I'm scared. In fact, I'm terrified. There are those, like my dad, who say I'm over reacting. That our nation, the United States of America, is just going through some hard times--we will surely recover. My husband has put into words his thoughts on the matter, which I believe is definitely worth the read.
Every day I read about the threats our country's making, the deals they're striking, just to try and arrest the whistle-blower, Edward Snowden. I hope you all have been following these developments, because I think that this is a great example of how far we have fallen. One note in particular: China is asking the US to reconsider it's treatment of human rights activists--for the second time. Anyone remember Bradley Manning?
I remember Obama's first campaign. I remember watching a speech he made while sitting in high school. He promised transperancy, promised a health care system that would include everyone at no cost to Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer.
Ha.
By next year, my husband and I will be scrambling to come up with the $500 fee (each) we will have to pay to get out of paying for full health care coverage. That $1000 will be cheaper than paying for the health care itself. More than anything, I'm scared that I won't be able to find a job. Or that my employer, a tiny carriage company, won't be able to keep me on. The idea of health care for everyone is definitely appealing, and I am all for it. Until it starts forcing company owners to stop hiring--even Walmart said they would stop employing people permanently just to get out of paying for health benefits. The prospect of being homeless is something I've had to face a few times in the last year, and I know there will be more of that to come in the future, especially if the job market gets any more competitive. I wonder if anyone running our country has ever felt that way.
And now we hear about the US spying not only in our backyards (and our computers), but all over the world, and that in order to be safe, we must sacrifice our liberties. Ben Franklin disagrees; "They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." The US is alienating its own citizens, and the allies we have left in the world.
I don't want this to be an Obama hate-blog, because as much as I dislike him, he isn't the one to start it. But he sure isn't finishing it. What scares me is this: not being able to defend myself if, like Thomas Jefferson suggested, people decide it is time to 'water the tree of liberty.' What really scares me though, is if we, the people, decide that we'd rather just go back to watching Jersey Shore.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Sunday, June 23, 2013
My new love
I am in love with a beautiful thing. Her name: Doreen.
What seemed like a disaster has turned into a new and exciting chapter: John's Jeep died outside of Savannah on our way back from Ellijay a couple weeks back, and then yesterday, horror of horrors...my car started to stop working. We panicked. Well, I panicked. I bawled my eyes out after we finally got her home. What were we going to do? I sat on my tiny plastic white stool in our midnight blue kitchen, staring at a cobweb on the ceiling and the perspiration on the walls and I thought, "God, help us." Obviously losing both modes of transportation isn't the end of the world. People take public transit all the time to get around. But I was so sick of things going wrong, so sick of having to shell out all our saved money. Any time we scrounge together a few dollers, it goes right to a bill, an emergency, or groceries. I just wanted to get ahead. Not knowing what to do, I wiped the snot from my face and began washing dishes.
Unbeknownst to me, my husband was looking at Carmax, trying to find out if we could be financed for a car. He had come across a decently priced car, one that would have functioned like the Jeep (low gas mileage but a lot of space with 4 wheel drive). After making some calls, he found out we could get that financing. After doing a little bit more looking, he found Doreen. A Fiat 500 Pop (in other words, the most basic of the Fiat 500s) sat in the lot of the brand new Savannah Carmax. And we heard that we could get financing...with no money down. This was beneficial because...we are broke. Again. Living day to day. Again.
Anyway, fast forward to today. It wasn't until 9PM that John finally got behind the car of our new baby, and he loved it. The Fiats may be tiny cars, but they actually have more room inside (including trunk space) than a Mini. We fit inside comfortably. But, ladies and gents, this is not a car to be a passenger in. I'm not saying the ride is bad, because it is excellent, even in sports mode (yes, I said it, THERE IS A SPORT BUTTON!!!). It just feels so tame in the passenger seat. I enjoyed watching my husband's eyes light up in the darkness as we sped through town and out to Tybee Island. I was brushing my finger over the iPod, finding songs to test out our new sound system with. It has a Bose 10-speaker system with a sub-woofer. Did I mention it's a 2012? This is the newest car anyone in my family has ever owned. And then it was my turn. I wasn't expecting much--like I said, this is the base 500 model. Cheap, but still an Italian sports car. That's right: we own an Italian sports car. She's our little Ferrari.
