Connections

On Wednesday, I headed to BlogHer'11.  My friends and I flew into Nashville where we had a connecting flight to San Diego.  Luckily, there was plenty of time to spare between the flights and we didn't have any problems making our connection...because missing it would've been annoying.
  
On the flight to San Diego, I sat next to a nice young girl named Brielle.  We started talking and I found out all sorts of things about her.  She's 17 and lives in Nashville with her mom and grandparents.  She has two little half-siblings who call her Big Sissy.  She starts her senior year on Tuesday but she's going in on Monday to help the underclassmen.  She took in a stray cat a few years ago, she has five house plants, and she reads the Bible.  She was flying to San Diego to catch a connecting flight to Sacramento.  I'll never know how Brielle's trip to Sacramento was and I'll never find out what college she picks or anything else about her because our paths will surely never cross again...but for a few hours last Wednesday, we made a connection, fleeting as it was.

When I arrived at BlogHer, I found out that this conference is all about connecting.  Connecting with brands to get swag (because yes, this borderline hoarder needs free crap like a hole in the head!); connecting with fellow bloggers as you lamely tell them that your blog is about your life (yep, because the other 3,599 write about the same thing!); connecting with strangers at lunch because they just had to sit at your table where all you wanted to do was eat in peace so you could pick all the lunchmeat off the roll without feeling like a freak or a four year old; connecting with bloggers in lectures in which you learned about connecting with readers.  It was  a heckuva lotta connecting.  It was so exhausting that by the end of the day, the only thing that I wanted to connect with was my bed.  Snoring be damned.  

I'm actually not the best at making connections with people.  On the surface, yeah, sure.  I'm  the gal everyone knows and waves to and who seems like a jolly good time.  But the honest to goodness, trust you enough to let you in, trust you enough to let you see me, the real Denise...that's been a work in progress.  This year has been a turning point for me.  Maybe it's the blog, maybe it's the quieting of all the voices in my head (except the ones who speak up on nights when I eat Oreos too late), maybe it's something that even I can't explain, but this year, I've started making those connections.  There are people in my life who I know I can count on, the ones who I trust enough to give my spare house key to, the ones who I can invite over without caring that I didn't clean up all the clutter, and the ones who I can call or text or Facebook about whatever crazy thought crosses my mind.  They're my connections;  they're my friends.  And boy, am I glad that I didn't miss out on them.           

So, go out and make connections.  Maybe even play Connect Four.  Whatever.  Just don't miss any more connections.

Sweet Dreams or Not

When I was in Seattle this past April, I woke up one morning with a worrisome thought.  As we sat on our hotel beds watching the early morning Seattle news, I looked over at my mother and asked, “Mom, will anyone ever love me?”

My mother’s heard this song a million times.  “Of course,” she replied, her voice filled with the maternal assurance that she’s developed over 35 years of mothering.

“Will anyone ever love me even though I snore?”

Same song, different verse. 

My mom looked down at the ear plugs on the nightstand that separated our beds and said, “Sure.”

Yep, that was reassuring. 

I snore.  And not like the snoring when you think, aww, that’s kinda cute.  Nope.  My snoring has been described as sounding a lot like a foghorn.  It’s enough to scare small children and sweet old ladies and, if I ever fell asleep in a cemetery, my snoring might even wake the dead.  I’ve actually never heard myself snore – is that even possible?  I don’t know, I take my hearing aid out when I sleep so if I’m noisy, I don’t hear myself.  See, there are some perks to being hearing impaired.  That said, I have heard my brother snore…and if I sound anything like him, well, I’m in trouble.  I was staying at his house one night, sleeping on the couch in his living room.  When I woke up the next morning, I heard this awful motor sound that seemed to be shaking the house. I thought his heater was about to explode or something.  I used my superhero investigative powers to figure out where the sound was coming from…turns out, it was coming from the second floor where my brother was sound asleep, snoring away.   

