Well, it's the first anniversary of my little 42. blog, and I think it's a good time to close shop here.
I've got a decent number of entries for the year, and this blog is testament to the tremendous life changes I've created and/or experienced in the last year, including:
--relocating from my lifelong home of Nebraska to one of the Top 5 largest cities in the US
--quitting a job I worked at for 19 years and thought I would probably work at until I retired or they laid me off (more on that in a sec)
--realizing that I need to take control of my career, rather than assume a corporation is going to do so
--leaving immediate family as well as friends (some of whom I've had since high school) for a city where I knew no one, and finding out I can still make new friends, even in my 40s
--confirming my lifelong assumption that I truly did marry my best friend, and that we'll celebrate 20 years of this event in September 2013
--transitioning (over the last six years, though it was all part of a process) from an 1,800+ square foot house with two-car garage that we owned, to a two- bedroom apartment we rented in the downtown of an urban area (a huge transition in and of itself), to a one-bedroom apartment we rented in a major urban area, and realizing it's all for the better and what I really wanted all along but was afraid to say so
--getting rid of my car and ceasing to be a regular driver, for the first time in 28 years. It's been almost ten months since I last drove a car and I couldn't be happier!
--learning that it's not too late for a do-over, and that old (or middle-aged) dogs still can learn new tricks
--finding my voice, in more ways than one
The closing of this blog comes at a good time. I started a new job this week, as you know, and it is terrific so far (and amazing to me, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I could do it). Also, I learned just yesterday that my former employer (parent company) has sold the life insurance subsidiary I used to work for, to a third party from the UK. As a result, many of my friends have lost/will be losing their jobs, and I am sad for them, but also happy for myself that I chose to separate from the company on my own terms.
(Not that I blame anyone who didn't handle it the way I did. It was generally a decent place to work and they made it easy to stay there. This is something all of us have seen before, on some level, and we knew/know it was/is always a possibility. I hope the company honors the severance packages it has traditionally offered in situations like this. My 20th anniversary with the company would have been in May, had I still been there, and while I would have enjoyed the Movado watch I was going to get, I promise you that I enjoy my new life outside of the company even more.There IS life after the "Hands" company, and it's good. You'll see. Best of luck to you all.)
Boycat just pee'd on the bed, which is also appropriate (or at least expected) in light of his recent circumstances. Sigh. It's always something.
But before I go, a couple more brief comments.
Keeping 42. for a year has helped me work through many issues in a way that only writing things down can do. Several years ago, Mr. 42's mom gifted us with a copy of an amazing book called Write It Down, Make It Happen by Henriette Klauser. She had read it and talked about the "proof" of it she had experienced in her life. Mr. 42 and I both read it and began putting it to work.
The author ascribes the power of it to a more "spiritual" influence than I probably would, being an atheist (or agnostic, depending on which day you ask me), but I have always been a firm believer in the power of the written (or typed) word. Many times I have observed that I and others can speak our truth through the written word in a way that we can't articulate verbally, even to people we love and trust. Sometimes it means we speak this truth only to ourselves, but often it is only to ourselves that it needs to be spoken to. That is the lesson I took away from Write it Down. If you want to believe that putting your intentions on paper sends them out into the universe (or to God, or to the Gods and Goddesses) in such a way that they simply must happen, I'm okay with that. As I said above, depending on what day you ask me, that might be the explanation I would give, too. Other days, it seems that writing things down (or typing them, even) helps YOU as the writer to clarify what you really want. It makes you focus on something in a way that helps it transition from being a pleasant, occasional passing thought ("Wouldn't it be nice if ...") to something you have thought about, written about, clarified, confirmed and are now making plans for.
Writing it down doesn't mean it will happen right away, or in exactly the way you had planned. This is how Philadelphia happened for us. We had our sights set on Boston, and life threw us a few curveballs that meant that wasn't going to happen when we wanted. What we didn't know at that time was that things wouldn't happen in Boston at all, but having lived here in Philly for ten months now, I am positive we ended up in the place where we were meant to live. (XOXO to Boston friends. Let's get together soon!)
What took place throughout that process (and for a good six months before we even began telling people of our plans): thoughts about what we wanted in a new city and how we wanted to live when we got here. Articulated on paper. Written down, more than once, across several notebooks and in two laptops. Refined and revised and reaffirmed, constantly.
