WHATEVS…

Sierra's online journal

Some Pretty Huge News October 19, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — sierrak83 @ 5:20 pm
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A few people have pointed out to me that I haven’t written in a while. “I’ve had a hard time getting back on track after vacation,” I claim. In fact, the same could be said about not only my blogging but also my diet…. Sure, Chris and I took a trip to Las Vegas in mid-September along with our friend Jen, her parents, and my mother-in-law. But that’s not really the reason why I’ve been hesitant to post a new blog entry. The truth is, I’ve been a bit distracted. By some pretty huge news. News that I wasn’t ready to share until now. If I may be honest…it’s because Chris and I are getting a roommate.

Our new roommate will be moving in with us on or around May 1. And the crazy part is that so far, that’s all we know. Not whether it’s going to be male or female and certainly not its name. We’re not real picky, though…we’re just psyched that the roommate is coming. Psyched but scared, too. We’re not sure what to expect. How will this affect our social life? Our budget? Ah, yes. I didn’t mention. This roommate will not only be living with us rent-free but we’re also obligated to provide him or her with all sorts of stuff…clothing, food…diapers.

Yes, we’re pregnant!

If you know me, you’re probably scratching your head right about now and asking yourself, “But, I thought she said they weren’t ready to start a family yet” or even, “Sierra always said she didn’t want kids.” And now that I’m to this point (almost 13 weeks!) I feel ready to be honest about something else. Something that only three people (Chris, my sister Bree, and my friend Frankie) have known about me all along is this: I’ve always wanted a family. But since I was about 17 years old, and for reasons about which I will spare you the details, I have questioned my ability to have children. I had never tried to conceive. But I was certain it would never work. And rather than admit to friends and family that I may not be able to have what I wanted so desperately, I found it easier to proclaim that I just didn’t want children. That way, every time someone asked us, “No babies for you?” or “When are you two going to start a family?” it made it a little less damaging.

And the question got asked. A lot. I have come to learn that different phases of life bring with them stock questions that everyone seems to ask. During our engagement, it was “did you set a date yet?” And during the first year or so of our marriage, it was “when are you guys going to have a baby?” On that note, I have to interject here. When a couple doesn’t have kids, there’s a reason for it. And that reason is really none of your business. No amount of asking them—regardless of how politely or “cutesy” it may be phrased—will impact the decision that is ultimately up to the couple. Maybe they don’t want kids yet. Or at all. Maybe one (or both) of them can’t have kids. Either way, it’s rude (and often upsetting) to ask! I digress.

Shortly after our third wedding anniversary (in January of this year), Chris and I made a long weekend trip to where we honeymooned in the Poconos—Cove Haven…love them! And the purpose of that trip was to mark the official start of us trying to conceive. We had talked about being ready to start trying. But I needed “an important starting point” to make myself feel okay mentally. After all, we had spent the past 12 years trying NOT to conceive. I couldn’t just wake up one day and suddenly try to do exactly what we’d avoided for so long! Chris didn’t understand my logic but still he packed up the car and off to the Poconos we went.

And January turned into February turned into March turned into April. And, sure, we were having fun. But with each passing month I became more and more disheartened. All the while, we watched as friends and family around us continued to announce pregnancies, have babies, and post photos of their little ones all over Facebook. And we were happy for them, of course. But at the same time, I was left tearily exclaiming to Chris, “Everyone gets to be pregnant except for me!”

In May, Chris decided that we needed to get away. So off we went to spend a weekend in Providence at a quaint little bed-and-breakfast that Chris picked out. It was just what we needed. Time away. Time to just be us, without worrying about anyone or anything else. We came home relaxed and ready to keep trying. And May turned to June.

In June, I met a woman who had a profound impact on me. We were strangers when we both received invitations to the wedding where we met. She was a high school classmate of the bride while the groom is a friend of Chris’. But the seating chart said we were sharing a table and I, fortunately, ended up sitting next to her. Over dinner, we started to chat and I learned that she is the mother of triplets. I asked her if multiples run in her family and her candid response floored me. “No, they were fertility babies.” She told me that her and her (now ex) husband were having a hard time conceiving so she went through treatments to make her family. By the end of the conversation, I had admitted to her that I was afraid I can’t conceive, either. She had given me hope, though, that if I wanted a family, it was possible. Someway, somehow.