It’s something that I worry about.  I mean, I don’t lie awake at night worrying about it – because I’m too busy snoring – but I do worry a little.  Like, what if I finally meet Mr. Right Cowboy and he comes home after a long day on the range and makes us dinner and then wants to grab some shut-eye.  But he can’t get any sleep because I’m, you know, snoring.  When do couples start talking about these kinds of things?  On the first date?  Date 10?  Date 25?  Maybe I’m stressing about it too much. 

Why am I stressing about it?  Well, because I’m going to BlogHer this week and I’m sharing a hotel room with another blogger.  We work together but don’t know each other super well, I mean we can ride the elevator together without that weird awkward elevator silence but if I had to put her in one of my Google+ circles, it would either be in Work People, Acquaintances, Friends of Friends, Bloggers…gosh, I need to re-evaluate my circles.  Anyway, we’re sharing a room and I’m a little nervous that a) she won’t get any sleep for the four nights we’re in San Diego because I snore; b) I won’t get any sleep for the four nights we’re in San Diego because I’ll try to stay awake all four nights just so I don’t disturb her; c) I’ll meet Mr. Right Sailor (since I don’t think cowboys are hanging out in San Diego) and…yeah, well, it’s a long-shot so I won’t even worry about c.

Oh well.  Maybe I should just stop worrying altogether.  I mean there are worse things than snoring, right?  Like…morning breath. 

Oh geez.  Don’t even get me started worrying about my morning breath.

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Stay tuned to read about my adventures at BlogHer 2011.  And to find out if my snoring keeps 3,000 conference attendees awake!

America Eats This?!

Food Friday makes a very interesting, very historical return!  On July 4^th, a new temporary restaurant opened in Washington, DC – America Eats Tavern.  The restaurant is a partnership between ThinkFoodGroup and the Foundation for the National Archives and was opened in conjunction with the Archives’ new exhibit, What’s Cooking Uncle Sam?

I think the idea for the restaurant is pretty cool.   The menu is inspired by the history of American cooking.  The descriptions of the food are less about what the food is and more about the food’s history; for instance, here’s the description for the cobb salad - 

COBB SALAD
Robert Cobb, Hollywood, 1936

Cobb was the owner of the renowned Brown Derby restaurant in Hollywood. One night he was hungry and supposedly created this salad from the leftovers he discovered in the walk-in refrigerator. He loved the result so much that he added it to the menu.

Pretty cool, right?

A couple of us braved the sweltering heat on Friday night to experience what America eats.  We took a 3-2-1 approach - 3 appetizers, 2 entrees, and 1 dessert.  We split everything so there was more for us to try!  Since I’m using a lot of brain power to write a blog post for work (cough, cough), I thought I’d just post the pictures so you can see what America eats too. 

Grilled Butter Oysters - not a fan. 

On the bottom - Vermicelli Prepared like Pudding
- the grandfather of today's mac and cheese.
On the top - Shrimp Remoulade and Fried Green
Tomatoes - So...I really loved that movie and
that's why I suggested this dish.

Shrimp and Pork Jambalaya -
that's real crawfish in there! 

The jambalaya "plated."  Interesting fact -
the woman responsible for making Thanksgiving
a national holiday is credited with publishing the
first known recipe for jambalaya in 1853. 

BBQ Beef Short Ribs and "Cold Slaw" -
yummy and delicious.  Cold slaw or coleslaw
was brought to America by Dutch settlers.

Vermont Sugar on Snow - so, this is "snow" that is
drizzled with hot maple syrup.  Verry sweet.
The drink in the upper right hand corner is
called the Switchel.  It's a New England field
workers drink that blends molasses, ginger, cider
vinegar, and my favorite, rum. 
|And it's served in a mason jar which is so cute! 

Summing It All Up

Today ends a long week of training classes.  I wasn’t in training though.  Nope, I was one of the trainers.  It’s the first time I’ve been on that side of the equation.  There I was, standing up in front of the class teaching my sessions, only realizing way too late that there was a laser pointer that I could’ve used!  Laser pointers are fun!  I’m totally working it into my spiel for the next time.