Okay, so the ride is great. But this isn't the passenger sort of car. I touched the accelerator and she jumped forward, orange indicator on the dash telling me that I wasn't yet above 60, but I felt every twitch of the wheel, every slight motion of the tires. My hair whipped against my face, the windows down so we could smell the salt air. My eyes ignored the speedo and I stared only at the red lights in front of me so not to crash, not that stopping is an issue. A gentle kiss of the breaks is all she needs to come to a dead stop. John bellowed with laughter as I screamed, rounding a corner too fast. We came to a red light and I looked at my husband, my hair plastered to my face, and I realized I was grinning so hard my cheeks ached. Time and time again, I stomped the accelerator, just to feel the thrill of that 0-60 in 8 seconds. This is what's laughable: my Monte Carlo can do it faster. But I've never been able to FEEL that speed, FEEL the breaks, FEEL the acceleration, FEEL the road. I've always kind of hated driving. Sure, my Monte is fun to accelerate with, but that's it. Her handling sucks. She has the turning radius of a moon and her brakes are more like weak suggestions.
But Doreen. Doreen is a different animal. She is Italian. She was made to handle. And I love her. For once, I don't want to be the passenger. As the ocean breeze knotted my bangs together, I felt my nerve endings fire like never before. Speed. As minimal as it was (I was afraid to go too fast, the cops around Savannah and Tybee have been hitting everyone pretty hard), it was there, and I felt every MPH. When the turn came for me to go home, I hesitated. My fingers clutched at the wheel, and I almost didn't push the blinker into place. The road curved before me. Go, it whispered. Just go. Forget about school, about payments, about your home, about not making friends, about money. Go.
And then I hit the blinker.
What seemed like a disaster has turned into a new and exciting chapter: John's Jeep died outside of Savannah on our way back from Ellijay a couple weeks back, and then yesterday, horror of horrors...my car started to stop working. We panicked. Well, I panicked. I bawled my eyes out after we finally got her home. What were we going to do? I sat on my tiny plastic white stool in our midnight blue kitchen, staring at a cobweb on the ceiling and the perspiration on the walls and I thought, "God, help us." Obviously losing both modes of transportation isn't the end of the world. People take public transit all the time to get around. But I was so sick of things going wrong, so sick of having to shell out all our saved money. Any time we scrounge together a few dollers, it goes right to a bill, an emergency, or groceries. I just wanted to get ahead. Not knowing what to do, I wiped the snot from my face and began washing dishes.
Unbeknownst to me, my husband was looking at Carmax, trying to find out if we could be financed for a car. He had come across a decently priced car, one that would have functioned like the Jeep (low gas mileage but a lot of space with 4 wheel drive). After making some calls, he found out we could get that financing. After doing a little bit more looking, he found Doreen. A Fiat 500 Pop (in other words, the most basic of the Fiat 500s) sat in the lot of the brand new Savannah Carmax. And we heard that we could get financing...with no money down. This was beneficial because...we are broke. Again. Living day to day. Again.
Anyway, fast forward to today. It wasn't until 9PM that John finally got behind the car of our new baby, and he loved it. The Fiats may be tiny cars, but they actually have more room inside (including trunk space) than a Mini. We fit inside comfortably. But, ladies and gents, this is not a car to be a passenger in. I'm not saying the ride is bad, because it is excellent, even in sports mode (yes, I said it, THERE IS A SPORT BUTTON!!!). It just feels so tame in the passenger seat. I enjoyed watching my husband's eyes light up in the darkness as we sped through town and out to Tybee Island. I was brushing my finger over the iPod, finding songs to test out our new sound system with. It has a Bose 10-speaker system with a sub-woofer. Did I mention it's a 2012? This is the newest car anyone in my family has ever owned. And then it was my turn. I wasn't expecting much--like I said, this is the base 500 model. Cheap, but still an Italian sports car. That's right: we own an Italian sports car. She's our little Ferrari.
Okay, so the ride is great. But this isn't the passenger sort of car. I touched the accelerator and she jumped forward, orange indicator on the dash telling me that I wasn't yet above 60, but I felt every twitch of the wheel, every slight motion of the tires. My hair whipped against my face, the windows down so we could smell the salt air. My eyes ignored the speedo and I stared only at the red lights in front of me so not to crash, not that stopping is an issue. A gentle kiss of the breaks is all she needs to come to a dead stop. John bellowed with laughter as I screamed, rounding a corner too fast. We came to a red light and I looked at my husband, my hair plastered to my face, and I realized I was grinning so hard my cheeks ached. Time and time again, I stomped the accelerator, just to feel the thrill of that 0-60 in 8 seconds. This is what's laughable: my Monte Carlo can do it faster. But I've never been able to FEEL that speed, FEEL the breaks, FEEL the acceleration, FEEL the road. I've always kind of hated driving. Sure, my Monte is fun to accelerate with, but that's it. Her handling sucks. She has the turning radius of a moon and her brakes are more like weak suggestions.
