my lazy week last week. And to get ready for Baltimore -- less than two weeks away. Oh my god, when did that happen?! May is next week!
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Dorothy Gale was a Genius
Or upstate New York native L. Frank Baum. He wrote it. She said it.
There really is no place like home.
I'm home. Tonight...my own bed. My own sheets. My kitty. Television with cable and a TV in my room for my middle of the night insomnia.
Best of all....no dog poop. No barking in the middle of the night.
Tomorrow, I can get back into my own routine. And the only thing I have to do tomorrow is pack for the gym on Monday.
I did join the new gym the other day for the summer. Holy cow -- it does not look like Ithaca. More on that later. I'm getting into bed. I'm way too excited about it.
There really is no place like home.
I'm home. Tonight...my own bed. My own sheets. My kitty. Television with cable and a TV in my room for my middle of the night insomnia.
Best of all....no dog poop. No barking in the middle of the night.
Tomorrow, I can get back into my own routine. And the only thing I have to do tomorrow is pack for the gym on Monday.
I did join the new gym the other day for the summer. Holy cow -- it does not look like Ithaca. More on that later. I'm getting into bed. I'm way too excited about it.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
TGIF
I'm down to my last night of dog-sitting. All in all, it was fine. It wasn't hard, but I miss my house. I miss my cat. And most of all, I miss my routine.
I am a creature of habit -- sometimes neurotically so -- and I miss having the same thing for dinner every night, if I want. I miss the gym and the social aspects that I grown to love about that place.
The dogs have been very sweet, and no trouble at all. Calvin, the sad, blind soul, is the hardest. Not only to look at, but also to take care of. I get home each night and let them all out in the back. I carry Calvin out back as well, and then change my clothes. Then I roll all the newspaper that lined his area up and throw it away. Spray the floor with Lysol, give him fresh food and water. And -- and here's where my "everything in order" personality comes into play -- reline the floor with newspaper. In a pattern. Perfect pattern. I'm sick, I know.
Last night I took Ditto for a walk. He kept stopping and looking at me, as if to say thank you. It was really very sweet.
I'm looking forward to Sunday. And doing nothing.
One last night tonight -- finish laundry and pack. Tomorrow is a whirlwind -- gym, eye doctor, home to shower (home!), Bowl for Kids Sake for Big Brothers Big Sisters, grocery shopping, and then my couch. And my TV. And my kit'n.
I am a creature of habit -- sometimes neurotically so -- and I miss having the same thing for dinner every night, if I want. I miss the gym and the social aspects that I grown to love about that place.
The dogs have been very sweet, and no trouble at all. Calvin, the sad, blind soul, is the hardest. Not only to look at, but also to take care of. I get home each night and let them all out in the back. I carry Calvin out back as well, and then change my clothes. Then I roll all the newspaper that lined his area up and throw it away. Spray the floor with Lysol, give him fresh food and water. And -- and here's where my "everything in order" personality comes into play -- reline the floor with newspaper. In a pattern. Perfect pattern. I'm sick, I know.
Last night I took Ditto for a walk. He kept stopping and looking at me, as if to say thank you. It was really very sweet.
I'm looking forward to Sunday. And doing nothing.
One last night tonight -- finish laundry and pack. Tomorrow is a whirlwind -- gym, eye doctor, home to shower (home!), Bowl for Kids Sake for Big Brothers Big Sisters, grocery shopping, and then my couch. And my TV. And my kit'n.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
It's like living on a boat...
It's fine for a week. Anything beyond that...
I'm dog-sitting this week. I love dogs. I was raised with them -- we always had at least one, sometimes two. And big dogs -- German shepherds. But this is different. I'm dog-sitting for eight dogs. Yes, eight. And they're all different and challenging in their own way.
Ditto -- is a black lab. He's gorgeous and has a mean bark, and has been known to nip to protect his owners. But he's more like the strong, brooding type. When I was watching TV last night, I had the menagerie of dogs on my lap, on the couch and at my feet. Ditto was in the bedroom. And when I went to bed, he slept with his back against the front door. I felt very safe.
Cody -- also a black lab, but with only three legs. He got hit by a car before he came to live with his present owners. Very sweet, a little goof. In constant need of attention. He would stay outside all night if I let him. I had to call him several times last night to come in from the yard -- long after the other dogs came in. He slept at my feet in the living room and on the floor next to my bed last night.
Luke -- some sort of mutt mix, medium sized dog. The most easy-going of all of them. He goes out when he's told, comes back, doesn't lick, doesn't jump. He laid on the floor when I told him to. He also slept on the floor next to my bed last night.
Zeke -- is actually my co-worker's son's dog. He's a skipperke and just as cute as can be. He can be a little yippee, but he snuggled right on my lap last night and was happy. He's a puppy trying to play with the big boys and will follow any of the dogs anywhere.