In July, I felt run-down…just not myself. And I said to Chris, “I bet it happened.” But the test said no. And I cried. I came to Chris and said, “I’m going to give it until January. That’ll be one full year. And if it hasn’t happened by then, we’ll go see a doctor.” The prospect of needing to go to that length seemed daunting. But if it’s what I had to do to have a family, then I’d do it. I tried to remain optimistic in the meantime. “I bet it’s going to happen soon, though. I just feel it,” I had said to Chris in August.

With our trip to Vegas looming within a few days, I decided to take a test “just in case” before leaving. I didn’t tell anyone—not even Chris—that I was taking it because I didn’t want to deal with the heartbreak of having to tell anyone that it was negative again. So on Saturday, September 15, I woke up bright and early and headed to the bathroom. And I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was that a plus sign?! I immediately burst into tears—happy ones—and asked Chris to come downstairs. I handed him the test and said through my tears, “Everyone gets to be pregnant!”

He took the test from me and immediately went into consoling husband mode, as he’s done after so many tests in the recent past. “Honey, don’t get upset. It’ll happen someday.” Then he looked at the test. “Am I reading this right?!” He asked. I nodded. “You’re pregnant?!” I nodded. And he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. It was finally happening!

So let me catch you up on what you’ve missed over the past 35-or-so days…. We had our first ultrasound on 10/6; The baby looked like a shrimp and since has been dubbed with the nickname Scampi. And we shared our news with a small handful of people. My sister cried. Frankie said, “God is good!” Chris’ mom’s eyes crinkled with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. Chris’ dad held my hand across the breakfast table while we waited for the waitress to deliver food. My sister’s boys asked if it was planned (yes, DeShawn) and if they could choose the baby’s name (no, Anthony). I’m told that Chris’ twin brother Dave said, “Dude, this is a pretty big deal.” Our closest friends cheered and congratulated Chris on “getting the job done!” But the best reaction of them all was my dad’s.

After leaving the ultrasound appointment, I texted my father to ask if I could stop by to talk to him. And within about 30 minutes I found myself in the living room of the home I grew up in. I asked him to put on his glasses and turn on a light, which he did. I then handed him the ultrasound photo. He stared at it, smiled, and asked, “Uh…where is this?” I got teary so my sister lightened the mood. “Well, it’s not in Chris!” He teared up and said, “This is wonderful news, doll. Seeing you have kids is one of the things I still had to accomplish in my life and I’m so happy for you.” (Unbeknownst to me until that night, my father had been asking my sister for a year or so if she thought I’d ever start a family. And knowing my fears about conceiving, she has been telling him not to pressure me.)

And over the past month or so, as we began to divulge the news to a select few, I came to learn the question that is associated with this phase of life: “How are you feeling?” It’s the first thing people want to know when when they hear the news. And then again every time they see or talk to me again. My typical response is, “Good.” But by that I mean, “I have to eat all day to keep myself from feeling hungry because that’s when I get nauseous. And I cry all the time and for no good reason; Chris is LOVING it. I feel huge and often wonder if I’m visibly waddling, despite the fact that my sister insists I’m neither. But other than all that….Good.”

I’m told the second trimester gets easier. And I do hope that that’s true. But at the same time, I am choosing to see this pregnancy as a blessing. I never thought I’d be here—preparing to be a mom—because I thought it just wasn’t in my cards. And I have spent a long time empathizing with the women who are unable to conceive because for so long, I thought I was among them. I realize that there are lots of women out there that would give anything to be in my shoes so I’m not going to take a second of this experience for granted.

Bree: “Look at the arm moving!”
Me: “THANK GOD THAT’S AN ARM! I thought it was the nose!”

 

Remembering 9/11 September 11, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — sierrak83 @ 5:33 pm
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It was late August, 2001. I don’t remember the exact date. But I remember it was the night before I would move to college. And I couldn’t sleep. Sure, I was excited. But that wasn’t the cause of my insomnia. I was scared. I sat at the kitchen table with my mom, crying over the fact that I’d be leaving home the next morning. And, I was so sure, I’d never be coming back. Momma rubbed my back and assured me that I could come home any time I wanted—as often as I’d like to visit, for summers and school vacations, and even back home to live after graduation.

