12 posts tagged “letter a day”

Gah... Been away for a while doing some really interesting things. Which rather brings me to today's word...what else could it be for? L is for Love.

Love is a very complicated thing, it seems. For me, it seems that most people seem to shy away from using the word willy-nilly. Which I understand, to some extent. On the other hand, I tend to be a very open, passionate person. Obviously, I love my husband. Obviously, I love my son, and the rest of my family. And it wasn't until I had a conversation with my husband, it's not so obvious that I really do love my friends as well.

Why would that be so odd? I think it should go without saying that I obviously don't love my son like I love my husband...can't I have a different kind of love for my friends? Which rather leads me into another thing about love... One of the things that was great about my group of friends is that we we so comfortable with each other, we had no qualms whatsoever about hugging. I love getting hugs! High school and college were great for getting hugs! Nowadays, not as much. When did we all lose that child-like innocence? Especially when you just feel so GOOD loving someone and being loved in return?

At any rate, here be my point: I think it's perfectly natural and wonderful to love people. Your heart is big! There's just so much room in there! Tell your friends and family how you feel, and let's all not be ashamed of that. :)

Oh, and by all means, I would love to hear your views on this subject... I want to know how open everyone else is out there. :)

Oh my goodness....did I really do my last post on October 2nd? I completely didn't realize how fast October is going! And quite belatedly, since I figured this one out around the 4th or 5th, K is for Kitty.

K was a difficult letter for me, I'll admit, because everything I kept thinking of to start with the "K" sound actually started with "C". D'oh! But cats also come in a K version, so I've concluded that K will be for Kitty, of which I have two. And, uh...I'll have to go look around more on the other computer to find pictures of them...

Chewie is my older cat. My senior year of college, I was living by myself in an apartment in Ithaca, so Jeremy adopted Chewie for me to keep me company. He came with the name, but if anyone asks, I say it's because he talks like Chewbacca. And this cat TALKS. All the time. I've never had a cat talk so much, and I've had three Siamese cats growing up! He also used to act very puppy-like, enjoying cuddling and actually playing fetch.

Chewie was three when I got him, making him...11 now. When it was just me and him, he got very attached. So, when we moved in with Jeremy after college, Chewie was very upset with me, and developed separation anxiety. Aside from getting him some Kitty Valium, I also got him a kitten to play with, Bebe. Chewie was just disgusted with me over the latter there. I seriously thought that when we had Ethan, Chewie was just going to pack up and move out.

Overall, Chewie is a pretty laid back cat, compared to Habib.

As I mentioned, we got Habib, or Bebe, after we moved into our apartment in Manchester. We got her as a kitten, making her...8 now. While she will occasionally come over for a cuddle and attention, and used to happily sit in my lap, she is quite the skittish cat. Most of the time, when people come to visit us, they think we only have one cat, since Bebe will go and hide for the entire time. These days, she'll spend most of the day time hiding out (I've FINALLY figured out where she hides here), and come out after Ethan goes to bed. She is very sweet, but very skittish. Oh, and she has claws, whereas Chewie came declawed.

Oh, and if you're curious about her name, the name Habib has been a running joke in Jeremy's family for as long as I've known him. We thought it would be nice to actually have something with the name. Luckily for Ethan, we got Bebe first. XD

You know what would be nice...if Vox worked on my Apple version of Firefox. That would be my primary browser, in case you can't tell by my whining...so unfortunately, it takes a bit to get me to move over to Safari.

But in the meantime... J is for Jennifer, of course.

In case you couldn't tell by my username, Jennifer is my real name. And, when I first meet you, or first start working with you, that's what I'd prefer to be called. Jennifer, please. That would be my grown-up, professional name.

Once I've been working with you for a while, and tend to send you e-mails every day or so, I'll probably get sick of typing Jennifer. Likewise, if I consider you a friend, I'll probably make the switch as well. That switch would be to Jenn, with 2 n's please.

This has become one of my first questions when I meet another Jennifer: Do you spell Jenn with one N or two? I'm of the camp that when you shorten Jennifer to Jenn, you need to cut it completely in half and maintain the symmetry. My roommate, Jen, was of the camp that you should spell it phonetically. Hence, she was a one N Jen, and would start calling me Jennnnnnnnnnnnnnn whenever we had this conversation.

I also used to joke that that's how you told us apart: She had one N and I had two. Never mind the fact that she's about 6 inches or so taller than me and blonde. XD

When I was little, I had that one nickname that my Dad would call me when he was mad: Nif. When I heard that one, I knew I was in trouble...