Oatie and Teddy -- what I commonly refer to as "kick me" dogs, or sweater dogs. One has a snaggle tooth, the other has a tongue that's too long for his mouth and sticks out of the corner. Both are yippee and had to have a can of whoop-ass opening last night when I was trying to sleep. They'd yip and get the other ones all riled up.
Pierce -- another kick me dog -- some sort of dachsund mix. I'm sure he was yipping right along with the other two last night. And if I had to peg it, he was the one crying in the wee hours of the morning, which I ignored. So I guess it served me right that there was a little pile of poop on the hallway floor.
Calvin -- this is the saddest case of an owner living in denial about his dog's quality of life. Calvin is old, really old. And he's blind. And he sort of wanders around, bumping into things, stepping in his water dish, knocking over his food dish, peeing and pooping whenever the moment hits him. Thankfully, he's in a confined area, covered in newspaper. I was told he could go out, but I'd have to carry him back in because he can't find the door.
So those are my children for the week. Tonight, they're all going outside so I can give Calvin clean newspaper and walk on the treadmill undisturbed. And hopefully all the fresh air and frolicking in the grass will tire them out. Hopefully.
On the bright side, I'm making $50 a day and I have an amazing view of Skaneateles Lake from the kitchen and deck. I think I'll eat my dinner out ther tonight. It should be warm enough.
And unlike living on a boat, I can use as much damn hot water and toilet paper (not at the same time) as I want.
One night down, four more to go.
I'm dog-sitting this week. I love dogs. I was raised with them -- we always had at least one, sometimes two. And big dogs -- German shepherds. But this is different. I'm dog-sitting for eight dogs. Yes, eight. And they're all different and challenging in their own way.
Ditto -- is a black lab. He's gorgeous and has a mean bark, and has been known to nip to protect his owners. But he's more like the strong, brooding type. When I was watching TV last night, I had the menagerie of dogs on my lap, on the couch and at my feet. Ditto was in the bedroom. And when I went to bed, he slept with his back against the front door. I felt very safe.
Cody -- also a black lab, but with only three legs. He got hit by a car before he came to live with his present owners. Very sweet, a little goof. In constant need of attention. He would stay outside all night if I let him. I had to call him several times last night to come in from the yard -- long after the other dogs came in. He slept at my feet in the living room and on the floor next to my bed last night.
Luke -- some sort of mutt mix, medium sized dog. The most easy-going of all of them. He goes out when he's told, comes back, doesn't lick, doesn't jump. He laid on the floor when I told him to. He also slept on the floor next to my bed last night.
Zeke -- is actually my co-worker's son's dog. He's a skipperke and just as cute as can be. He can be a little yippee, but he snuggled right on my lap last night and was happy. He's a puppy trying to play with the big boys and will follow any of the dogs anywhere.
Oatie and Teddy -- what I commonly refer to as "kick me" dogs, or sweater dogs. One has a snaggle tooth, the other has a tongue that's too long for his mouth and sticks out of the corner. Both are yippee and had to have a can of whoop-ass opening last night when I was trying to sleep. They'd yip and get the other ones all riled up.
Pierce -- another kick me dog -- some sort of dachsund mix. I'm sure he was yipping right along with the other two last night. And if I had to peg it, he was the one crying in the wee hours of the morning, which I ignored. So I guess it served me right that there was a little pile of poop on the hallway floor.
Calvin -- this is the saddest case of an owner living in denial about his dog's quality of life. Calvin is old, really old. And he's blind. And he sort of wanders around, bumping into things, stepping in his water dish, knocking over his food dish, peeing and pooping whenever the moment hits him. Thankfully, he's in a confined area, covered in newspaper. I was told he could go out, but I'd have to carry him back in because he can't find the door.
So those are my children for the week. Tonight, they're all going outside so I can give Calvin clean newspaper and walk on the treadmill undisturbed. And hopefully all the fresh air and frolicking in the grass will tire them out. Hopefully.
On the bright side, I'm making $50 a day and I have an amazing view of Skaneateles Lake from the kitchen and deck. I think I'll eat my dinner out ther tonight. It should be warm enough.
And unlike living on a boat, I can use as much damn hot water and toilet paper (not at the same time) as I want.
One night down, four more to go.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
A Place Called Normal
I'm amused by the towns that the people who regularly visit my blog live in. And recently, with nothing better to write about, I've discovered an interesting pattern.
I've had visits from Hollywood, Florida, and Hollywood, California.
Rochester, Minnesota, and Rochester, New York.
Columbia, Maryland, and Columbia, Missouri.
Hasting-on-Hudson, New York, and Hastings, New York.
Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, Missouri.
College Station, Texas, and College Park, Maryland.
Everett, Washington, and Washington, DC.
Manassas, Virginia -- or as a member of my former museum used to insist we address his mail, Bull Run, Virginia.
And while I would have thought I'd have the most city hits from my great state of New York -- and I have a fair number from Ithaca (of course), Hastings, Rochester, Central Square and Hasting-on-Hudson -- I actually am visited more by cities in Missouri.
Columbia, Kansas City, Independence, Birmingham, Liberty and Missouri City.
Texas is close behind -- San Marcos, Plano, Boerne and College Station.
I have my occasional readers from the United Kingdom, though most are from the United States.
My favorite city name thus far is Diamond Bar, California. Is it about the jewelry? Or about the beer?
But mostly I'm glad that in this crazy world I live in, over-analyze (who me?!) and write about, I'm just happy that there's such a place as Normal, Illinois, and that someone from there occasionally drops by to read about Ellie's search.
I've had visits from Hollywood, Florida, and Hollywood, California.
Rochester, Minnesota, and Rochester, New York.
Columbia, Maryland, and Columbia, Missouri.
Hasting-on-Hudson, New York, and Hastings, New York.
Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, Missouri.
College Station, Texas, and College Park, Maryland.
Everett, Washington, and Washington, DC.
Manassas, Virginia -- or as a member of my former museum used to insist we address his mail, Bull Run, Virginia.
And while I would have thought I'd have the most city hits from my great state of New York -- and I have a fair number from Ithaca (of course), Hastings, Rochester, Central Square and Hasting-on-Hudson -- I actually am visited more by cities in Missouri.
Columbia, Kansas City, Independence, Birmingham, Liberty and Missouri City.
Texas is close behind -- San Marcos, Plano, Boerne and College Station.
I have my occasional readers from the United Kingdom, though most are from the United States.
My favorite city name thus far is Diamond Bar, California. Is it about the jewelry? Or about the beer?
But mostly I'm glad that in this crazy world I live in, over-analyze (who me?!) and write about, I'm just happy that there's such a place as Normal, Illinois, and that someone from there occasionally drops by to read about Ellie's search.
Friday, April 14, 2006
The Big 4-0
I'm feeling better about the Easter situation this morning. I had a good night's sleep, was pleasantly surprised to find an episode of "The A-Team" on TV Land in the middle of the night when I woke up with my usual bout of insomnia, am having lunch with my former co-worker and have a light meeting schedule today.
I'm meeting my brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew tomorrow at the Science Center, and then my niece with stay with me for the night. Not sure how we'll spend the rest of the day -- walking around the Commons, maybe a movie, dinner out and then an early night since we have to make 8:30 mass on Sunday morning. And now that Lent is officially over, I enjoyed a mini peanut butter filled rabbit this morning. Yum!
TGIF! I hit 40 pounds this morning, actually 40.8! A new middle number is literally ounces away -- I can't convert ounces to tenths (which is how my scale measures) but three-tenths of pound...whatever that is in ounces.
I'm meeting my brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew tomorrow at the Science Center, and then my niece with stay with me for the night. Not sure how we'll spend the rest of the day -- walking around the Commons, maybe a movie, dinner out and then an early night since we have to make 8:30 mass on Sunday morning. And now that Lent is officially over, I enjoyed a mini peanut butter filled rabbit this morning. Yum!
TGIF! I hit 40 pounds this morning, actually 40.8! A new middle number is literally ounces away -- I can't convert ounces to tenths (which is how my scale measures) but three-tenths of pound...whatever that is in ounces.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
The Easter saga continues
My mother called me this morning to tell me that she called the restaurant and they would be happy to make me a salad with grilled chicken on Sunday. She spoke to the owner and we are to ask for him when we get there, to let him know that "special order" has arrived.
So now, even though I had resigned myself to not going -- and was actually excited about getting my favorite salad from Uno's -- I think I have to go. And even though, in her own way, she did sort of the right thing by trying to accommodate me, I think its too little too late. When my father didn't like the restaurant we picked for Thanksgiving, and made a HUGE issue out of it, we changed it. No problem. I even called and asked if the new place was acceptable. And it wasn't a big deal -- it was more about everyone being together, making sure everyone was happy. So why couldn't it have been like this on Tuesday night when I called her? Why couldn't she have said, "let me see if I can find someplace else for us to go?"
And I just know that its going to be this big production, I can just see it now, as she makes a big deal when we get there and has the sublty and discreetness of a bull in a china shop. Why can't anything be easy with her?
At this point, I really don't want to go.
