About the Name

You may have noticed I changed the name of my blog.

The original title, "That chill you feel...it's hell freezing over" came from some of my more introspective entries, and also refers to the fact that I was actually writing a blog. While it made sense at the time, to me at least, it just didn't quite fit.

So the new name, Pinot on the Rocks. I think its more "me", and it also fits with the fact that I don't exactly like to do things by the book. My name is Beth, and I put ice in my glass of pinot grigio. I don't think I'll be asked to host a show on wine on the Food Network, but that's how I roll.

T-Minus 2 Days...

It's been a while since I've written on here. Again I find myself without much to say, at least nothing that I want to commit to HTML for all the world to see. That said, I've committed myself to writing more frequently so here goes...

I start back on Weight Watchers (or WW) on Saturday. A part of me is looking forward to it (the getting skinny again part) and another part of me isn't (the not eating my body weight in fries and pizza part).

To cope with the limited fries and pizza future, I've been on a bit of a farewell tour the past two weeks. Yep, me and The Stones, doing farewell tour #22. To give you an idea of what I'm talking about, here was yesterday's menu:

Breakfast - Sesame Seed Bagel, with cream cheese and eggs (no bacon because of Ash Wednesday)

Lunch - Penne Alfredo from the cafeteria

Dinner - most of a Medium, Thin Crust Dominos Pizza with Mushrooms

Dessert - Cherry Turnover

I probably should have had a coumadin chaser with all of this, but I'm still alive today, so I guess I can wait a day or two before scheduling that quadruple heart bypass.

I'm trying to keep some reality in my upcoming foray into the Wonderful World of Weight Watchers (W4). I need to do it better and smarter than I did before, and by that I mean being nicer to myself. I need to exercise four days a week, not seven. I need to have a "cheat" day, even if I do hate that word "cheat" - it makes me feel like I'm a naughty six year old. I need to be OK if the scale stays the same or even goes up a pound or two once in a while.

I'm honestly not sure how I'm going to do it, but I know I have to. Here goes...wish me luck!

Heaven Help Us

So I was in Payless today looking for new lounge around sneaks (hey, we're in a recession, don't judge me!), and down on the bottom self, I found these:



Not only that, but they rang up for $1.50 - I took that as a sign. I guess I'm taking tap lessons - anybody know the injury rate? Better yet, anybody know where a rhythm-less overweight 34 year old with no dance experience can take lessons with other rhythm-less over 30's with no dance experience? I'd like to avoid being the tallest person in the room.

Happy Valentines Day.

Getting Ready to Get Ready

Despite my fervent hopes for a better year, 2009 hasn’t exactly “Met Expectations” so far. Some of it is user error so to speak, the rest of it has been general “life isn’t fair-ness”.

I won’t belabor the “life isn’t fair” part – see my February 3 blog “Tribute”. As for the user error, well that my friends is all me.

I started this blog with big plans – tackle those things I’ve been putting off, start really living my life and embrace the unknown. I was going to take dance classes, go on blind dates, climb Mt. Everest, start cage fighting. Ok, maybe not those last two, but you get the general picture.

I have poked my head out of my shell – I’ve gone out a few times, more than I typically have. To my amusement the past two Fridays I’ve found myself out until the early hours of Saturday morning. Granted one night ended with three of us drinking decaf at Dunkin Donuts and the other at a diner, but still, I wasn’t wearing my comfy sweatpants getting to know my couch a bit better.

However, I find myself, in many ways, exactly where I started. I’ve enviously read the status updates and blogs of my more adventurous friends as they plan their next adventure, wondering when I’m going to get my ass in gear. I feel like I’m in a state of getting ready to get ready. I’m almost there, but not quite. I need a deadline or something else to kick me out of inaction.

So, with that in mind, I’m setting a deadline, and I’m putting it here, in writing. Wednesday, February 25. For the Catholics out there, you may recognize it as Ash Wednesday – the first day of a time of fasting and prayer. As a student in the catholic school system, we were encouraged to sacrifice something during this time. Even though I have strayed from the Catholic Church, I still adhere to many of the traditions. I am going to give up the barriers I have built around myself, beginning with the layer of fat I have built up one french fry and one piece of bacon at a time.

I’m nervous – I’ve spent the past few years hiding myself away. Getting hurt sucks, and I’ve been in a race to escape it, to little effect. I think I’ve wound up hurting myself more than anyone else could. While trying to avoid rejection, I’ve put up a wall that would rival the Great Wall of China and have isolated myself from living. When I’ve been upset or agitated, I’ve turned to my old ally, food. I’ve avoided confrontation, hidden from embarrassment. To ease the pain, I've stuffed those feelings down, hurting myself along the way.

Enough.

I’m note quite ready to sign up for those dance classes, or put myself out there on the dating scene. The wall is a little too sturdy. So I’m starting small – giving up my pattern of eating is going to force me to feel, force me to confront. I won’t be able to turn to the vending machine or a mozzarella stick as a coping mechanism. If I can’t spend my Friday and Saturday nights in a feeding frenzy of junk food, I’m going to need to figure out something else to do.