I will admit that there was a minor anxiety attack on the first morning but, in the end, I got it done.  I’ll leave it up to the voters trainees to decide how I did.  But there was one tiny little thing.

They didn’t laugh at my jokes.  I had two jokes and they didn’t laugh.  Maybe it was my delivery – I still talk a little too fast when I get excited (I’m really trying to practice those pauses!)  But apparently training class isn’t the place to practice your stand-up comedy routine. 

Lucky for me, I write a blog.  And you read it.  Captive audience.  So, here’s one of my jokes.

I taught the sessions on “Numbers,” which is basically all the different types of numbers that you can enter into the system.  At the end of it, I said – so, that basically sums up “Numbers”!

Come on!  Well, I thought it was funny!

Eating dinner tonight, I realized that the trainees were probably thinking that I was that corny trainer whom we’ve all had and rolled our eyes at. 

And I laughed.  Because, yeah, I totally am.  With or without a laser pointer. 

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Exciting news!  Food Friday returns next week.  It’s gonna be a blast from the past!

Ripples

I have that screen-saver thing on my phone that when you press it, it ripples out from the center of where you pressed, strong at first then weakening before the screen returns to normal.  As I fiddled around with it today after my nap, I got to thinking about the events in our lives that set off ripples that are felt in the days, months, years that follow.  Strong at first, those ripples weaken over time…but unlike my phone, life doesn’t ever really return to normal.  All you’re left with are tiny ripples and wonderings of what if? 

A lifetime ago - my brother’s, actually - a little over 35 years ago, one of those events happened in my family.  I don’t need to rehash the past so I won’t…but something happened and someone disappeared from the fabric of our family.  But people don’t really ever disappear…their importance, their significance lingers on…even if it’s only a memory, faded though it may be.

I don’t know if it was my passion for history or my constant search to find my place in a family in which I didn’t see myself in anyone else…but I’ve always felt a connection to this person whom I only knew from photographs and old family stories.  This man – whose name I have heard hundreds of times in my life from the mouths of cousins who remember him…who knew him – this good man raised my mother from the age of 11 until he walked her down the aisle.  I was born six years after that but by then…by then, everything was just a ripple. 

Half of my lifetime ago, when I was 16, I used that newfangled Internet technology thingie to find him.  I knew his name after all…even if I couldn’t spell his last name quite right.  Eventually, in my high school computer lab, I found his address on the World Wide Web.  And I wrote him a long, rambling letter.  And then I waited.  [Note – hormonal teenage girls should never try to write heartfelt letters to long-lost relatives.  I can’t remember exactly what I wrote but I’m pretty sure it didn’t make a lot of sense.  Actually, I could’ve been mistaken for a crackpot.]

One day there was an envelope addressed to me in our mailbox.  I opened it to find a note with a single sentence on it.  The past must stay in the past.  I was stunned…and scared.  I tore that note up into a million tiny pieces and threw it away.  And I never told anyone about what I had done.  The past would stay in the past.  But a couple of years later, while my mother and I were in the car and she started talking about trying to find him, my secret, the only secret I have ever kept from my mother, came out in choking sobs.  I had ruined her chance to find him…to connect with him again after so many years.  I told her about the note; she asked if I had saved it.  I told her no.  And she was quiet.  And oh how I wished I hadn’t torn up that note.  I wished I had saved it so I could give it to her.  So, she could have one last piece of him.  The past was in the past but the ripples were still rippling.

Around Christmas, three years ago – by now, I was living in Maryland – I got a phone call from my mother.  Her voice was…different.  Excited, nervous, surprised?  I didn’t know what it was but I knew something was up.  She told me…you got a card from him.  And my heart leapt.  And so we corresponded occasionally.  He has written to me about his childhood in Germany and his dreams of America as a boy and his own love of history.  But we don’t write of the past – that past.  But it’s there…rippling. 