College Move-In Day

The next day, I put on a brave face as we packed my Dodge Dynasty (plus my parent’s SUV) as full as possible and headed south on I-91. A couple of highways, a bridge, and roughly three hours later, we joined the lines of traffic snaking throughout the CW Post Campus of Long Island University as swarms of freshman lugged boxes, bedding, and appliances from their cars to Brookville Hall. Soon enough, our cars were unpacked, I’d met my roommate, and had posed for a string of family photos before they hugged me goodbye. And suddenly, alone in my freshman dorm room, I wasn’t sure why I had been so scared. Within a few days, classes had begun, I landed an on-campus job at the admissions office, and I had started to make friends.

Tuesday, September 11, 2001 began like any other weekday. I arrived at the admissions office for work at 8am and immediately began stocking the pamphlets that lined the shelves in the lobby. My boss Jeannie, the receptionist was standing in front of the TV in the corner when I came back up to the front desk from the basement where all of our spare printed material was stored. “Oh my gawd,” she’d said in a typical Lawn Guyland drawl, covering her mouth with her hands. Just then, a woman who worked upstairs came running down to the front desk in tears. Her son works at the Trade Center, she said. And she can’t get through to his phone.

Classes were canceled so when I was done at work, I strolled back to my dorm, all the while feeling a sense of relief that none of my loved ones were in the city. It wasn’t until later that afternoon that full-blown panic hit me. The news was on in every dorm room, fellow students were crying in the stairwells, everything on campus seemed chaotic, frantic. The news said that all bridges were closed. As were any westbound roads from Long Island. I felt trapped. Despite pleas from newscasters asking people to not use their phones if at all possible, I picked up mine. This was an emergency, wasn’t it? That’s when I found out that my cell phone wasn’t working. Neither was my land line. I had no way to reach my family. To tell them how scared I was.

Later that night, I got through to my parents and to my sister.

“Are you okay?” Mom wanted to know.

“Did you hear it?” Bree asked.

“Dad, I need you to buy a boat,” I declared. “The bridges are closed and I can’t travel west. So there’s no way out. I need you to come get me. And you’ll have to come by boat.” The request was absurd, I realize now. But it seemed like a logical solution at the time.

The next day, it became even more real to me when I stepped outside. The smell was overwhelming. Burning. And God knows what else. It lingered for about a day then dissipated.

Within a few days, things across campus seemed to calm down a bit. Classes resumed their normal schedules—for the most part. I had one criminal justice course that never went back to normal. The professor, who had introduced herself on the first day of class as the niece of a famous Hollywood director, never recovered from the shock. The first class after the attack, she was visibly shaken. She assigned us some reading then let us leave after about 20 minutes. Over the next couple of weeks, she started showing up to class in her pajamas with her Maltese in tow and proceeded to divulge personal information that her students had no business knowing. She was dating two men. One was NYPD. One was FDNY.  Classes dwindled from 20 minutes to next to nothing. We never discussed the course material or anything from the two text books we were required to purchase. Finally, after a few weeks, she stopped showing up. And us students soon followed suit. We all got A’s from the university for that course. And the professor went on to teach psychology elsewhere a few years later.

Every year on the anniversary of 9/11, our campus held candlelight vigils to remember. And every time I made the trip home for a weekend, I could glance out the window as I drove over the Throg’s Neck Bridge to see the tower of lights that shone where the towers once were.

I didn’t know anyone personally who was lost in the attack. But even still, I was scarred by 9/11. And though I spent the next three and a half years living a mere 40 minute drive from New York City, I only made the trip into the city once. Had that day never happened, I’d like to think I would have taken more advantage of all the theaters, museums, restaurants, and stores just waiting to be discovered in the city. I regret letting the attack color my college experience like I did.

September 11, 2001 attacks in New York City: V...