Am I looking forward to it? Not exactly, but I know I need to do something. I think it’s time for me to tear down this wall. I guess it’s time for me to get ready.

Tempest in a (Tea) Pot

For the record, I don’t spoke pot. Believe it or not, I never have and don't plan to start now. When your father is a 6’3” police officer who did a stint in the Marine Corps, you either toe the line or you rebel in a big way. In case you haven’t figured it out, while I do have a bit of a rebellious streak, I’m still pretty much a goody two shoes.

While I don’t “partake” so to speak, I’m surprised by the reaction to the picture of Michael Phelps hitting a bong. For cryin’ out loud, he’s a 23 year old swimmer – not a teacher, nor is he a Boy Scout Pack Leader. If Michael Phelps is the sole role model in your child’s life, then I’d have to question your parenting techniques. I think he did the right thing by acknowledging that it was him in the picture and owning up to his mistake. Whether his mistake was smoking pot or getting caught is up to you to decide. I don’t think we need to haul him onto the lawn of the White House and ritually stone him, which it appears at least one of his sponsors and USA Swimming would suggest by their actions.

I wonder what would have happened if he was Michael Phelps, College Student and not Michael Phelps, Olympic Gold Medalist. I suspect the pictures would have gone onto someone’s Facebook page, and he would be hoping his parents or future employer wouldn’t see them. Instead, they’ve been plastered on TV news, national and international newspapers and all over the internet. While my idea of abusing a drug is taking a Benedryl when I need to catch some Zs, I would still hate to think of my 23 year old foibles being fodder for debate on an international stage.

One could say that Mr. Phelps asked for this kind of exposure – that may be true. Being in the spotlight like he is, he does have an obligation to act in a responsible manner. I just think that perhaps it’s time to let it go.

He screwed up. He knows he screwed up. Everybody else knows that he screwed up. Now let him learn from his mistakes and grow up like other 20-somethings.

Tribute

One of my friends emailed me the other day and asked “is this what old age is? People start getting sick and dying randomly? I don't care for it one bit.”

Let me go on record – I don’t either.

The first time I was hit with random, sudden death was October 12, 2000. That day is forever marked in my heart.

I started at the company I spent most of my career at in August, 1998. On that first day, I was greeted with “You’re so lucky. You get to support Rod. He’s so handsome, and so nice. Everybody wants a Rod-Doll”. Huh, I thought, I’d be the judge of that.

I didn’t meet him for another two months, but I saw a picture of him and his wife Lisa; and the other girls didn’t lie, he was handsome, and if my phone interactions were anything to go by, he was really nice. Every phone conversation ended with “Beth, you’re the best”. His requests were simple, and I always thought his praise was over-rated, but I could hear the sincerity in his voice.

Over the next 14 months, I got to work more closely with Rod, and to be honest I never saw the ego that frequently plagued people in his position. He treated everyone with the same level of respect, taking time to get to know the admin staff, the mail room clerks and the senior managers. When I spoke with him about my career, he took the time to listen, and make the offer to mentor and teach me more about the industry. I never got the chance to tell him what that meant to me.

On October 12, I came into work and picked up a waiting message. A woman identifying herself as Rod’s mother-in-law was leaving me a message informing me that he had a heart attack at the age of 38, and he didn’t make it. I listened to that message five times, each time the words made less and less sense. Rod? My Rod? I called his colleagues, and all had the same reaction.

My cube-mate came in, seeing me in floods of tears assumed something had happened to my father. When I blurted out the words, she too, with her tough exterior, broke down. I vaguely remember the rest of the day – the other girls in the office telling me I needed to go home, blindly driving down Germantown Pike, listening to KYW hearing about the bombing of the USS Cole and not giving a damn. More incomprehensible loss, that’s all I heard.

At the time the thought of a seemingly healthy 38 year old dying in his sleep didn’t make sense to me, and to this day, it still doesn’t.

So when I got a message on Facebook last week informing me that an old classmate passed away at the age of 33, I had to go onto the local newspaper’s website to see the obituary for myself. I hadn’t seen Lou since we graduated from grammar school in 1989, but I still remember what a nice, sweet “kid” he was. I didn’t realize our graduation from grammar school that would be the last time I saw him. He left behind a wife and three children.

Some things can’t be explained.

In September of this year, I got a phone call from my mother while at lunch, telling me that she ran into the mother of an old classmate. She told me that Joe had lung cancer, and that it was bad. I asked her several times – Joe? Joe Mak? People in their early 30’s don’t get cancer – they just don’t, I thought. Cancer didn’t get that memo. Cancer also doesn’t fight fair.

One of my heroes, Heather, ran the Rehoboth Beach Marathon to raise money to help Joe in his fight. I wish I had her balls. She fought through a stress facture and the cold to raise money and awareness. What an amazing friend.

One night I heard my mother tell my father about one of my friends, and I heard her say he was dying. I was indignant – there was no way Joe was going to lose this battle, not with everyone fighting for him. He’s 33 dammit, he’s too young to let this get the best of him.