Here in Philadelphia, a full 25 months after our notes about moving and starting a new and different life in a big city first began, I am here to tell you: it works!
Thanks to everyone who has followed this blog and taken time to comment or even just "like" on FB. I plan to take a short blogging break before beginning anew somewhere else (probably in Tumblr and in a completely different frame of mind). Cheers!--Ms. 42
Showing posts with label moving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label moving. Show all posts
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Sunday, June 23, 2013
My Little Town
Been feeling nostalgic today. The day of the week I am most likely to go nostalgia-tripping through old photos and old music or do some webstalking of old classmates is always Sunday, for some reason.
I grew up in a little town that I hated, but it's been on my mind lately.
We moved from Lincoln, NE, where I lived from infancy until age 3, to this little town for my father's career. (We almost ended up in an even smaller town, but my mother had grown up in a small town similar to the one being considered and told my father she couldn't do that to her kids. Thank you, Mom!)
I wasn't aware of how small the town was, and what that really meant, until I was ten or eleven. Places that were bigger just seemed ... bigger, but the same, like with more stuff to do, but to a kid, it was just the same kinds of stuff and more people.
By junior high, the town and I had declared silent war on each other. I went from being unaware of my town's size to being too aware of its size, hating it for its size and wishing I was somewhere else, and expressing this outwardly with my attitude and behavior and mode of dress. (And finding a few other like-minded individuals who felt the same way.)
Which is not to say I was some kind of juvenile delinquent. I did this in a very white, middle-class way, of course. I dressed strangely and took every opportunity to assert my individual style and specify my (superior, of course) pop culture preferences. If I wasn't going to be accepted and appreciated, I wasn't going to bother trying to fit in anymore.
I was, however, always a good kid. I didn't drink or smoke in high school (not that I had many opportunities, since I never got invited to the parties). I even used my good behavior, along with being smart and getting good grades in school, as a form of rebellion, to show them they were all "beneath me," and also because it meant that someday I would have a means of getting out of there. (I recognize now that my attitude was sometimes snotty and likely had at least a little something to do with the way people treated me.)
It was probably in my blood as well. My family were considered strange in the town. My parents were intensely private, with just a small circle of friends. Until I was well into my 30s, they lived in the same old house they had bought when they were poor as church mice, my father fresh out of law school with a wife and two kids already and hardly a pot to piss in. Long after they could have afforded better, they stayed in that same old house and continued driving their same old cars. (They did eventually remodel the home and my father got a wild hair when he turned 40 and bought a flashy Cadillac.) The town was small but had its "preferred suburb" area and social clubs to which the upwardly mobile belonged, all of which my parents rejected. My parents never joined a church (or even attended any).
(Yes, I've turned out a lot like them.)
So ... what's so terrible about my hometown?
Nothing.
It is a typical small town in a Midwestern state. Its residents are traditional and church-going, socially and politically conservative. Its community is not diverse. It is hours away from even a medium-sized city like Lincoln. It doesn't offer much for young people to do--a movie theater and cruising the main drag are the primary teen pastimes. Its teens end up drinking at house parties or out in the country, and having sex at a young age, due to lack of any better options. Older adults still see movies and drink (but in bars), plus go boating, fishing and hunting for fun. The town has developed a huge meth problem since the 1990s. Its population has declined steadily since the 1970s, as it doesn't offer many career opportunities or decent-paying jobs that would keep young people around or attract new residents.
It's neither good nor bad. I realize that now. It just wasn't what I was looking for. I don't think I knew what I was looking for, really, until I was in my 30s, but I certainly knew what I wasn't looking for: a town like my hometown.
My sister and brother-in-law and nephew still live near there. They like the small-town atmosphere and feel most comfortable there. My nephew is in college but it won't surprise me if he returns there after school, or moves to a new town that is similar in size and demographics. They obviously want something different than I want and they enjoy the pace of rural life.
I haven't actually been back there since 2005, when my father retired and a small celebration was held (and he left the next day, to join my mom in the new house they had purchased several months before, in a bigger city). During the last five years, my niece and nephew even graduated from their small rural high school that is near there, and I attended but stayed at a hotel in a bigger city a little further away, just to avoid my hometown.
And yet, now that I don't live in Nebraska anymore and probably won't visit again until there's a wedding or a funeral, I find myself looking at the hometown newspaper website more often. I did an earlier entry about learning my high school boyfriend's dad and my old babysitter had passed away, but the obituaries are not the only section of the town's newspaper that I read. Old family friends celebrated a 54th wedding anniversary and I saw the announcement in the paper and sent a card. I occasionally recognize a classmate or one of their children in a news story, but there are many names I don't know.