So now, even though I had resigned myself to not going -- and was actually excited about getting my favorite salad from Uno's -- I think I have to go. And even though, in her own way, she did sort of the right thing by trying to accommodate me, I think its too little too late. When my father didn't like the restaurant we picked for Thanksgiving, and made a HUGE issue out of it, we changed it. No problem. I even called and asked if the new place was acceptable. And it wasn't a big deal -- it was more about everyone being together, making sure everyone was happy. So why couldn't it have been like this on Tuesday night when I called her? Why couldn't she have said, "let me see if I can find someplace else for us to go?"
And I just know that its going to be this big production, I can just see it now, as she makes a big deal when we get there and has the sublty and discreetness of a bull in a china shop. Why can't anything be easy with her?
At this point, I really don't want to go.
Happy Birthday to me
We had a little happy birthday happy hour last night for the clump of Aries birthdays -- had a beer and then went to the mall. Thirty dollars later at Bath & Body Works (I had lots of coupons and a gift card, so I really only spent $10) and $50 at Victoria's Secret (and that was AFTER my $10 sexy birthday gift card), I headed home for a good night's sleep. I think now that the evening temps are well above freezing, it's time to take the flannel sheets off the bed.
I got into work about 7:30 this morning and already had a voice mail. From my mom. Does she know that I'm pissed at her and doesn't want to talk to me? She couldn't have waited until after 8:00 so that she could have actually said "happy birthday" to me and put my dad on the phone? I don't get her.
I also had an email from my brother in Alaska, wishing me a happy "37th brithday." He's given me an extra year another time. I don't know if he really is an idiot and can't remember how old I am, or if he does it to get a rise out of me. I reminded him that 2006 minus 1970 equals 36, not 37! I also had emails from my oldest sister, The American Red Cross, a former co-worker in Baltimore, and a current co-worker. I feel loved.
I got into work about 7:30 this morning and already had a voice mail. From my mom. Does she know that I'm pissed at her and doesn't want to talk to me? She couldn't have waited until after 8:00 so that she could have actually said "happy birthday" to me and put my dad on the phone? I don't get her.
I also had an email from my brother in Alaska, wishing me a happy "37th brithday." He's given me an extra year another time. I don't know if he really is an idiot and can't remember how old I am, or if he does it to get a rise out of me. I reminded him that 2006 minus 1970 equals 36, not 37! I also had emails from my oldest sister, The American Red Cross, a former co-worker in Baltimore, and a current co-worker. I feel loved.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Easter Manicotti?
I've called the restaurant twice. Hoping that something on their limited menu would jump out at me. It didn't.
Before I called the first time, I was cavalier about the whole thing. No big deal -- it's just another Sunday. My family is scattered all over anyway -- it's not like everyone will be eating together. And then I called. And heard the menu. Fried this, fish that (I don't do seafood), pasta this, cream sauce that.
I asked about the grilled chicken and broccoli with cream sauce. Could I get that special without the sauce? I was told that because of the volume of business on the holidays, they don't do special orders.
And then I was a little bummed that I wouldn't be spending the holiday with any of my family.
I called the restaurant again last night. Talked to a different person, got the same info. So what do I do? Do I just suck it up and go? Do I call my mother and ask her to pick another place? Do I do nothing and just tell her on Sunday that I'm not going? I wasn't sure.
My dear friend Wanda called from Baltimore at that very moment. She's calm. She's smart. She has her own parent and sister issues. And she's known me (and my mother issues) for more than 10 years -- so she was the voice of reason. Her advice -- "stick to your guns. You have to do what's right for you. You'll be miserable Monday morning because you overate, or ate the wrong things. You're in a zone right now -- you don't want to lose that."
Sound advice. I called my brother in Virginia. And even got a little weepy with him. I bet he was wishing that his wife wasn't sick in bed with the flu so she could have dealt with me. He said the same thing. "Don't let her manipulate you. You asked for a specific type of restaurant and stated the reasons. As usual, she didn't listen. Or chose to hear what she wanted. Call her and ask her what happened with the other options. Tell you can't eat what they're offering. If it were their full menu, it'd be a different story. But its not."
So I called Fran last night. I told her I called the restaurant and that there wasn't really anything I would eat on the menu. She must have heard me fighting the tears at one point. She certainly had to have heard the exasperation in my voice. But she chose to ignore it.
"Don't they have pasta dishes?"
"Too heavy."
"Chicken?"
"Chicken parm, or a broccoli with cream sauce dish."
"What about manicotti?"
"Too fattening. It's fine. I just won't go."
"Everyone will be disappointed. They're all looking forward to seeing you."
"Well, that's why I suggested Red Lobster or someplace with a full menu so I could get a big salad."
"They're not taking reservations. And with eight of us...." I didn't remind her that in the entire city of Syracuse, there are more restaurants serving dinner on Sunday than just Red Lobster and Tassone's.