September 11, 2001 attacks in New York City: View of the World Trade Center and the Statue of Liberty. (Image: US National Park Service ) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Weekly Writing Challenge: A Few of My Favorite Things September 5, 2012

Filed under: Weekly Writing Challenge — sierrak83 @ 1:04 am
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The Daily Post’s weekly writing challenge this week was “A Few of My Favorite Things.” We were encouraged to tell a story about our favorite possession. If you’d like to read more about the challenge check out their blog post:

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2012/09/03/weekly-writing-challenge-a-few-of-my-favorite-things/

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Worth a Thousand Words

I’m a sentimental person so when I first read this week’s writing challenge, I was stumped. There are lots of things in my life that mean the world to me. Things that make me have a minor panic attack to think of them missing. But there has to be a way to narrow it down to the one thing that matters most. Immediately, I started dreaming up worst-case-scenarios….a ravaging house fire, a break-in, a zombie apocalypse. What would I save?

Chris and our kids

The first thought that came to mind, of course, was my family. Certainly if the zombies were knocking on the front door I’d want to sneak Chris and our two furball kids out the back door, right? But people—and yes, my dogs are close enough to count as people—aren’t possessions. And I’d like to think they’d be helping me pack, not requiring saving.

So then important documents came to mind—my birth certificate, our mortgage paperwork, my college diploma. But if only ashes remained of our home, would those things really matter in the grand scheme of things? Couldn’t they all be replaced?

Which led me to the things with the most sentimental value—the hope chest my mom bought me as an early wedding gift a few months before she passed, the urn holding her ashes. But no burglar could possibly lug that hefty piece of wood furniture out without getting caught and who in their right mind would target my mom’s urn before the electronics, anyway?

Our inscriptions: “Always & all ways”

“What is my most prized possession?” I asked Chris on Monday night, wanting to hear what he thought. He held up his left hand, smirked, and grazed his finger over his own wedding band. He was surely remembering our recent fight when a whole day passed without us knowing where his ring was. For the second time this year, mind you. I had cried. I had lectured him. We both tore the house apart. And lo and behold it was found on the floor of his closet; it had literally slipped off his finger while selecting his shirt the night before. We learned that day just how important our wedding bands are to both of us. Because even if we paid a visit to our jeweler and bought an identical ring, it would never be that ring. The one I gave him on our wedding day. So, yeah, my wedding ring is important to me. But I’m a logical person. And I know that my ring is never not on my finger. So if I’m escaping tragedy, it’s coming with me by default.

And then it hit me. The family photo albums.

The albums themselves call certain memories to mind. I remember the lazy summer afternoons of my childhood when mom and I would spread photographs out across the dining room table as we organized them and prepared them for albums. Each photo would get a tiny caption—handwritten by my mother—including the date and name of everyone in the photo. I remember scouring family albums when loved ones passed away, searching for photos to contribute to the photo boards prepared for the funeral home. I remember mom and dad lugging the albums out to show off baby pictures of my sister to her first few boyfriends, regaling them with only the most embarrassing stories from her earliest years. I remember my mom wearily issuing a decree the summer before she passed away: “Someday, before I croak, I’ll finish putting all these photos into albums for you,” she promised, waving her hand over the pile of boxes containing our yet-to-be-archived family history. She was always so eloquent…. (Sadly, the boxes have simply been moved from her office to mine since then.)

When the albums are opened, the photos inside tell their own stories. Immediately, I am transported to a time and a place where I didn’t even exist yet. A simpler time. When my dad was a long-haired bassist for his band Whiskey River and my mom was a cigarette-puffing flower child. When the kitchen walls were as bright as the living room upholstery was floral. When now-divorced couples were in love and late family members were still with us. Browsing through the family albums allows me to experience memories I had forgotten about and events that happened before I was born. Here are some of my favorites that capture the era and/or my childhood the most vividly for me.

Uncle David & my “Grammy Dunham” (Edith) dance on his wedding day

This photo was taken on June 2, 1979 at my uncle David’s wedding reception. Here, he dances with his mother, my grandmother Edith Dunham. This photo (along with the others from that day) make me wish that my generation had weddings like this….semi-formal functions full of family, including kids. Instead, weddings today have turned into $50,000+ productions that often lose sight of what should be the focus of the day—love and family.

My sister Bree does “acrobatics” with dad

My dad and us girls were often the subject of family photos because my mother preferred to be behind the lens. I love this photo because it shows a typical night at our house; When dad got home from work, his job as “dad” began. That sometimes meant letting us climb all over him and other times it meant he had to change our doll’s diapers. But I also love this photo for the gaudy floral curtains, the console TV, the brown-and-mustard decor, and the record player resting on top of the stereo speakers. If this photo doesn’t scream ’80s then I don’t know what does.

