Instant Gratification: Only a Few Years Away!

Number of volcanoes at last night's school science fair: 7
Reading: The Last Juror
In the Attic: How addicted are Americans to being instantly gratified?

It was time to get Binta a new bed. A "big girl" bed. After all, she had just turned three, and was still sleeping in the crib-converted-to-a-toddler bed. I figured that getting the new "big girl" bed would be a good motivator to get her out of sleeping in my bed. I searched online, and found the ideal bed at IKEA. It was the bed that I would have chosen, had I been a kid again. The bed is assembled at a mid-loft height, with ample space underneath to fill with storage needs, or leave open for additional play space. It featured a blue tent-like canopy covered with twinkling stars, that arched over the head end of the bed. The bed was perfect in every way.

So I packed Binta up and headed to IKEA, luring her to the car with the "We're going to buy you a Big Girl Bed!" She excitedly came along. Once at the store, we followed the IKEA maze to locate the Kid's department. And there it was. Just as beautiful and perfect as I had imagined it.

Although I didn't imagine it having a tag attached saying, "Temporarily Oversold."

What exactly does that mean, anyway?

Well, according to the IKEA associate, it means that we're not taking the bed home today. I quizzed the young woman on exactly how long it would take to get the bed.
"Four weeks," she said.

I was baffled as to how something like this could happen in America.

Instantly, I began reflecting on the numerous examples in our lives of being instantly gratified with whatever one needs in our country.

• Fast food providers on every block.
• Instant credit, no money down, and all of the other sales lures that allow you to take home merchandise that you cannot afford.
• Cash advance shops that will give you money so you don't have to wait until your next payday.
• DVDs have replaced VHS tapes, so now we don't even have to wait the several moments for the tape to rewind.
• Cars come equipped with TVs, so we don't have to wait to get home to drug ourselves with our favorite programs.
• Digital cameras - why wait for developing? You don't even have to wait and fret about if your eyes were closed or not.
• We don't have to wait until we're home to take a phone call. Cell phones allow us the luxury of answering in the middle of a meeting or a movie.

I came here to get a bed. And you're telling me I have to wait? So, I did what anyone else would have done. I searched around the store for a different bed. One that was not temporarily oversold. Unfortunately, after trying out all of the other beds in my mind, I came to the conclusion that I could not substitute the perfect bed with one that was in stock. I ordered the loft bed, left my contact information, and turned to leave.

The worst part of the experience was yet to come. Now, I had to explain to my child that we were not going to be getting the Big Girl bed today that I had promised. I told her that this store didn't have any Big Girl beds. Only Little Girl beds.

I think our culture is in bad shape, friends, if waiting is the biggest thing we have to fret over.

A Letter to My Neighbor

Schoolwork I need to do today: parent newsletter (god, how I hate writing those!)
Last haircut: yesterday (after 6 months!)
In the Attic: The damn car alarm that continues to wake me up...

Dearest Neighbor,

I hope this letter finds you well and fully rested, although I fear that it won't. I imagine that you are suffering from lack of sleep due the stress of having such a valuable car parked outside at night.

I haven't checked my Kelly Blue Book to determine what must be the actual value of a beautiful car like yours, but I can only imagine they must run in the tens of thousands, with the extreme precautions you must take to keep your car from the masses of thieves that run amok in our neighborhood. What a terrible burden for a person like yourself to have to carry.

But it can't be just the stress alone keeping you from getting your beauty sleep. I'm sure that every time that alarm goes off, and you have to jump out of bed to scare away the potential car thief, it's probably tough to relax yourself and get back to sleep. Heart pounding; adrenaline racing; your breathing quick and shallow. I could understand if it happened once in a while, but several times every night is just an unbelievably high number of potential thefts.