"It's fine. I'll bring Katie home in the morning. See Bob, Sally and Zak. Then I'll come out and see you for a little while before heading back home. I'll stop at Panera and get some soup."
"What about steak?"
"Not knowing the cut, I'm not sure. I'll check."
"You could eat half of it."
"I wish I could. I have portion control issues. Ya know what, it's not a big deal. It's my issue, I need to deal with it. Unfortunately, this is the way I have to deal with it."
"Well, you've worked so hard, so I understand that you don't want to blow it, but it's just one meal."
Tears are being fought back at this point. "I just now, within the last four days, lost the 10 pounds I gained over the holidays. I do not want to...." Big sigh.
"Ok...but we'll miss you."
I'm beyond words at this point. I laid on my bed and cried for a little while, refrained from subjecting my brother to more tears with another phone call. Perhaps I'm being unreasonable in expecting that she might say, "let me see if I can find another place." Perhaps I'm being unreasonable in expecting that she would understand. Perhaps I should just go -- and test myself.
It's Wednesday -- I'm sure I'll flip flop on the decision more than once between now and Sunday.
Before I called the first time, I was cavalier about the whole thing. No big deal -- it's just another Sunday. My family is scattered all over anyway -- it's not like everyone will be eating together. And then I called. And heard the menu. Fried this, fish that (I don't do seafood), pasta this, cream sauce that.
I asked about the grilled chicken and broccoli with cream sauce. Could I get that special without the sauce? I was told that because of the volume of business on the holidays, they don't do special orders.
And then I was a little bummed that I wouldn't be spending the holiday with any of my family.
I called the restaurant again last night. Talked to a different person, got the same info. So what do I do? Do I just suck it up and go? Do I call my mother and ask her to pick another place? Do I do nothing and just tell her on Sunday that I'm not going? I wasn't sure.
My dear friend Wanda called from Baltimore at that very moment. She's calm. She's smart. She has her own parent and sister issues. And she's known me (and my mother issues) for more than 10 years -- so she was the voice of reason. Her advice -- "stick to your guns. You have to do what's right for you. You'll be miserable Monday morning because you overate, or ate the wrong things. You're in a zone right now -- you don't want to lose that."
Sound advice. I called my brother in Virginia. And even got a little weepy with him. I bet he was wishing that his wife wasn't sick in bed with the flu so she could have dealt with me. He said the same thing. "Don't let her manipulate you. You asked for a specific type of restaurant and stated the reasons. As usual, she didn't listen. Or chose to hear what she wanted. Call her and ask her what happened with the other options. Tell you can't eat what they're offering. If it were their full menu, it'd be a different story. But its not."
So I called Fran last night. I told her I called the restaurant and that there wasn't really anything I would eat on the menu. She must have heard me fighting the tears at one point. She certainly had to have heard the exasperation in my voice. But she chose to ignore it.
"Don't they have pasta dishes?"
"Too heavy."
"Chicken?"
"Chicken parm, or a broccoli with cream sauce dish."
"What about manicotti?"
"Too fattening. It's fine. I just won't go."
"Everyone will be disappointed. They're all looking forward to seeing you."
"Well, that's why I suggested Red Lobster or someplace with a full menu so I could get a big salad."
"They're not taking reservations. And with eight of us...." I didn't remind her that in the entire city of Syracuse, there are more restaurants serving dinner on Sunday than just Red Lobster and Tassone's.
"It's fine. I'll bring Katie home in the morning. See Bob, Sally and Zak. Then I'll come out and see you for a little while before heading back home. I'll stop at Panera and get some soup."
"What about steak?"
"Not knowing the cut, I'm not sure. I'll check."
"You could eat half of it."
"I wish I could. I have portion control issues. Ya know what, it's not a big deal. It's my issue, I need to deal with it. Unfortunately, this is the way I have to deal with it."
"Well, you've worked so hard, so I understand that you don't want to blow it, but it's just one meal."
Tears are being fought back at this point. "I just now, within the last four days, lost the 10 pounds I gained over the holidays. I do not want to...." Big sigh.
"Ok...but we'll miss you."
I'm beyond words at this point. I laid on my bed and cried for a little while, refrained from subjecting my brother to more tears with another phone call. Perhaps I'm being unreasonable in expecting that she might say, "let me see if I can find another place." Perhaps I'm being unreasonable in expecting that she would understand. Perhaps I should just go -- and test myself.
It's Wednesday -- I'm sure I'll flip flop on the decision more than once between now and Sunday.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Weekend Update
A quick synopsis...
The highlights:
* shopping on Sunday at the outlet mall. The drive was great, the lake looked amazing all the way up and back.