I miss the crappy old drive-in/restaurant that still has customers place their order via individual telephone handsets at each table. I've been craving the jiffy burgers a "rival" drive-in used to sell, and for which I have the coveted special secret recipe.
A friend posted Facebook photos of her visit a small town that still has a drive-in movie theater, and I remembered my town had one, too, until 1980ish? My mom worked there briefly when I was a kid. I saw Superman and Star Wars there, among other films.
A new friend who is a Montessori teacher got me thinking about my old elementary school, which took advantage of an unconventional classroom layout and created an unconventional (but very successful) teaching model. (In googling to see if there were any images, I learned that it was sold to a private investor and is being developed for mixed use business/upscale housing.)
Watching Freaks and Geeks again on Netflix reminded me of my 9th grade art teacher, who looked like the guidance counselor on the show.
So ... yeah. It doesn't define who I am, but that little Nebraska town is part of me. Simon and Garfunkel already said it better than I could, so I'll let them close this entry.
I grew up in a little town that I hated, but it's been on my mind lately.
We moved from Lincoln, NE, where I lived from infancy until age 3, to this little town for my father's career. (We almost ended up in an even smaller town, but my mother had grown up in a small town similar to the one being considered and told my father she couldn't do that to her kids. Thank you, Mom!)
I wasn't aware of how small the town was, and what that really meant, until I was ten or eleven. Places that were bigger just seemed ... bigger, but the same, like with more stuff to do, but to a kid, it was just the same kinds of stuff and more people.
 |
| My sister and I walking home from the town library |
Which is not to say I was some kind of juvenile delinquent. I did this in a very white, middle-class way, of course. I dressed strangely and took every opportunity to assert my individual style and specify my (superior, of course) pop culture preferences. If I wasn't going to be accepted and appreciated, I wasn't going to bother trying to fit in anymore.
I was, however, always a good kid. I didn't drink or smoke in high school (not that I had many opportunities, since I never got invited to the parties). I even used my good behavior, along with being smart and getting good grades in school, as a form of rebellion, to show them they were all "beneath me," and also because it meant that someday I would have a means of getting out of there. (I recognize now that my attitude was sometimes snotty and likely had at least a little something to do with the way people treated me.)
It was probably in my blood as well. My family were considered strange in the town. My parents were intensely private, with just a small circle of friends. Until I was well into my 30s, they lived in the same old house they had bought when they were poor as church mice, my father fresh out of law school with a wife and two kids already and hardly a pot to piss in. Long after they could have afforded better, they stayed in that same old house and continued driving their same old cars. (They did eventually remodel the home and my father got a wild hair when he turned 40 and bought a flashy Cadillac.) The town was small but had its "preferred suburb" area and social clubs to which the upwardly mobile belonged, all of which my parents rejected. My parents never joined a church (or even attended any).
(Yes, I've turned out a lot like them.)
So ... what's so terrible about my hometown?
Nothing.
 |
| Main Street |
It's neither good nor bad. I realize that now. It just wasn't what I was looking for. I don't think I knew what I was looking for, really, until I was in my 30s, but I certainly knew what I wasn't looking for: a town like my hometown.
My sister and brother-in-law and nephew still live near there. They like the small-town atmosphere and feel most comfortable there. My nephew is in college but it won't surprise me if he returns there after school, or moves to a new town that is similar in size and demographics. They obviously want something different than I want and they enjoy the pace of rural life.
I haven't actually been back there since 2005, when my father retired and a small celebration was held (and he left the next day, to join my mom in the new house they had purchased several months before, in a bigger city). During the last five years, my niece and nephew even graduated from their small rural high school that is near there, and I attended but stayed at a hotel in a bigger city a little further away, just to avoid my hometown.
And yet, now that I don't live in Nebraska anymore and probably won't visit again until there's a wedding or a funeral, I find myself looking at the hometown newspaper website more often. I did an earlier entry about learning my high school boyfriend's dad and my old babysitter had passed away, but the obituaries are not the only section of the town's newspaper that I read. Old family friends celebrated a 54th wedding anniversary and I saw the announcement in the paper and sent a card. I occasionally recognize a classmate or one of their children in a news story, but there are many names I don't know.