And last, but not least, we have the Unforgivable Name: Jenny. This is what people called me when I was younger. When I came to realize that that last growth spurt I was waiting for just wouldn't come, I rebelled against the name Jenny. Nowadays, there are a choice few people who are allowed to call me that: my grandmothers, my uncles, and my aunt. Everyone else: If I'm not at work, I will hit you. Hard. And then not talk to you ever again. Okay, at least for a week.

Righty-oh then...time to think of something for K. And take a shower.

Partially the reason that these posts are so spread out...I is for Introspective.

By nature, I'm a very introverted person. Apparently, I was insanely shy in Kindergarten, then extremely outgoing after the city did some redistricting and I changed schools for grades 1-3. After that, we moved, and I was insanely shy all over again. I made extreme efforts after I graduated high school and went off to college to change, but old habits die hard, and I still feel awkward with new people.

Oddly enough, this seems to be gender-specific, I find. Meeting new guys, not a problem! Meeting new girls...kind of not so much. Mostly, I think this is due to my complete lack of Girly Skills...I don't wear make-up, I go for comfort as opposed to fashion, and really, I could care less about Coach bags. In my limited experience, I find that guys don't look for these in friends, so I feel more comfortable.

Obviously, this is my real-life persona...I don't have these problems online at all. I would chalk this up to the fact that I literally grew up online. I was in active message boards back when they were on Prodigy...in the very late 80's/early 90's. Back when we had external modems. Before you could choose your username. Remember those times? XD Also, the internet allows you some kind of anonymity. There seems to be more of an emphasis on intelligence and humor in how people choose their friends, as opposed to looks and style. (Though, I will say, I'd much prefer at first glance to friend this person as opposed to this person on MySpace...based totally on their layout.) I like to think I'm intelligent and somewhat funny, so I play that role well online.

Anywho, the next letter is obviously easy for me...so that should be coming up soon. 

I promise I'll finish before the end of the year...:)

H is for three words I haven't heard in about a year: Hazy, Hot, and Humid. Hazy I can pretty much handle; at least here. You either go inside or into the woods. Humid ditto, and I'll tell you that I'd rather have a humid day as opposed to a dry day any time. That leaves us with Hot.

I can not stand Hot.

If it's hot outside, it's going to be hot inside. And I probably set up my computer in the living room in the worst possible place: nearly directly underneath the air conditioner, so that it won't remotely cool me down. Back in Vegas, we shared the upstairs with my sister-in-law, who had been in Vegas for more than 10 years. She was used to summer, I was not. We fought over the air conditioning every night. Even here, I will seriously run the air conditioner every night. (Oddly enough, while I know that eventually I won't be able to do this, I need the white noise now!)

This didn't used to be a problem, really. (And Mommies, I would like your feedback on this one.) Before I was pregnant with Ethan, I always had cold hands and feet. Always. It could be the middle of July and I would have cold hands and feet. As I was pregnant, I was warm all the time. (Note to self, don't be pregnant in the summer. At all.) I'm still freikin' warm all the time.

But, on the bright side, I fell an actual Fall in the air. As I went out to wait for the train this morning, I was chilly! I kinda wished I had a sweatshirt, actually. I may even bring one with me tomorrow. And, seriously, I cannot WAIT until we get a full-on winter.

Maybe then I won't be hot.

Okay, this one took a while...not to think of something for the letter (that came fast), but to really commit to writing it out. In our letter-a-day series today: G is for Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

Looking back, I've always been pretty high-strung. But, for the most part, if I kept myself busy, I didn't have enough time for that inward thought that brings on the anxiety. Big exception would be my senior year in high school, as the year was winding down, and those things that "should have happened" weren't really happening. Add with that a car accident (I wasn't driving, but did have whiplash, a neck brace, and lots of chiropractic), and I had some rough months. Included in this were events like chopping all my hair off, having tantrums when my sisters wouldn't go to my plays, and quitting my job for the summer before going to college.

Determined to be a different person in college, I pretty much succeeded. Not too many problems there, though my next episode came after I graduated, and at the end of my first semester in grad school. A lot of that frustration came with re-taking two classes I had just finished in my undergrad school, since my advisor was on sabbatical until the day before school started, and taking on a fairly full-time job as an assistant manager with an incompetent staff hired by my manager. THAT was a fun breakdown. But, I bounced back from that, and things were pretty much on an even keel, until I had Ethan.