* I managed to stick to my budget -- taking cash was the way to go so that I didn't overspend. I really thought about what I was buying, which included new t-shirts (size L almost too big) and capri's (new pants size) for spring and summer sassiness, and some yummy multi-grain tortilla chips from Harry & David
* spending the day with a dear friend whom I haven't seen since last summer -- it was something that was long overdue and I never looked at my watch once the whole day. It was good to catch up, and hopefully with some not-so-great things happening in her life right now, she was able to put them out of her mind for a little while.
* getting home in time to watch the last eight holes of the Masters, as anti-climatic as it ended up being. Tiger choked on his putts and it was all Lefty down the stretch.
* dinner on Saturday was fun -- my mother behaved for the most part and they didn't arrive until the original ETA of 12:30. I did have to laugh at how many times Fran used "awesome" -- it seems to be the only adjective she knows
the lowlights:
For this I need to recreate a conversation from a couple weeks ago regarding where we should eat for Easter dinner:
Fran: we can eat at my place
Ellie: your apartment is too small, and you don't want to have to cook for that many people. let's just go to a restaurant
Fran: where should we go?
Ellie: i don't know. maybe red lobster, uncle henry really enjoys that and then i can get a nice grilled chicken something or other for dinner
Fran: okay, sounds good
A week later, she told me that she had made reservations for an Italian restaurant. When I mentioned that Uncle Henry doesn't really like Italian, she said that they were also having a ham dinner.
This past Saturday, I told her I might not be staying for dinner on Sunday.
Fran: why not?
Ellie: i'm going to call the restaurant and find out what kind of grilled chicken options they have, but i really don't want pasta and i don't need fried stuff
Fran: they have chicken there
Ellie: grilled?
Fran: you got chicken at thanksgiving
Ellie: that was chicken parm, and it was totally fried
Fran: oh....are you dieting?
The only thing that she could have said to me that would have been worse: oh this one time won't hurt you.
Because I've finally -- FINALLY -- broken the post-holiday wall. I am finally under what I was before the holidays (yea, that holiday season that started with the chicken parm at Thanksgiving). Within ounces of 40 pounds. I will not yo-yo again. And I will not eat shit on Easter. And I'm sorry if it will hurt her feelings that I won't be at Easter dinner, but this is the way I have to be.
The highlights:
* shopping on Sunday at the outlet mall. The drive was great, the lake looked amazing all the way up and back.
* I managed to stick to my budget -- taking cash was the way to go so that I didn't overspend. I really thought about what I was buying, which included new t-shirts (size L almost too big) and capri's (new pants size) for spring and summer sassiness, and some yummy multi-grain tortilla chips from Harry & David
* spending the day with a dear friend whom I haven't seen since last summer -- it was something that was long overdue and I never looked at my watch once the whole day. It was good to catch up, and hopefully with some not-so-great things happening in her life right now, she was able to put them out of her mind for a little while.
* getting home in time to watch the last eight holes of the Masters, as anti-climatic as it ended up being. Tiger choked on his putts and it was all Lefty down the stretch.
* dinner on Saturday was fun -- my mother behaved for the most part and they didn't arrive until the original ETA of 12:30. I did have to laugh at how many times Fran used "awesome" -- it seems to be the only adjective she knows
the lowlights:
For this I need to recreate a conversation from a couple weeks ago regarding where we should eat for Easter dinner:
Fran: we can eat at my place
Ellie: your apartment is too small, and you don't want to have to cook for that many people. let's just go to a restaurant
Fran: where should we go?
Ellie: i don't know. maybe red lobster, uncle henry really enjoys that and then i can get a nice grilled chicken something or other for dinner
Fran: okay, sounds good
A week later, she told me that she had made reservations for an Italian restaurant. When I mentioned that Uncle Henry doesn't really like Italian, she said that they were also having a ham dinner.
This past Saturday, I told her I might not be staying for dinner on Sunday.
Fran: why not?
Ellie: i'm going to call the restaurant and find out what kind of grilled chicken options they have, but i really don't want pasta and i don't need fried stuff
Fran: they have chicken there
Ellie: grilled?
Fran: you got chicken at thanksgiving
Ellie: that was chicken parm, and it was totally fried
Fran: oh....are you dieting?
The only thing that she could have said to me that would have been worse: oh this one time won't hurt you.
Because I've finally -- FINALLY -- broken the post-holiday wall. I am finally under what I was before the holidays (yea, that holiday season that started with the chicken parm at Thanksgiving). Within ounces of 40 pounds. I will not yo-yo again. And I will not eat shit on Easter. And I'm sorry if it will hurt her feelings that I won't be at Easter dinner, but this is the way I have to be.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Birthday cake
When I was 12 or 13, I remember being at my sister's house for my niece's birthday. She was turning two or three. I can picture the house, the deck, the backyard. I can almost remember what I was wearing and how long I played on the swing set with my nieces.