I miss the crappy old drive-in/restaurant that still has customers place their order via individual telephone handsets at each table. I've been craving the jiffy burgers a "rival" drive-in used to sell, and for which I have the coveted special secret recipe.
A friend posted Facebook photos of her visit a small town that still has a drive-in movie theater, and I remembered my town had one, too, until 1980ish? My mom worked there briefly when I was a kid. I saw Superman and Star Wars there, among other films.
A new friend who is a Montessori teacher got me thinking about my old elementary school, which took advantage of an unconventional classroom layout and created an unconventional (but very successful) teaching model. (In googling to see if there were any images, I learned that it was sold to a private investor and is being developed for mixed use business/upscale housing.)
Watching Freaks and Geeks again on Netflix reminded me of my 9th grade art teacher, who looked like the guidance counselor on the show.
So ... yeah. It doesn't define who I am, but that little Nebraska town is part of me. Simon and Garfunkel already said it better than I could, so I'll let them close this entry.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Philly Fashion in Four Easy Pieces
Here's a totally frivolous entry free of kvetching about the move, free of politics, free of musings on my dying uncle, and free of hurricane-related humor and horrors.
One of the things I didn't like about Boston was the very "uptight" vibe that coursed through the city and even manifested in how people dressed. From the business formal attire (suits, hose, heels) of the company that interviewed me, to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts students who looked more like a J. Crew ad than art school students, I didn't see how I would fit in.
One of the things I didn't like about Boston was the very "uptight" vibe that coursed through the city and even manifested in how people dressed. From the business formal attire (suits, hose, heels) of the company that interviewed me, to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts students who looked more like a J. Crew ad than art school students, I didn't see how I would fit in.
When we visited Philly last summer, we stayed in the business district, and all the ladies out on their smoke breaks and lunch breaks wore bare legs and comfy dress sandals or even flip-flops. We also happened to be a block or two from the Art Institute of Philadelphia, and day-glo hair, ripped tights, combat boots and the usual art-school drag were in full effect. I took all that as a sign that we were headed in the right direction.
In my 40s, I'm no longer comfortable dressing in garments that are too tight, too short or show too much cleavage/bare skin. Finding age-appropriate clothing is hard, but I'm not ready to resign myself to "Mom jeans" and white tennis shoes yet. Part of my wardrobe got lost in the move--shoes, belts, scarves, purses and clothing. I'm trying to put a positive spin on it and think of it as a chance to figure out how I want to dress.
I'll take a pass on one of Philly's most popular fashion trends--front thigh tattoos, which are about the last thing my dimply middle-aged thighs need--but I have enjoyed adopting these other Philly staples:
 |
| 1) Skinny pants/leggings/jeggings--I had a couple of these in my wardrobe already, but have bought another pair since I moved here. Ross, Marshall's, H&M and Macy's all have plenty in all sizes and colors. (I always wear mine with a tunic or dress over them.) |
 |
| 2) Boots--Philadelphians wear boots, even in hot weather. Short boots, tall boots. Cheap boots, fancy boots. There's a strong preference for the cognac/tobacco/camel shades, but black and grey and any other colors are also acceptable. I had some great boots that got lost in the move, so I have treated myself to a couple new pairs, including the gorgeous brown leather beauties you see above. |
 |
3) Scarves--okay, those of you who know me know that I already love and wear scarves all the time. Some got lost in the move, but I've managed to hold my new acquisitions to just three so far, including this one.
|
 |
| 4) Zip hoodies--nothing ground-breaking here, but everyone has at least one of these, and they're a great equalizer. The ones from Old Navy look just like the ones from Gap or American Apparel. (My hoodie is actually purple but I tinted the pic orange to match the other items in this entry.) |
Now I just need an Eagles or Phillies or Sixers t-shirt and I'll look like a true Philadelphian.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
A Life in Pictures
Can't sleep. The lost photos are driving me crazy.
I think of all the crap that made it here somehow and which we probably should have thrown away before we even moved, compared with the few things that got lost, and I'm disgusted.
Why didn't we bring the photos along with us in the car? I don't know, and yet I sort of do:
A. We weren't very organized the day the packers came, and they moved through the apartment very quickly. A living room, kitchen, dining room, bedroom, home office, three large closets and the contents of assorted shelves and storage areas were packed, very safely and efficiently, in less than two hours.