Cousins Paula and Alysia (close friends of our family)

This photo was from two years before I was born but it features two people I call my “pseudo-family.” This photo helps remind me just how long our families have been as close as we are to this day.

Uncles Johnny, Kevin, DJ plus Aunt Debbie

Uncle Kevin and Aunt Debbie are divorced now but here they were when they were just starting their marriage. I love how relaxed and happy they look in this shot. The other thing that speaks to me in this photo is the clock on the wall in the background. Its face is yellowing here but I’m told it was “white as the driven snow” when my dad bought it. Today, it hangs in my father’s finished basement. And its face is a dark brown shade. He told me that the color change was due to years of him smoking in our old apartment. And he said he hung it in the basement when we moved into our house (around 1990) as a reminder of why he vowed to not smoke in our new place.

One of the very first pictures of me and my mom

My mother hardly ever agreed to be the subject of a photograph. But here she is. Just two months from giving birth to me. Smiling and happy. The dark wood paneling and pop culture reference on her t-shirt are just added ’80s bonuses.

Cake batter!!

Remember when licking the beaters after mom made cake was a privilege—not a cause for concern that you might contract salmonella poisoning? It was also around the time that kids played games that didn’t require chargers or a screen. And you might pause from washing the car on a hot summer day to take a swig from the garden hose. I was barely older than two here but miss those simple times.

Daddy’s girls wrestling with him

This is one of my favorite photos of my sister and me. Bree was 10 years old. I was almost 3. Dad had his hands full.

Back (left to right): Me and cousins Josh and Sasha plus my grandmother Jeanne Beltrandi
Front (left to right): My sister Bree, my cousin Nicole, and Aunt Kelley holding my cousin Fawn

There was never a question as to what we’d be doing on Easter Sunday. At noon, we’d be at Grammy Beltrandi’s house for her annual Easter Egg Hunt. She’d enlist her boys (my uncles), all swigging off their Budweiser cans, to hide a slew of plastic eggs for all us kids. Some were filled with coins. Others were filled with candy. And the special ones—the ones that earned you a prize at the end—were wrapped in tin foil. Clearly the prizes in 1986 were sunglasses.

Uncle Pat and Aunt Janice get married

I didn’t know that they didn’t get married until their first-born Nicole (holding the bouquet behind them) was about 5 or 6 years old. I also had no idea that my great aunt Sandy was the one who married them. I love this photo because, again, it depicts a simple wedding focusing on love and family rather than on glitz and glamour. And check out that car in the background….I may be mistaken, but is that a Chevy Nova?

Pop-Pop fixes my shoe

Grammy Dunham in her glory with family all around

These two photos were both taken on Christmas day in 1986. I may have been too young to remember this particular Christmas, but I remember that Grammy and Pop-Pop always had a huge pot of spaghetti warming on the stove along with all sorts of other homemade dishes and desserts. Their house was a gathering place for family. No one needed to wait for an invitation. No one needed to RSVP. They knew you were coming. And it didn’t matter what time you showed up. Us kids ran throughout the house all day, including up and down the creaky spiral staircase. The adults sat around chatting. No one had anywhere to rush off to. All we had to do was sit and enjoy our time together. Where did these days go?

It seems that every time I open one of our family albums, I discover a new memory I never knew I had. Looking through the photos keeps me grounded and reminds me of what’s important in life. I’d be devastated to lose that ability. And, yes. Someday, before I croak, I’ll finish putting the pictures in albums.

 

Thank You August 31, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — sierrak83 @ 5:21 pm
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It’s been what I’d call a rough week. Chris and I have been at the center of some lively debate and it’s been mentally and emotionally exhausting. I won’t go into detail but I will tell you that it all began with a comment about how “marriage is like a jail sentence” and the fact that the person who made the comment “doesn’t want to be handcuffed to someone for life.” I’ll also tell you that it’s weeks like this that make me appreciate (more than usual) the man I married.