I long to ask him all sorts of questions.  Questions about my mother before she became my mother.  What was she like as a little girl?  Does he remember the trip to the Indian reservation?  What did he really think about her following baseball players across the country?  Does he remember the blue jumpsuit he made for her?  What was he thinking as he walked her down the aisle?  Could he have possibly imagined how strong she would become?  Does he think about her?  Or is she just a lingering memory…a ripple in his own life?

When my inbox pings and I see that I’ve received an email from him, my heart leaps.  It is a little piece of the past that I wonder about and ask myself what if?  But the past is the past and we cannot change all that has happened even as it ripples still.     

But I wish I could tell him - oh, how you are missed.  And loved.

Winning

Two posts in one day and each on completely opposite ends of the emotional spectrum.  Lest you think I have a personality disorder (okay, if you ask my brother, he’ll say that I do), I want to assure you that the Oreos are gone, I’m quite fine, and sometimes people just have off nights.  I bet you’ve lain awake in the wee hours of the night worrying about something that bothered you.  It happens.  Lucky for me, I woke up this morning (whew!) and I was feeling much better.

And today wasn’t just any old day.  Nope.  Today was Toastmasters!  Last night, I wrote an “Icebreaker” speech basically about who I am and what I like to do – work, travel, and watch Deadliest Catch.  This morning I emailed the Grand Toastmaster and asked to be put on the agenda as one of the speakers.  Hey, if I’m going to do this thing, I’m not gonna waste my gas just to drive somewhere and listen to other people speak for an hour. 

What’s this? 

It’s where my trophy would be if the previous winner - known as Trophy Hoarder Guy - hadn’t “forgotten” to bring it tonight.  I’m a trophy-less winner.  That’s right.  I won best speaker!  There was only one other speaker but I still won - even without voting for myself!

In my evaluation, Trophy Hoarder Guy gave me high marks for the content of my speech and my enthusiasm for the things that I talked about.  My area to work on is learning how to slow down and take a breath.  I spoke for four minutes and they said I had a good five minutes of material (who needs an extra minute?!) 

Maybe it’s not the speaking part that I need to work on – maybe I need to practice breathing and pausing.  So, just in case we’re engaged in a conversation and I suddenly stop talking, don’t worry, I’m just taking a breath and practicing my pauses.  

Night

I ate Oreos at 10:45, a late bedtime snack.  Now, it’s a little after midnight and I can’t fall asleep. 

I tossed and I turned and I kicked off my comforter and I flopped from my side to my stomach and back again and all the while I was thinking.  Thinking about all the things that I’m able to push away during the day.  Because when it’s light out, things don’t seem so….dark.   

My thoughts are always darkest at night…well, if I’m awake late enough. 

I thought I was doing so well – I was making peace with the way I "look".  Yes, I look different but everyone’s different and that’s okay.  But I told you once that I still thought about it every once in a while.  More surgery.  A cheekbone here, a cheekbone there.  (Well, not just anywhere, of course; they should go where cheekbones generally go.)      

There was a trigger, naturally.  Because there always is when I start thinking like this.  What was it?  Okay, don’t laugh…but it was my race photograph (the official one they posted on the website for everyone to see, if you think I'm going to link to it, you're crazy!)  I look quite horrible…as I’m sure the other 396 runners do.  In addition to my dreadful running sprinting form, my face is all weirdly distorted – maybe it was from the sprinting, maybe it wasn’t.        

So, there I was a lot after midnight, sitting in front of my mirror dissecting my face.  Okay, really, my profile which I hate.  And to the person whom I just told that I was fine with it…well, I guess I’m not as well-adjusted as I thought I was.  I can wear a dress to work but putting my hair up in a clip is still a little too daring scary for me. 

All these thoughts are racing through my head keeping me awake when I should really be asleep because I have to get up in a few hours.

Clearly, I still have a few issues to work through.

And clearly, I need to stop eating Oreos at 10:45 at night.