B. We had limited room in the car, and we knew we would already be taking all our important papers (due to risk of identity theft and/or for documentation purposes in case of tax audits, etc.), my jewelry (of which I have very little, believe it or not--just two small boxes), things that the movers wouldn't take like my perfume collection and acrylic paints, five days worth of clothes, the cats in their crates and the stuff we needed for them, plus the awful airbed and some bedding. There was no room to spare.
C. Frankly, it just didn't occur to us that anything would get lost. We expected some breakage, perhaps, so we opted for Full Value Protection of our goods, minus a small deductible, but we thought all of our boxes would make it there.
And of course, photos have really no dollar value, only their priceless sentimental value.
The photos were in two photo boxes which we stored in the closet that also contained the items in the lost boxes. We believe the photos are also in those lost boxes.
One framed photo of Mr. 42's dad was somehow in with our craft supplies, and we are thankful to have it.
I am sad to lose things like my photos from childhood, our wedding photos, pictures of pets we used to have, etc., but some of those things I can possibly get copies of from other family members. And those family members are still alive.
I am beyond sad about Mr. 42's photos. Both of his parents are deceased and the photos are all he had left of them. When we brought the photos back from Mother-in-Law's house after she passed, he went to great lengths to get them all sorted and organized and neatly boxed, etc. It meant a lot to him (and to me) to have those photos, and for reasons I won't go into here, we are not able to get any photos from his other family members, if they even have any.
We had very few photos of Mother-in-Law to begin with. Her family's house caught on fire when she was 14 years old. She was very badly burned and her young boyfriend was actually killed in the fire trying to get her and her little brother out of the house. Most of her family's possessions were destroyed in the fire, including family photos. When we sorted through the pictures, we found no childhood pictures and just two photos of her from her youth, both taken in her mid-to-late teen years.
There were photos of her from Mr. 42's childhood, but not many. She disliked having her photo taken, and there were very few photos of her taken after she was in her 40s. We have had a digital camera for more than 10 years, but somehow we have no digital photos of her, so at this point, we have NO photos of her. Not a single one.
Well, what's done is done. Unless they can find the missing boxes (and I really don't care about the missing clothes and shoes at this point), we have to accept that the photos are gone. I am creating this blog entry as a last ditch missive to the universe, with hopes that some kind soul will find the missing boxes, or at least the photos, and return them to us. Universe, do you hear me?
I think of all the crap that made it here somehow and which we probably should have thrown away before we even moved, compared with the few things that got lost, and I'm disgusted.
Why didn't we bring the photos along with us in the car? I don't know, and yet I sort of do:
A. We weren't very organized the day the packers came, and they moved through the apartment very quickly. A living room, kitchen, dining room, bedroom, home office, three large closets and the contents of assorted shelves and storage areas were packed, very safely and efficiently, in less than two hours.
B. We had limited room in the car, and we knew we would already be taking all our important papers (due to risk of identity theft and/or for documentation purposes in case of tax audits, etc.), my jewelry (of which I have very little, believe it or not--just two small boxes), things that the movers wouldn't take like my perfume collection and acrylic paints, five days worth of clothes, the cats in their crates and the stuff we needed for them, plus the awful airbed and some bedding. There was no room to spare.
C. Frankly, it just didn't occur to us that anything would get lost. We expected some breakage, perhaps, so we opted for Full Value Protection of our goods, minus a small deductible, but we thought all of our boxes would make it there.
And of course, photos have really no dollar value, only their priceless sentimental value.
The photos were in two photo boxes which we stored in the closet that also contained the items in the lost boxes. We believe the photos are also in those lost boxes.
One framed photo of Mr. 42's dad was somehow in with our craft supplies, and we are thankful to have it.
I am sad to lose things like my photos from childhood, our wedding photos, pictures of pets we used to have, etc., but some of those things I can possibly get copies of from other family members. And those family members are still alive.
I am beyond sad about Mr. 42's photos. Both of his parents are deceased and the photos are all he had left of them. When we brought the photos back from Mother-in-Law's house after she passed, he went to great lengths to get them all sorted and organized and neatly boxed, etc. It meant a lot to him (and to me) to have those photos, and for reasons I won't go into here, we are not able to get any photos from his other family members, if they even have any.
We had very few photos of Mother-in-Law to begin with. Her family's house caught on fire when she was 14 years old. She was very badly burned and her young boyfriend was actually killed in the fire trying to get her and her little brother out of the house. Most of her family's possessions were destroyed in the fire, including family photos. When we sorted through the pictures, we found no childhood pictures and just two photos of her from her youth, both taken in her mid-to-late teen years.