I got word a week and a half ago that Joe was in the hospital with pneumonia. I read posts predicting his imminent demise. I prayed for his recovery and asked others to do the same. This couldn’t be the end of the fight.

I didn’t call Joe or his family, I didn’t want to intrude. I hadn’t seen him since we graduated from high school in 1993 after all, and I didn’t want to impose. There would be plenty of time to see him.

I wish I had intruded.

I got word today that Joe lost his fight – despite the people praying for him and his family.

Death is a bitch. Death doesn’t care that you’re young and handsome, with children and loved. Death doesn’t care that you’re in your 30s with everything to live for.

To Rod, Lou and Joe – I miss you guys. You left the party too soon and are missed. I hope to meet up with you again someday – save me a seat at the bar. We’ll have some catching up to do.

Ink-a-dink-a-doo

My name is Beth and I have tattoos.

There. I said it. I’m also gainfully employed, pay my taxes, do not ride a motorcycle and am pretty sure I’m not in a circus.

I’m a far cry from the plaid, pleated uniformed 9 year old with pig tails that Sr. St. Elizabeth asked about having a vocation to become a nun. For the record, at the age of 9, the celibacy thing meant nothing to me, it was more having short hair, no nail polish and no make-up that influenced my decision. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that black is a really good color, and that wearing a veil wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when having a bad hair day. I’m still not willing to part with my mascara and fake nails.

I got my first tattoo shortly before I turned 20. I had flirted with the idea of ink before. My mother babysat a little boy whose mother had a rose tattooed on her breast. She strongly discouraged me from getting one in that specific location, but otherwise didn’t shy from the topic.

I went to the shore with my friend Geri in the summer of 1994 where we purchased temporary tattoos. I came home from that weekend to my grumpy father, ticked off about a bad golf game and seeing the sticker, angrily asked me when I had gotten the tattoo. I quickly calmed him down, assuring him that it was fake. A few months later, Geri and I went to a local tattoo parlor, made our appointments for the next Friday and paid our deposits.

I had told my mother I was thinking about getting a tattoo. She vacillated between indifference and fear that I would be scarring my body. When I left the night of the appointment, she begged me, with tears in her eyes, not to do it. I told her I’d think about it.

I lied.

Geri and I came back to my house; mom took one look at both of us, laughed and asked us to show her our tattoos. I lifted up the hem of my jeans – nervously showing her the tiny rose on my right ankle. She also told me that it would be a good idea to not tell my father. One night she came home from a dinner out with him, telling me how she almost choked on her glass of wine when he told her about the shocking (shocking!!!) news that the daughter of one of his colleagues got a tattoo! Of a rose! On her ankle!

I spent the next 12 years hiding my tattoos from my dad. With one it was easy. Angle my body in certain way, sit with my leg crossed and my hand casually resting over the offending body art. Over the years I’ve added 7 more designs to my body. Some are easier to hide than others. Lower back? No sweat. Left hip? Piece of cake. Upper back? A little more difficult.

Eventually I convinced my brother-in-law, then my sister, and to the astonishment of many, my mother to get inked. None of them have taken it to the extreme I have, but none of them have stopped at one. My father was another story.

One night I went out to dinner with my parents. While reaching for a piece of bread, my father clocked the rose on my right wrist. “How long have you had that one?” he asked. “Kelly has one too!” I spluttered. I then cheekily asked him how he had failed to notice the first tattoo, that I had since had re-inked, almost 12 years earlier. He told me that he had noticed it, just hadn’t said anything. Sure.

About a year later, again out to dinner, my father admitted that he had thought about getting a tattoo, but when he entered the Marine Corps, he had promised his father he wouldn’t. I pointed out that Pop-Pop had been deceased since 1989, so what was his excuse now? He then said that, given the right circumstances, he would get one. I whipped out my phone and made an appointment for him. Dad is now the proud owner of the Marine Corps insignia on his right bicep. I doubt he’ll get another, but I felt like I had won my case in a strange way.

I work in a corporate office and have had to get creative when it comes to dressing for work. Only shirts with collars, a chunky bracelet if I’m not wearing long sleeves, no skirts without tights. Despite the extra thought that goes into dressing, I love my tattoos. They are something that will always be a part of me – and each one has a story. I got one as a tongue in cheek tribute to a beloved boss who died too soon - he was decidedly anti-tattoo, but I know he'd get the joke. Another one to commemorate my 21st birthday.

My current boss knows I have tattoos and I know she doesn’t approve. Despite this, she and I have had a successful working relationship, better than most relationships I’ve had. When I sit across from her, I make sure my right hand is palm down, not flaunting the offending rose. I wear a clear retainer in the place where my diamond nose ring resides when I’m “off-duty”.

Despite the grief and the hassle, my tattoos are a part of me – nobody can take them away. I’m not naïve enough to believe I’m going to change the world. Tattoos will never be acceptable work décor, but I hope that people can see through the ink and see me.