Oh, pardon me! I didn't mean to suggest that each close call was unbelievable. No, certainly not! I saw the look in that elderly lady's eye as she passed by your car. A little too close, if you catch my drift. No, she'll have the law enforcement believing that she was "just innocently passing by your car," but you and I know her true intent. And if a little old lady is capable of such crime, imagine all of the others. I'm fully aware that your alarm is just sensitive enough to determine the motive behind the passerby. I've literally witnessed a triggering of the alarm simply because a person breathed inappropriately near your car. No physical contact was made at all! Now, that's an impressively effective car alarm!

I, too, have the alarm routine memorized. From the initial whirling sounds, to the pulsing siren, to the final high-low tones, each of them cry out for your rescue. And your subtle technique of defending your car is so fantastic, that I frequently don't even see a hint of you when I'm peering out between my blinds.

Well, my friend, my only wish for you is that you could one day enjoy a lifestyle that would allow for a full night's sleep, uninterrupted by the alarm of your car reminding you that everyone here in our neighborhood (with exception of yours truly!) is just waiting for you to take down your guard long enough to get their hands on your precious vehicle.

Sincerely,
your neighbor

A Brief History of My Name

Number of social activities ruined by a Binta-meltdown this week: 1
Plans for Sunday: I'll actually be watching the Seahawks football game
In the Attic: What is it like having Tiffany for a name?

When I was growing up in small-town Great Falls, Montana, there was a little shop on Central Ave. called "Tiffany's Attic." I believe they sold little trinkets, knick-knacks, and other small ornamental objects. But I really can't remember for sure. Which is strange, because one would think that a store bearing my name in the mid 1980's would be high on my list of favorite places to go.

You see, the name Tiffany was not all that common back when I was younger. In fact, my parents deliberately chose the unusual name of Tiffany, because of our common surname: Smith. They wanted something very unique that would contrast the blandness. I can appreciate that effort - I feel that they were quite successful. I never had to be Tiffany S. in my elementary classes, I frequently have the freedom of simply signing my name as "Tiffany," without adding my last name. Evidently, at one point, Mom and Dad had considered the name Celeste as one of their candidates. Eew! I am more than thankful that they opted for the other one. Plus, "Celeste's Attic" has no where near the same fluidity as "Tiffany's Attic." (Which is something that downtown store owner in Great Falls was acutely aware of!)

While I can currently appreciate the thoughtfulness that went in to the selection of my name, I was not so understanding when I was a child. Back in the 1980's, It was common for retailers to provide pins, T- shirts, key chains, and other merchandise bearing male and female names. Obviously, they did some marketing research beforehand, and in an attempt to be efficient in their expense costs, marketed to the widest population possible by printing the most common names.

When I was 8, however, it just felt like "The Man" was singling me out.

I remember spinning the display racks in vain, gazing through all of the Jennifers, Amys, and Kims. Wishing so badly that I had been named Lisa, so I could have a miniature Montana license plate with my name spelled across it. I would have taken the name Jessica, so I could buy the package of rainbow pencils with letters in gold. Nothing ever had the name Tiffany. The closest I could get was Tracy, and only on occasion.

Until one fateful day, when I happened upon a display of one-inch white heart pins with a rainbow arching across it. Printed clearly, in all capital letters, you guessed it: TIFFANY.

I wore that pin proudly until junior high school, when that kind of jewelery no longer remained cool.

One would guess that one benefit of having a name like Tiffany would be that it is a difficult name to make fun of. Sadly, you'd be wrong. Throughout elementary school, highly creative boys were still able to develop names like "Tiff-a-nanny-goat" and "Tiff-my-fanny." But the most offensive nickname came from... well, me. You need to understand, the name Tiffany is a mouthful for a 2-year-old, so saying my name came out sounding like "Tit-ninny." Now when my friends from college found out that tasty secret, they grabbed hold of it like a 1983 mom getting her hands on a Cabbage Patch doll. They abbreviated the name, however, and in that social circle, I am simply known as "Tit."

Those friends from college had an interesting first impression of my name, however. My freshman roommate shared with me that upon reading the letter from the housing department telling her that her new roommate would be a girl named Tiffany, they conjured up an image of a snotty, well-dressed princess. Imagine their surprise when a shy punk rock girl with a shaved head and combat boots showed up.