For those of you who don't know, Ethan was born 2 months premature, due to some last minute, pretty severe pre-eclampsia. (High blood pressure that occurs during pregnancy.) It was really last minute...up until week 30, I was pretty spot-on perfect with my pregnancy. The blood pressure was up a little at week 30's appointment, I had proteins a week later, when I was admitted to the hospital. I was supposed to be on bedrest for the last 8 weeks, but Ethan's heart rate started dropping the next day, and I had an emergency c-section that night.

Oh, and to make things worse, this was the beginning of November. Generally speaking, boys will stay in the NICU until their due date, meaning that Ethan was in the hospital for his first Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's. He came home January 4th, the day after his due date. At the same time he was "concentrating" on eating, growing, and learning how to breathe, I fell apart. My anxiety shot right up to full-blown post-partum depression, and my midwife put me on Zoloft to "get me through" Christmas, Ethan coming home, and me returning to work. ("Get me through" was my expression, not hers.)

Finished off the school year, got through summer home with Ethan, then entered the Year of Hell. I had the worst administrator ever, who did nothing to back me up with my disciplining of the students. I also found out that November was going to be a terrible month for me, as it began reminding me what a failure I perceived my pregnancy to be. Ethan was also going through a long series of ear infections (genetic more so than prematurity related...his father had four sets of tubes and is still mostly deaf in one ear), and I felt that I would always have a medically fragile child. If I remember correctly, one of my sisters babysat Ethan the night of his birthday so Jeremy and I could go out to a movie, we saw The Incredibles, and I completely lost it, crumpling into a crying wreck in the car.

So I started seeing a psychiatrist. I was now on Lexapro...at my worst as high as 25 mg a day. To answer the common question every mom with post-partum depression is asked: No, I never ever felt the need to hurt Ethan in any way. Myself, on the other hand...yes. I don't think I was suicidal for long, but I did develop some self-destructive habits. I did finally start to see the bright end of the tunnel, but it took lots of drug therapy, talking therapy, and finally leaving teaching a quarter before the end of the school year on disability, as my anxiety attacks just walking into the building were so bad. While teaching remains my "backup plan", it would probably take a LOT to get me back in a classroom.

For Ethan's second birthday, we seriously started moving out to Vegas. In addition to all my therapy, I really needed the change of scenery. I also really needed to be successful at something. I got into HR, and seem to be pretty good at it. With the change of scenery and occupation, I continued to let go of a lot of the baggage I've been accumulating. For Ethan's third birthday, we went to Disneyland. Some of the anxiety started coming back with the season, and I saw a new psychiatrist. She was happy to have me back on Lexapro, only on 5 mg a day. I've continued the dosage, as she was also happy to over-prescribe it for me, so I have plenty of reserves.

While I feel more stable now, I also feel that edge there as well. Keeping the low dose going helps me to keep focused, and allows me to concentrate more on what is actually going on, as opposed to what I fear might happen. It's really a fine line, and I know that I'll need to go about the frustrating process of finding another psychiatrist here as well soon enough. Plus, November is always just around the corner... We shall see what this year brings.

Again in my Letter-every-so-often series, F is for French. I am 7/8 French, 1/16 Irish, and 1/16 Scotch. But, for the most part, I identify myself as French. (Or "those pale northern Europeans.")

I've done quite a bit of research on my family tree...or, rather, Jeremy has and reported to me... But I've done lots of research of French-American history in the Northeast. I was born in Southbridge, MA, which has some millyards, so not a huge French population. I was the only kid in my class who had a Memere and Pepere instead of a Grandmother and Grandfather. I used to even get them confused...since both sides of my family are mostly/all French, I had Memeres/Peperes all around.

Add that to the fact that we later moved to Connecticut, where there was a virtually nonexistent French community. We went from being one of many Montigny's in the phone book to being the only one. And, since people didn't automatically know someone we were related to, no one knew how the heck to pronounce our name. Argh..very frustrating.

For college, I went to a place in upstate New York that had a London center. I don't know why I make that connection, but I had a number of professors who started pronouncing my name in the original French. It sounded kind of cool! Also had a fantastically wonderful history professor who got me hooked. (My favorite class, dealing with the French Revolution...for all the twisted logic there, our professor would ask, "Why did they do that?? Because they're French!!") (Oh, don't worry, he was French as well. :)

By chance, after I graduated, we moved to Manchester, NH. If ever I was looking for a French community, I certainly found it there! We lived on the West Side, where the alternate language isn't Spanish...it's French! Manchester was a town literally created by the Amoskeag Mill Company, who found cheap and productive labor in the French communities in Canada. Amoskeag itself was in business until the nineteen-teens, and some of the mills were even in production through the 50's. And, as the company built worker housing, management housing, schools, parks, hospitals, and everything else the city could need, there are still signs of Amoskeag all over the town. It's really cool to search out.