There were photos of her from Mr. 42's childhood, but not many. She disliked having her photo taken, and there were very few photos of her taken after she was in her 40s. We have had a digital camera for more than 10 years, but somehow we have no digital photos of her, so at this point, we have NO photos of her. Not a single one.
Well, what's done is done. Unless they can find the missing boxes (and I really don't care about the missing clothes and shoes at this point), we have to accept that the photos are gone. I am creating this blog entry as a last ditch missive to the universe, with hopes that some kind soul will find the missing boxes, or at least the photos, and return them to us. Universe, do you hear me?
Friday, September 14, 2012
Omaha Bucket List: FAIL!
As I noted yesterday, I was hoping to cross two items off the list on Thursday: #5: Scatter the ashes of Mr. 42's parents and #6: Eat a Godfather's taco pizza.
No prob on #6. Fail on #5.
The plan was to replicate a tradition in Mr. 42's family, during which they ate a meal at Godfather's, visited Fort Atkinson and then bought fireworks on their way home. Obviously, the fireworks part is not going to be possible in September, but we thought we could accomplish the other two things, with the main intent being to scatter the ashes of Mr. 42's parents at Fort Atkinson.
This didn't work out, for several reasons:
1: There is a question of legality regarding scattering ashes in a public place. It is possible we could have gotten caught and gotten in trouble, like a ticket for littering and maybe a fine or community service.
2: We actually opened up both containers, and there is more "ash" than we thought there would be. The internet indicates the average female leaves four lbs of ash, and the average male six lbs. That's 10 lbs of ash, people, and also . .
(Skip the next two paragraphs if you're squeamish.)
3: It's not actually ash. What's left after the cremation process is a dried pile of bones, which the crematorium then pulverizes for you in a special blender-like device, so that you have a much more compact pile of cremains that is uniform in consistency. Well, sort of, anyway. Mr. 42's dad was cremated in Colorado (where everything is inferior!) and had a lot more . . . um. . . bony chunks and chips in his container than Mr. 42's mom, who was properly cremated and processed here in Nebraska. It made me a bit weak in the knees to look at the cremains, actually. There is no way the 10 lb. pile of bony chunks and white bone powder could have been scatterable without being conspicuous. Some of it would have been too large to be dispersed by the wind.
*Also, side note: don't take the bag of ashes out of the container provided by the crematorium. The bony hunks in Mr. 42's dad's cremains tore little holes in the bag and we had a small mess on our hands. Ahem.
If you learn nothing else from reading these entries, I hope you will all consider what you might like to have done with your remains after you die, and will let your family know. I suggest also making it easy on them and NOT ask to be scattered someplace that will present logistical or legal difficulties, such as Memorial Stadium. How about someplace nice and personal like the garden in your own backyard? (To be fair, Mr. 42's parents did not request to be scattered any particular place. We thought it would be neat to scatter them at a state park they had enjoyed as a family, without realizing how impractical it would be. We brought this on ourselves, and it has made us think about what we want for our own final resting places.)
Both of us were sad that we could not accomplish #5 on the list, and it feels like we're leaving something undone, but it's not the end of the world. We will be taking Mr. 42's parents to Philadelphia with us. Mr. 42's dad actually loved to travel and would probably have enjoyed the trip. Mr. 42's mom was more of a homebody, but she loved being near her husband and son and would probably be happy to be on the trip for that reason. We'll figure out what to do with them once we get there, which may just be buying a fancy urn to keep them in, rather than trying to secretly scatter them somewhere meaningful but illegal, or paying hundreds of dollars to put them in a scattering garden or scatter them at sea in an official and legal manner.
No prob on #6. Fail on #5.
The plan was to replicate a tradition in Mr. 42's family, during which they ate a meal at Godfather's, visited Fort Atkinson and then bought fireworks on their way home. Obviously, the fireworks part is not going to be possible in September, but we thought we could accomplish the other two things, with the main intent being to scatter the ashes of Mr. 42's parents at Fort Atkinson.
This didn't work out, for several reasons:
1: There is a question of legality regarding scattering ashes in a public place. It is possible we could have gotten caught and gotten in trouble, like a ticket for littering and maybe a fine or community service.