We will celebrate our 4th wedding anniversary this November. But we’ve been together—for the most part—for just under 13 years. I say “for the most part” because our relationship began when we were 16 and we’ve had our share of little teenage spats. Two of which (once during high school and once more during freshman year of college) resulted in us “taking a break.” You know how it goes. You have a fight so major that there’s just no getting past it. So you break up. And three weeks later you realize that you’ve done nothing but miss them, wonder what they’re up to, and ask yourself, “What was that fight about again?” Been there, done that. And yet here we are. Almost thirteen years later. More mature. More understanding of each others’ quirks and needs. And more in love than ever.

But how? We live in culture that is quick to give up on marriage, with 40+% of all marriages in the country ending in divorce. Then there’s domestic violence and infidelity and all those other couples who just seem to coexist without actually being happy to be together. What makes our relationship different than those? How have we gotten to where we are today? Sure, all the usual stuff….all the stuff psychologists and marriage experts will tell you are vital to building a strong marriage. We communicate—well and frequently. We show each other respect. We have similar ideals with respect to the “big deal” topics like finances and family. We share responsibilities. We have the perfect balance between “us” time and alone time—so neither of us are defined 100% by our relationship. We know how to fight fairly. But probably most importantly, we never miss an opportunity to make each other feel special.

Every day before he leaves for work, he finds me—usually I’m still in bed, so it’s not hard—and kisses my forehead. Some days he sends me a mid-day text message that just says, “Hi, beautiful.” Once in a while, it’s him giving me a foot massage while we curl up to watch a movie on the couch. (And, yes, I’ll admit it. He’s a better movie picker than I am. Just don’t tell him I said that.) He has a way of making me get that “melty” feeling inside. Even after almost thirteen years.

So today, just for fun, I stopped by the commuter lot where he parks his car to catch the bus into Hartford for work. I found his car, jotted a note on the first piece of paper I found in my car (a bank envelope), and  left it on his dashboard. It just took a few minutes, but I knew he’d smile when he got off the bus and found it waiting for him. And he did.

Yeah, I call my husband “Buddy.” Don’t judge me!

Now, I realize that marriage isn’t for everyone—and you’re certainly in that group if you view it as a jail sentence! And I also realize that you don’t have to be married to be happy in a relationship—my parents were together for over 30 years before they got married. But I can say with certainty that marrying Chris was the best decision I’ve ever made because he’s my best friend and I wouldn’t want to experience this crazy thing we call life without him. So thank you, Chris, for being my “cell mate for life.”

 

On “Fifty Shades” and Nerdgasms August 27, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — sierrak83 @ 10:34 pm
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It’s 2012. So I think it’s a safe assumption that if you’re reading this, you have probably—at one point or another—ordered something from Amazon. And if you’re anything like me, you order from them frequently. No, I’m not a shopping junkie. Despite what my husband may try to get you to believe. But I’ve been the proud owner (and, you’d assume, unofficial spokesperson base on how often I talk to friends about it) of a Kindle since about 2009. I’d estimate that fully 95% of my online purchases are Kindle books.

I have to digress for a moment here. If you are a Kindle owner and have not heard of http://www.pixelofink.com/ then please, do me a favor. Crawl out from the dark crevice beneath the rock under which you live and check it out. Their entire site (which you can also get updates from by “liking” them on Facebook) is dedicated to directing readers to free, bargain, or sale-priced Kindle content. A friend recommended it to me about six months ago and the fine folks at Pixel of Ink have saved me a boatload of cash already.

Okay, let’s see if we can’t get back on track now, eh?

When I finish reading a book—whether I loved it, hated it, or thought it was “just okay”—I write an Amazon review for it. When I’m shopping, I often read what other customers thought of the book before making a decision to click the “buy now” button. So, in turn, I think it’s important to help my fellow readers as they have helped me. My reviews are always honest and based strictly on the book’s content. And I never write a review for any book that I didn’t bother to finish reading. (People whose simply gripe about the price of the e-book and/or admit that they didn’t actually read the whole book irk me to no end!)

About twice per year—and only when I’m bored—I log into my Amazon account to browse through my old reviews and read any new comments or replies that have been posted on my reviews since my last visit. Which is exactly what I found myself doing today. As I read through newly posted comments, I realized that the reviews that repeatedly get responses from other Amazon users are the critical ones. And the replies are usually angry to the point that I’m pretty sure they all have to be from the authors’ mothers or great aunts or favorite English teacher from high school. (I mean, really….I’m not obligated to like a book just because it won some silly award that I’ve never heard of three years ago. Who ARE you and why are you so upset?) And then I got to my review of the “Fifty Shades of Grey” trilogy.