At any rate...the more I've learned about French immigration into the Northeast, the more interested I've been in learning about my heritage. And, as Ethan is still more French than anything else, I hope to be able to teach him. And yes, he has a Memere and a Pepere.

Oh, and if you happen to be French, and came to the Americas via Nova Scotia, there's a big probability I'm related to you. 'Cause...yeah...my people seem to have single-handedly populated it.

What else... E is for Ethan!

Ethan is at that funny age where he's very much not a baby, occasionally a Boy, and quite often at that in-between stage. I think I've mentioned before that we have hit nearly all of his Not-a-Baby milestones: he's been potty trained during the day for while now, recently decided that he didn't need a diaper at night anymore either, has been in a big boy bed for a while, and recently had me take his railing off. The last vestige of Baby-dom left is the Binky. But, at least we don't use it during the day (mostly), and I'm all about the little steps here.

Occasionally, Ethan reminds me that he is one day soon going to be a Boy. This weekend, on the way home from my parents' house, my Mom gave him some animal crackers. In the car, Ethan is, of course, in the back seat, and I was cracking up as I heard, "No! Don't eat me!! Aaaaahhhh!!!!" and "I'm going to eat your butt!" Which, of course, just made him do it more, so most of the ride home was a long series of poop jokes. (And you wonder why he enjoys the Simpsons so much...)

But...then there's that in-between time. Ethan is very much about testing his limits nowadays. Very much. He tries to see how many times he needs to ask for cookies before you give them to him. He wants to stay awake as long as possible so as not to miss anything, so gets himself overtired and cranky. He also tries to push his bedtime later and later, and is becoming a master of distractions. At the same time, he's also, at times, completely intolerable.

Luckily for him, he is cute. And, as part of his growing up process, I will occasionally look at him and see the true little boy he is turning into. It is both completely amazing and completely sad. I miss my Little Baby Ethan. But I'm looking forward to getting my Big Boy Ethan.

D is for D'oh!!

Aside from the fact that I didn't post this one yesterday (I'm not even going to try with E tonight), but D'oh has been brought into my daily vocabulary by Mr. Homer Simpson. Of course, Jeremy is most responsible for the Simpsons love in the house.

We own every single season that has come out thus far. And before that, we would watch the Simpsons at least once a night...more likely twice. Jeremy could tell which episode it was by the first few lines...nowadays so can I. I'm not so good to know what season it comes from (which Jeremy can also tell by the lead-in), so I will still ask every now and again. Ethan's already gotten into the show as well...he'll laugh independently at it and say, "Silly Homer!"

But one other great thing about the Simpsons is that they were so easy to use in the classroom! When I was a teacher, it was pretty rare that I was looking for an example for something and didn't turn to the Simpsons. And, since it gets re-run so much, it was something the kids were familiar with...unlike the rest of my 80's pop culture references. (Please...nothing makes you feel older than trying to explain to a room full of kids who Hall and Oates are...)

And yes, we saw the movie, in a digital theater, and took Ethan with us. :)

D'oh! Fell off the wagon already. I totally had a word picked out...just didn't get around to writing it up...

So, my letter for yesterday is C, and, as the song goes, C is for Cookie. And Chips. And Candy. I like at least two out of the three of these, though really it all depends on my mood.

Cookies are top here. There are very few occasions that I will turn down a cookie, though most of the time it would be because of some sort of property affecting the texture (overcooked, stale, etc.). I certainly prefer my cookies to be on the undercooked side. And, flavor-wise, I definitely prefer the chocolate chip to any other, though please don't put any nut in there that's not a peanut. And even then, I would think twice.

Candy is also up there on my list. I'm a sucker for caramel. Mmmm...caramel. Though, caramel and peanut butter cup, not so much. Chocolate is nearly always a good thing, though I will say that there are those times that I will turn you down, oh mighty chocolate.

Chips is where I meet my stumbling block. I'm not much for salt. In fact, I really only crave it that one week out of the month when you really shouldn't be having salt or you're likely to start retaining water like mad. (Ha ha...which is this week...hence the food-centered post.) I like a good tortilla chip with some chunky salsa, but not really on its own. BUT, I finally cracked open a bag of sweet potato chips I had in my pantry, and man, are those things tasty. Mmm... And, my husband won't steal them from me.

So now, I shall think of something good for D, and be back later tonight to keep myself on track. TTFN!