I can definitely remember the cake -- and how good it was. So good that I went back for a second piece. One of my brothers chastised me, "do you really think you need that?"
Already shy, already insecure, already painfully aware of my weight, I cringed inside for being called out, for being humiliated in front of the family. I was mortified. I fought back the tears and pushed the cake away.
Later, at home, I was laying on my older sister's bed watching TV. She wasn't home. My parents came in the room. My mother stood there, with a stupid grin on her face. My father -- usually the quiet one, usually the one who didn't deal with this kind of stuff -- sat on the bed and tried to rationalize the cake incident from earlier in the day, tried to make me understand that it was done out of love. And I remember this as if it were yesterday. "Do you know how proud your brothers would be if you lost a little weight?"
I bit my lip and nodded. The last thing I wanted was to cry. The last thing I needed was a hug from him. I was fat, and until I wasn't fat, I wouldn't be loved totally. That was the message that I got that day.
That message would haunt every relationship I've had with a man.
I can definitely remember the cake -- and how good it was. So good that I went back for a second piece. One of my brothers chastised me, "do you really think you need that?"
Already shy, already insecure, already painfully aware of my weight, I cringed inside for being called out, for being humiliated in front of the family. I was mortified. I fought back the tears and pushed the cake away.
Later, at home, I was laying on my older sister's bed watching TV. She wasn't home. My parents came in the room. My mother stood there, with a stupid grin on her face. My father -- usually the quiet one, usually the one who didn't deal with this kind of stuff -- sat on the bed and tried to rationalize the cake incident from earlier in the day, tried to make me understand that it was done out of love. And I remember this as if it were yesterday. "Do you know how proud your brothers would be if you lost a little weight?"
I bit my lip and nodded. The last thing I wanted was to cry. The last thing I needed was a hug from him. I was fat, and until I wasn't fat, I wouldn't be loved totally. That was the message that I got that day.
That message would haunt every relationship I've had with a man.
76 Trombones in the Big Parade
TGIF!
This week has dragged so freakin' slowly. I'm not sure why. I am doing the job of two people -- and suddenly, things have slowed down. I'm not complaining about the unexpected (though much appreciated) break in my workload -- I'm just stunned. And worried about what next week might bring.
My parents are coming to visit tomorrow. It's my dad's 76th birthday and I'm making them dinner. Well, dinner for them is at 2. I'm not sure when this happened. When I was growing up, Sunday dinners were always mid-afternoon affairs -- but the other six days of the week, dinner was at 5:30/6:00.
I have to take Casey to the vet in the morning for her annual shots. My dad told me last week that they'll probably be down about 12:30 or so. An e-mail from my mom yesterday says they'll be here about noon. By the time tomorrow rolls around, they will probably be at my house before I'm home from the vet.
I always look forward to visit with my parents. And then am disappointed when the visit actually happens. My mother says something to annoy me, or does something to annoy me. I always try to go into it with an open mind, but in the end, I wish for my old mom back, the mom I had growing up, the one before her breakdown, the one who wasn't self-centered, the one who actually listened.
So lucky me, I have dinner with them tomorrow and then again next Sunday for Easter. And that, for numerous reasons, I am trying to think how I can get out of it. But that's an issue for a different day.
This week has dragged so freakin' slowly. I'm not sure why. I am doing the job of two people -- and suddenly, things have slowed down. I'm not complaining about the unexpected (though much appreciated) break in my workload -- I'm just stunned. And worried about what next week might bring.
My parents are coming to visit tomorrow. It's my dad's 76th birthday and I'm making them dinner. Well, dinner for them is at 2. I'm not sure when this happened. When I was growing up, Sunday dinners were always mid-afternoon affairs -- but the other six days of the week, dinner was at 5:30/6:00.
I have to take Casey to the vet in the morning for her annual shots. My dad told me last week that they'll probably be down about 12:30 or so. An e-mail from my mom yesterday says they'll be here about noon. By the time tomorrow rolls around, they will probably be at my house before I'm home from the vet.
I always look forward to visit with my parents. And then am disappointed when the visit actually happens. My mother says something to annoy me, or does something to annoy me. I always try to go into it with an open mind, but in the end, I wish for my old mom back, the mom I had growing up, the one before her breakdown, the one who wasn't self-centered, the one who actually listened.
So lucky me, I have dinner with them tomorrow and then again next Sunday for Easter. And that, for numerous reasons, I am trying to think how I can get out of it. But that's an issue for a different day.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
“I'd like to thank the good Lord for making me a Yankee.”