Somehow, since I posted the review at the end of May, I had managed to miss 30+ replies to it. Making this, officially, my first positive review to generate such a response from other Amazon users. And not only that, but it’s ranked among the “most helpful” reviews for the product which means it’s the first customer review shoppers see. I’m totally psyched. (Yes, I get excited about odd things. And by “odd” I mean “nerdy.” But I’m okay with that.)

So there you have it. Yes, I’ve read it. Yes, I liked it. And if you haven’t read it—my review, that is—maybe you should.

<insert shameless plug here>

http://www.amazon.com/review/R36J3BMBEEB1Q7/ref=cm_cd_pg_pg4?ie=UTF8&asin=B007SGM084&cdForum=Fx2XESAZ12CLP6Q&cdPage=4&cdThread=Tx18BTHHF74LMZP&store=digital-text#wasThisHelpful

Fifty Shades of Grey

Fifty Shades of Grey (Photo credit: ellebnere)

 

Weekly Writing Challenge: Listen to the Voices in Your Head August 22, 2012

Filed under: Weekly Writing Challenge — sierrak83 @ 10:36 pm
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The Daily Post’s weekly writing challenge this week was “Listen to the Voices in Your Head.” It was an exercise in passive vs active voices. If you’d like to read more about the challenge check out their blog post:

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2012/08/20/passive-voice-challenge/

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Two Years in the Making

The pool was taken down our second springtime in the house. How two years managed to slip past us with that eyesore—empty but for pieces of old, cracked liner and whatever weeds had managed to sprout up through the sand—taunting us from the back yard, I’ll never know.

The lifespan of our pool was recounted for us once by our neighbor Hank during one of our first encounters with him. He had gotten home from work one day several years back, he’d said, to find that the homeowner at the time had installed it while he was away. It was positioned obscenely close to the property line but Hank had turned a blind eye. Memories of sleepless summer nights were undoubtedly called to his mind as he eyed the pool, roughly six feet from his bedroom window, and took a moment to reminisce about the rowdy kids who used to live next door.

Do you see Hank’s bedroom window in the upper left corner?

“So it didn’t always look like this?” I motioned toward the skeleton that remained.

“Nope,” Hank replied. “When the old owners moved out and left the bank with the house, nobody took care of the pool. Sure, the bank would drive by once in a while and toss a chlorine tab in but that didn’t keep the water clean or the mosquitoes away. So I duct taped a razor blade to a yardstick and sliced up the bottom of the liner best I could. And that ended that problem,” he proclaimed proudly. (Ah, so it was Hank we have to thank for that eyesore…)

Much like how it went up, the pool came down the same way—all in one day, while I was at work. My brother-in-law was just hauling away the final pieces as my car pulled into the driveway. The yard seemed so much larger with that blemish gone and I felt like Chris and I had taken a big step towards reclaiming our yard.

That excitement was short-lived, though. Soon, a stark realization slapped me across the face. Removing the pool left a new blight: the sand pit that had once cradled it. Garbage bags were filled with debris. And for the first year, the yard waste barrel gobbled up a steady diet of weeds, plucked from our former pool every few weeks. Something would be done someday….

Repurposing the rocks from around the pool felt great!

A little over a year later, we’d had enough. The wheelbarrow was pulled from the shed and in the heat of the July sun the rocks that encircled where the pool used to be were not-so-lovingly shoveled out and moved to a newly created rock bed by the back door. Bushes that used to flank the pool were removed. And in our excitement over seeing those changes, we pat ourselves on the back and let the remaining mess slide. Again.

This spring marked the second anniversary of our poolectomy—if it’s not a word, it should be! It was in June that Chris came to me and said, “You know what I want for my birthday?” (True, his birthday wasn’t until late-July but if you knew my husband you’d know that his birthday isn’t a day…it’s a month-long extravaganza.) My blank expression clearly gave away that I had no guesses as to what he was thinking. “Dirt,” he replied.