2: We actually opened up both containers, and there is more "ash" than we thought there would be. The internet indicates the average female leaves four lbs of ash, and the average male six lbs. That's 10 lbs of ash, people, and also . .
(Skip the next two paragraphs if you're squeamish.)
3: It's not actually ash. What's left after the cremation process is a dried pile of bones, which the crematorium then pulverizes for you in a special blender-like device, so that you have a much more compact pile of cremains that is uniform in consistency. Well, sort of, anyway. Mr. 42's dad was cremated in Colorado (where everything is inferior!) and had a lot more . . . um. . . bony chunks and chips in his container than Mr. 42's mom, who was properly cremated and processed here in Nebraska. It made me a bit weak in the knees to look at the cremains, actually. There is no way the 10 lb. pile of bony chunks and white bone powder could have been scatterable without being conspicuous. Some of it would have been too large to be dispersed by the wind.
*Also, side note: don't take the bag of ashes out of the container provided by the crematorium. The bony hunks in Mr. 42's dad's cremains tore little holes in the bag and we had a small mess on our hands. Ahem.
If you learn nothing else from reading these entries, I hope you will all consider what you might like to have done with your remains after you die, and will let your family know. I suggest also making it easy on them and NOT ask to be scattered someplace that will present logistical or legal difficulties, such as Memorial Stadium. How about someplace nice and personal like the garden in your own backyard? (To be fair, Mr. 42's parents did not request to be scattered any particular place. We thought it would be neat to scatter them at a state park they had enjoyed as a family, without realizing how impractical it would be. We brought this on ourselves, and it has made us think about what we want for our own final resting places.)
Both of us were sad that we could not accomplish #5 on the list, and it feels like we're leaving something undone, but it's not the end of the world. We will be taking Mr. 42's parents to Philadelphia with us. Mr. 42's dad actually loved to travel and would probably have enjoyed the trip. Mr. 42's mom was more of a homebody, but she loved being near her husband and son and would probably be happy to be on the trip for that reason. We'll figure out what to do with them once we get there, which may just be buying a fancy urn to keep them in, rather than trying to secretly scatter them somewhere meaningful but illegal, or paying hundreds of dollars to put them in a scattering garden or scatter them at sea in an official and legal manner.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Omaha Bucket List: Henry Doorly Zoo
We visited Henry Doorly Zoo for what is probably the last time yesterday.
Mr. 42 grew up in Omaha and visited more than me, but I had relatives here and visited several times throughout childhood. We also came together as adults, and with our niece and nephew. A visit to the zoo was also a highlight of the Nebraska stay of my former co-workers from India.
Voted the #1 Zoo on TripAdvisor.com, it is a delight any time of the year. Yesterday's cool temps made for a comfortable visit, though we could have done without the rain that kept us trapped in some indoor exhibits longer than we would have liked. We also opted to skip some of the exhibits we had seen before (rainforest, butterfly pavillion, aquarium) in favor of seeing some other animals we liked more (apes and cats).
So . . .#4: Visit the Henry Doorly Zoo. Check! Pics below.
Two more items to cross off the list, hopefully after today: #5: Scatter the ashes of Mr. 42's parents and #6: Eat a Godfather's taco pizza. These two things are related, though not in a gross way or any way that you might think. If all goes well, I'll be back to explain tomorrow.
Mr. 42 grew up in Omaha and visited more than me, but I had relatives here and visited several times throughout childhood. We also came together as adults, and with our niece and nephew. A visit to the zoo was also a highlight of the Nebraska stay of my former co-workers from India.
Voted the #1 Zoo on TripAdvisor.com, it is a delight any time of the year. Yesterday's cool temps made for a comfortable visit, though we could have done without the rain that kept us trapped in some indoor exhibits longer than we would have liked. We also opted to skip some of the exhibits we had seen before (rainforest, butterfly pavillion, aquarium) in favor of seeing some other animals we liked more (apes and cats).
So . . .
Two more items to cross off the list, hopefully after today: #5: Scatter the ashes of Mr. 42's parents and #6: Eat a Godfather's taco pizza. These two things are related, though not in a gross way or any way that you might think. If all goes well, I'll be back to explain tomorrow.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Running Total: Omaha Bucket List
Omaha Bucket List:
1. Give notice at work.
Office, consider yourselves served. ;-) I gave notice today and decided to designate Sept. 7 as my last day. I was afraid if I waited until Sept. 14 as originally planned, I wouldn't be giving myself enough time to sort through and organize my crap, and that I wouldn't have as much time to spend with friends and family as I wished.