I have a Joe DiMaggio baseball. As much of a Yankees fan as I am, I've never been a big Joe D fan. I could take him or leave him.
Babe -- of course, that goes without saying.
Lou -- absolutely.
Mickey -- the inspiration for my tattoo.
But Joe -- ehh.
I pulled the ball out of the box of all my autographed baseballs (yes, it is a shame that I don't have them out since I moved back to New York) and put it on my dresser so I would remember to ask Chris if he knew anyone who wanted to buy it.
Do you think I could remember? It sort of blended in with everything else on my dresser until it just became a permament fixture, and I forgot to ask him any time I talked to him. Fortunately, he was in Ithaca a few weeks ago. Before I could even say anything to him, he spotted it immediately.
"Where'd you get the DiMaggio ball?"
"Know anyone who wants to buy it?"
He gave me a look like I'm a complete idiot, and then, "How much?"
"Mickey's Place in Cooperstown sells Joe D balls for $500, but that's on a '94 World Series ball (there was no World Series in '94)...."
"I want it."
"Ok...$500 for you."
And so goes the plan to pay for the new, fancy gym in town once my campus gym closes for the summer.
Babe -- of course, that goes without saying.
Lou -- absolutely.
Mickey -- the inspiration for my tattoo.
But Joe -- ehh.
I pulled the ball out of the box of all my autographed baseballs (yes, it is a shame that I don't have them out since I moved back to New York) and put it on my dresser so I would remember to ask Chris if he knew anyone who wanted to buy it.
Do you think I could remember? It sort of blended in with everything else on my dresser until it just became a permament fixture, and I forgot to ask him any time I talked to him. Fortunately, he was in Ithaca a few weeks ago. Before I could even say anything to him, he spotted it immediately.
"Where'd you get the DiMaggio ball?"
"Know anyone who wants to buy it?"
He gave me a look like I'm a complete idiot, and then, "How much?"
"Mickey's Place in Cooperstown sells Joe D balls for $500, but that's on a '94 World Series ball (there was no World Series in '94)...."
"I want it."
"Ok...$500 for you."
And so goes the plan to pay for the new, fancy gym in town once my campus gym closes for the summer.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Eight days to 36
I always get melancholy near my birthday. I think of this as the start of a new year, more so than December 31 to January 1. I look back, I look forward. I'm proud of my successes and yearn for what I haven't accomplished yet.
And so on the cusp of my 36th birthday (next Thursday), I think about the fact that I am the healthiest I have ever been. I work out 90 minutes a day, five days a week. I'm dealing with issues I didn't realize still bothered me -- and I'm trying to define and conquer my relationship with food and my own body image.
My relationship with food, and subsequent self-image and relationships with the opposite sex, have been difficult to define. I've always thought of myself as fat. Even when I wasn't. Even when I was nothing more than a solid 10-year-old. I look back at pictures and see a normal, healthy girl. But what I felt, what I saw when I looked in the mirror, what I thought others saw, was anything but normal and healthy.
When I was 10, I was on a diet. I had probably been on several even before then. My mother was always fighting her weight -- after eight children, I don't think anyone expected her to be Twiggy. Her self-perception, her ideas on weight and body image, were transferred to me.
I read the Scarsdale Diet book, went to Weight Watchers meetings, worked out at Kelly Lynn, watched Richard Simmons, did Jane Fonda workouts -- all before the age of 13. I remember getting incentives from well-meaning siblings. "For every pound you lose, I'll give you a dollar." And when my sister moved out of state with her boyfriend, and would call home, one of the first things she always asked me was "how's your diet?"
I can only imagine the effects all of that has on me. In fact, I do more than imagine, because for the past 25 years or so, I have struggled with it. I have tortured myself with diet after diet -- sometimes to fail right from the start, sometimes to succeed and then fail.
Finally, today, I think I've managed to figure out how to succeed, and at least stand still, rather than fall backwards. And so with eight days left of 35, have I finally made a step forward? Have I finally figured it out? By looking back, by thinking about specific incidents, I can let go and move forward.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Insert foot...
I was just walking across campus with my friend Jenn. She, at the ATM, when I hear someone say, "hi Ellie." It's a faculty member I work out with at the gym every night. A faculty member that I have an itty bitty crush on.
And what do I say, "oh, hi...I didn't recognize you with your clothes on." And then there was some stammering and some blushing....
And he didn't let me out of it easy. "That's what the lights are for."
Yea....see ya at the gym tonight.
PS -- Happy opening day!
And what do I say, "oh, hi...I didn't recognize you with your clothes on." And then there was some stammering and some blushing....
And he didn't let me out of it easy. "That's what the lights are for."
Yea....see ya at the gym tonight.
PS -- Happy opening day!
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