The dump truck backed into the yard that mid-July morning through the gap left after Chris had removed two fence panels and the post where they met. And 20 yards of fresh topsoil was dumped onto what would be our lawn. “You’re gonna want to seed right away,” the delivery driver warned, “or else you’ll be over-run with weeds.” Slowly (and thankfully with lots of help from our family), the mound of dirt was spread out across the sandy crater and prepared for the seed and fertilizer the local Agway salesman helped me heft into the trunk of my Elantra.

The seeds and fertilizer were spread. The plot was raked for what felt like the hundredth time that day. And as we covered the newly seeded dirt patch with fresh straw, our other neighbor Dan popped his head over the fence to chat. We confessed that now that it was done, we weren’t sure why we had waited so long to finish this job. Dan shrugged and said, “I remember my first house. I was young and didn’t know anything about owning a house. But what I learned was that it’s a process. You can do things little by little because you’ve got years to make it yours.” His words meant more to me than he probably knew.

As the sun was nearly finished setting that night, Chris and I sank into the swing in the back yard to unwind. The only sounds we heard were the crickets beginning their song and the soft din of the sprinkler as it oscillated over our hard work. It was a perfect ending to a beautiful and productive day. I rested my head on Chris’ shoulder and breathed, “This is one of those moments that I want to remember forever.”

We anxiously checked on our would-be lawn frequently. And after only about a week, our first sprouts of grass—tiny, tenuous little strands of green—began pushing their way out of our earth. “We have grass!” we told our friends, like proud parents announcing the birth of their first born. A couple of weeks later, the straw was raked up. And on our dirt’s one month birthday Chris celebrated by mowing the lawn. The whole lawn.

Our kids approve of the new lawn, too.

 

Day 1 of Blogging August 18, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — sierrak83 @ 8:21 pm

I’ve thought about this day for a couple of weeks now: Day 1 of Blogging.

After letting the idea kick around in my head for a few days, I sat down to consider what it was I wanted to blog about. Unfortunately (more so for you, not me) I couldn’t decide on one clear theme. Instead, I envisioned it to be more like a diary. Where I write about whatever is on my mind at the time. And you read it. Or don’t. I mean, I hope someone gets some enjoyment out of this blog but honestly, it’s not about that. It’s about me writing again.

There have been so many times in the past several years that I said to myself, “This is it. I’m going to start journaling again.” And I would go out and buy a brand new notebook and in my very best handwriting, I would begin. Beginning was never a problem. But two or three entries later, that notebook invariably got buried under a pile of puzzle books and old Readers Digest issues (because clearly I’m an 80-year-old woman on the inside) in my nightstand cabinet. Forgotten. Abandoned.

This time is going to be different. Because it’s online. Available to readers. Which is something I never thought I’d do, by the way. When I first heard about the concept of blogging, I thought it was crazy. “Why would I want anyone to read what I’m thinking about,” I undoubtedly gasped to my teen-aged self. But I’m not that angsty I’d-just-DIE-if-anyone-knew-what-I-thought-about-[fill in the blank] girl anymore. I’m older. And I’d like to think wiser. But older, for sure. I’m more comfortable in my own skin. And, I’ll admit it, I need someone (you!) told hold me accountable to keep journaling.

After deciding about my blog’s format (non-existent), I needed to decide on a name. It was a no-brainer for me. Whatevs. It’s one of my go-to words that I typically only allow myself to utter (with a shrug, of course) when in the presence of my husband. It’s been my way of changing the topic of a conversation. And I figured it was a fitting blog title for a blog about whatevs.

I was on a roll. “Now,” I thought to myself, “all I need to do is wait until the right time comes.” It needed to be important. Because years from now when I look back at my first post, I would see it as my defining moment. When it all began. And I didn’t want to be embarrassed by a corny title or a rambling post. It needed to be about something timeless. Refined. Something I could be proud of. And then I realized that I had let my mind create an illustrious blogging career that could never come to be if I didn’t just suck it up and start it already! (I have a tendency to over-think and over-plan. To a fault. Can you tell?)

So there you have it. My first post. Maybe not anything to be proud about years from now, but hopefully not anything to hang my head about, either. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go get ready. Because despite my claim to be an 80-year-old on the inside, the hubby and I are meeting people for drinks tonight.