But Doreen. Doreen is a different animal. She is Italian. She was made to handle. And I love her. For once, I don't want to be the passenger. As the ocean breeze knotted my bangs together, I felt my nerve endings fire like never before. Speed. As minimal as it was (I was afraid to go too fast, the cops around Savannah and Tybee have been hitting everyone pretty hard), it was there, and I felt every MPH. When the turn came for me to go home, I hesitated. My fingers clutched at the wheel, and I almost didn't push the blinker into place. The road curved before me. Go, it whispered. Just go. Forget about school, about payments, about your home, about not making friends, about money. Go.
And then I hit the blinker.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
An update
Things at the carriage job are going pretty well. Not only do I have a pretty rockin' farmers tan going on, but I'm finally speaking the tours while my trainer drives. I'm happy to have a break from the driving because honestly, I can't feel my right middle finger any more. I didn't realize how much strength was required to handle a couple of one-ton horses, so let me tell you--you need a lot. It's nice to feel muscle building back into my body again. My husband said I've finally stopped giving 'girly' massages. Apparently my job is also enabling me to give 'man massages.'
While I despise the nights I have to work as a groom (which means taking the horses temps--that's right, I'm getting horse farts on me all night long; dumping the diapers--the memory of which is enough to make me want to hurl; and watering the horses--or rather, getting soaked while the horses splash the water around like a couple of babies in a bathtub), I am actually gaining some valuable skills. Like speaking. If you know me, it's hard to believe that I took a job that requires me to be communicative at the top of my lungs all day long. I'm a listener, an observer. It's what I do best. I think my husband is pleased that I am having to learn how to talk to different groups of people, figuring them out and adjusting the material I spew accordingly. Honestly, I hope I can learn to do that well. I've never been the most verbose, and that usually works against me.
My first time speaking was this morning, the 9AM tour. I had my notes sitting next to me for a tour that I knew how to drive the best, and my throat began to close. I drank almost a whole bottle of water before the tour even began, because my head began to pound and my hands began to shake. I was scared. This is about as out of my comfort zone as I've ever been, and that's including the time I had to walk around the Berlin airport with a huge allergic reaction on my face that made Elephant Man look handsome. I stumbled over my words, every syllable clutching to my dry tongue and birthing through my mouth like that alien bursting through that chest. I'm pretty sure that if I paid enough attention, the looks on the tourists faces would have been akin to Sigourney Weaver's as she dreamed about the alien in her own body. I tried not to stare at my notes constantly, but it was almost impossible not to. Finally, about twenty minutes in, my throat had enough. I croaked out a final word before asking my awesome trainer, Beth, to continue while I tried to regain composure, and my voice. I was pretty upset with myself at this point. I felt like nothing I said made sense, and I was pretty sure that the people in the back row couldn't hear me at all, though that seemed more like a plus for them. At the end of the tour, Beth looked at me and smiled, "You did great!" I stared at her, uncomprehending. Obviously she had been on a different tour, and I told her as much. She laughed and said that I did fine, though I needed to learn to project my voice more. She said that obviously I would learn the tours better as I gave them. The second tour we gave was to a group of young Girl Scouts (Savannah is the home to Juliette Gordon Low, the founder of the Girl Scouts of America; Savannah is like Mecca to them), and I found myself having fun. The young girls wouldn't question anything I said (though I do try my best to sort out fact from fun tales in my tours, I refuse to give false information), and their leaders were very lighthearted. I enjoyed talking to them, and I gave the whole tour myself, Beth only chiming in when I couldn't answer a specific question. I found myself looking less and less at my notes, giving them a few more romance and ghost stories than I normally would. It's fun when your audience shrieks at the idea of bloodletting and skeletons being discovered in the walls. My third tour didn't go as well, and Beth had to help out again, but I am definitely feeling better about talking to complete strangers. By the fourth tour my throat hurt so bad that I asked Beth to do all the work so I could relax and take in more of her tour stories.
I still have a long way to go, but my initial fear is gone, so now I can go back to focusing on learning the history of the city. Not all of the horses are my biggest fans--Beau and Flynn seem to have it out for me, though I have fallen for Jeb and Murphy, a couple of misfits that actually seem to enjoy snuggling. And in fact, the hardest part of this job, aside from the memorization of dates and names, is working with very large, very alive, animals. I've never worked with horses before, so I'm trying to learn the characters of each horse I work with, as well as what spooks them. Jeb has an intense fear of tarps. We even have a horse that is a little racist. Murphy likes to dance on the way home. I'm not kidding, he actually dances. It's the most hilarious thing I've ever seen an animal do, aside from O'Shea's tendency to flap his lips after drinking water, making a great popping noise. Most days I really enjoy working with the horses...but then there are days that make me want to shoot them. Beau and Flynn were a nightmare one Saturday, literally trying to poop on me whenever they had the chance. By the time I got home, I had to go directly to a shower and scrub scalding water over my body. I was covered in almost every fluid a horse can excrete. I was in tears, wondering what the hell I was doing...but it made me more determined than ever not to let them push me around. Though I have become convinced that owning horses is more trouble than it is worth, I'm definitely having an interesting experience. Maybe I'll even have some great stories to write about by the time it's all said and done.