So, one item down. (Many more to go.)
Next up:
2. Put in notice at the apartment complex.
(The office manager is a friend of ours and already knows what's going on. We just need to make it official and fill out their little form.) Mañana, my friends.
And I promise there are more fun things on the Omaha Bucket List than these "honey-do's." Case in point:
3. Put on my dancing shoes and go dancing one last time with The Jade Dog. Also mañana. Can't wait!
Office, consider yourselves served. ;-) I gave notice today and decided to designate Sept. 7 as my last day. I was afraid if I waited until Sept. 14 as originally planned, I wouldn't be giving myself enough time to sort through and organize my crap, and that I wouldn't have as much time to spend with friends and family as I wished.
So, one item down. (Many more to go.)
Next up:
2. Put in notice at the apartment complex.
(The office manager is a friend of ours and already knows what's going on. We just need to make it official and fill out their little form.) Mañana, my friends.
And I promise there are more fun things on the Omaha Bucket List than these "honey-do's." Case in point:
3. Put on my dancing shoes and go dancing one last time with The Jade Dog. Also mañana. Can't wait!
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Preparing to Purge
We had a moving company provide an estimate for our move last week. Less than we budgeted for (hooray!) but still more than I was thinking it would be, based on my parents' recent move (we have much less stuff than them and we are moving it a shorter distance). But it's a good estimate and we'll probably go with it.
Before they came, we went through each room of our small apartment and tagged the things we knew we would not be taking: dining room table and chairs (we never really liked these and want a different set); wine rack; four pleather storage cubes that have been thoroughly "cattened" (i.e. marked and/or destroyed by cats who crawl, leap, scratch and bite objects and/or people with complete disregard for the object's value or the victim's well-being); a fold-down sofa and fold-down chair that made a great guest bed, also cattened (and while we're on the subject, Boy Cat and Girl Cat thoroughly cattened the carpet here, too. We'll be shelling out big bucks to have it replaced when we leave. Sigh.).
For example, the fold-down sofa (and this is a leather [albeit, cheap bonded leather] sofa we purchased new in 2011):
Not tagged but also not being moved: assorted books; clothing; shoes; small appliances; dishes; cookware; non-perishable foodstuffs; cleaning supplies; possibly some jewelry, handbags and perfume; possibly the opened contents of the liquor cabinet unless we manage to drink it up before we move. (And we're workin' on it, trust me!)
We've promised some things to our niece and her husband already, and anything that's really trashed or not useful is going to be thrown away, of course. (I will not be donating any 50-lb. broken TV's to the local homeless shelter or Goodwill. Ask Bobbi or Chad how they feel about those.)
I plan to start putting up the other items for my friends' consideration on Facebook or this blog. Let me know if you see something you want--first come, first served. :-)
And don't feel obligated to take anything. Mr. 42 and I have worked hard over the years to de-clutter our lives and I certainly don't want to create more clutter for anyone else.
Before they came, we went through each room of our small apartment and tagged the things we knew we would not be taking: dining room table and chairs (we never really liked these and want a different set); wine rack; four pleather storage cubes that have been thoroughly "cattened" (i.e. marked and/or destroyed by cats who crawl, leap, scratch and bite objects and/or people with complete disregard for the object's value or the victim's well-being); a fold-down sofa and fold-down chair that made a great guest bed, also cattened (and while we're on the subject, Boy Cat and Girl Cat thoroughly cattened the carpet here, too. We'll be shelling out big bucks to have it replaced when we leave. Sigh.).
For example, the fold-down sofa (and this is a leather [albeit, cheap bonded leather] sofa we purchased new in 2011):
 |
| Culprit #2 confesses but is defiant and says he'd do it all again |
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| Culprit #1 denies all involvement |
We've promised some things to our niece and her husband already, and anything that's really trashed or not useful is going to be thrown away, of course. (I will not be donating any 50-lb. broken TV's to the local homeless shelter or Goodwill. Ask Bobbi or Chad how they feel about those.)
I plan to start putting up the other items for my friends' consideration on Facebook or this blog. Let me know if you see something you want--first come, first served. :-)
And don't feel obligated to take anything. Mr. 42 and I have worked hard over the years to de-clutter our lives and I certainly don't want to create more clutter for anyone else.