While I despise the nights I have to work as a groom (which means taking the horses temps--that's right, I'm getting horse farts on me all night long; dumping the diapers--the memory of which is enough to make me want to hurl; and watering the horses--or rather, getting soaked while the horses splash the water around like a couple of babies in a bathtub), I am actually gaining some valuable skills. Like speaking. If you know me, it's hard to believe that I took a job that requires me to be communicative at the top of my lungs all day long. I'm a listener, an observer. It's what I do best. I think my husband is pleased that I am having to learn how to talk to different groups of people, figuring them out and adjusting the material I spew accordingly. Honestly, I hope I can learn to do that well. I've never been the most verbose, and that usually works against me.
My first time speaking was this morning, the 9AM tour. I had my notes sitting next to me for a tour that I knew how to drive the best, and my throat began to close. I drank almost a whole bottle of water before the tour even began, because my head began to pound and my hands began to shake. I was scared. This is about as out of my comfort zone as I've ever been, and that's including the time I had to walk around the Berlin airport with a huge allergic reaction on my face that made Elephant Man look handsome. I stumbled over my words, every syllable clutching to my dry tongue and birthing through my mouth like that alien bursting through that chest. I'm pretty sure that if I paid enough attention, the looks on the tourists faces would have been akin to Sigourney Weaver's as she dreamed about the alien in her own body. I tried not to stare at my notes constantly, but it was almost impossible not to. Finally, about twenty minutes in, my throat had enough. I croaked out a final word before asking my awesome trainer, Beth, to continue while I tried to regain composure, and my voice. I was pretty upset with myself at this point. I felt like nothing I said made sense, and I was pretty sure that the people in the back row couldn't hear me at all, though that seemed more like a plus for them. At the end of the tour, Beth looked at me and smiled, "You did great!" I stared at her, uncomprehending. Obviously she had been on a different tour, and I told her as much. She laughed and said that I did fine, though I needed to learn to project my voice more. She said that obviously I would learn the tours better as I gave them. The second tour we gave was to a group of young Girl Scouts (Savannah is the home to Juliette Gordon Low, the founder of the Girl Scouts of America; Savannah is like Mecca to them), and I found myself having fun. The young girls wouldn't question anything I said (though I do try my best to sort out fact from fun tales in my tours, I refuse to give false information), and their leaders were very lighthearted. I enjoyed talking to them, and I gave the whole tour myself, Beth only chiming in when I couldn't answer a specific question. I found myself looking less and less at my notes, giving them a few more romance and ghost stories than I normally would. It's fun when your audience shrieks at the idea of bloodletting and skeletons being discovered in the walls. My third tour didn't go as well, and Beth had to help out again, but I am definitely feeling better about talking to complete strangers. By the fourth tour my throat hurt so bad that I asked Beth to do all the work so I could relax and take in more of her tour stories.
I still have a long way to go, but my initial fear is gone, so now I can go back to focusing on learning the history of the city. Not all of the horses are my biggest fans--Beau and Flynn seem to have it out for me, though I have fallen for Jeb and Murphy, a couple of misfits that actually seem to enjoy snuggling. And in fact, the hardest part of this job, aside from the memorization of dates and names, is working with very large, very alive, animals. I've never worked with horses before, so I'm trying to learn the characters of each horse I work with, as well as what spooks them. Jeb has an intense fear of tarps. We even have a horse that is a little racist. Murphy likes to dance on the way home. I'm not kidding, he actually dances. It's the most hilarious thing I've ever seen an animal do, aside from O'Shea's tendency to flap his lips after drinking water, making a great popping noise. Most days I really enjoy working with the horses...but then there are days that make me want to shoot them. Beau and Flynn were a nightmare one Saturday, literally trying to poop on me whenever they had the chance. By the time I got home, I had to go directly to a shower and scrub scalding water over my body. I was covered in almost every fluid a horse can excrete. I was in tears, wondering what the hell I was doing...but it made me more determined than ever not to let them push me around. Though I have become convinced that owning horses is more trouble than it is worth, I'm definitely having an interesting experience. Maybe I'll even have some great stories to write about by the time it's all said and done.
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