For a while, my dad tried calling me "TJ." But that just didn't fit me, so it didn't stick. I am frequently called "Tiff" by others, but the person who did it the best was my brother. I don't remember him ever calling me Tiffany. When he was little, his speech problems made my name sometimes sound like "Chiff." I was asked once if he was from Boston. I figured that it was a little ridiculous to ask, since I obviously had lived in Great Falls since birth.

That little shop in Great Falls is no longer there. But it certainly provided me with some satisfaction of seeing my name printed somewhere other than the top of a spelling test. And, of course, it was the inspiration behind the name of the blog you have just read.

Blog Apologies and Confessions

Number of papers graded yesterday: 216
Number of papers still needing grading: 240
In the Attic: Sorry 'bout that last post...

If you have been a regular reader, I'd like to assure you that my mood has severely changed for the better since last posting. Most likely cause: the tiny white pills that my doctor prescribed for me a couple of weeks ago. I've been highly reluctant with trying an anti-depressant for a couple of reasons. The first reason is that I have 42 real, tangible reasons for my depression. A pill will not be able to make Binta have less meltdowns (although I am certainly on the lookout for that pill!) , or make my money problems disappear, or bring my brother back. The other reason is, I'm skeptical about a pill actually being able to alter my emotional state. When taking anti-depressants before, I have noticed an improvement, but always wondered in the back of my mind if I'm feeling better due to the meds, or because I know I'm taking a pill that's supposed to make me feel better, and therefore, (surprise!) feeling better. And paying $30 a month for the placebo effect is not in my budget right now. But on the suggestion of others, I did return to the doctor, and I am once again giving the anti-depressant a go.

And this time, I'm more confident that it is working.

First indication was being able to get out and wash the car. On any other day, an overwhelming task that I was not willing to consider. But last week, I took a large box out to the car, and told Binta to put every toy that she still wants into the box. That took an incredible amount of time, as each time she unearthed a forgotten toy, she'd want to play with it for a while. So while she was excavating, I was working my way around the inside of the car with a rag and cleaner, wiping away chocolate fingerprints, muddy footprints, and sticky apple juice. We finished up at the same time, and drove over to the car wash to vacuum out the inside. And, even though it was totally raining, we drove through the car wash to finish it off. Anyone who had seen my car prior to the search and rescue mission knows how difficult of a task that had been for me.

Other indications include:

1. Having more fun and more energy my first week back in the classroom.
2. Getting started on that massive stack of grading that had built up.
3. Realizing that there are not really 42 stressors in my life, but more like 4 0r 5.
4. Wanting to post to my blog more often.

Which leads me to my confession:

A nasty part of my mind has convinced me that I shall not blog unless I have a really significant topic, that will result in a lengthy piece of writing. Although, looking back, I realize that my past posts do not all fit that description, the pressure remains. Blogging has developed into this pressure, rather than a pasttime. So I am vowing to return to the regular blogging that I initially intended. Whether the reader finds it interesting or ho-hum, and whether it is lengthy or short.

As for now, however, I have some grading to get to...

"So, How Was Your Winter Break?"

On my nightstand: Let's Go, Froggy, by Jonathan London and Funshine in the Sunshine, by Jay Johnson
For dinner: microwaved enchilada (from Friday night) and Chicken flavored Rice-a-Roni
In the Attic: Returning to work after Winter Break

It's such a loaded question, really. People want to hear you tell tales of great family time, fabulous Christmas gifts, and lots of relaxation and overall merriment. I rehearsed my response this morning while in the shower:

"Fine. How was yours?"
This tactic would get the attention away from me and onto the questioner. That seemed like a good strategy, until I realized that I really didn't want to hear my colleagues tell me about the unexpected generous gifts from their husbands, or the time they spent in the Bahamas, or the Christmas dinner for 23 that they had to prepare. So I quickly revised my response to this:
"Fine." (forced smile, with attempts not to appear fakey)

And that seemed to work, well, just fine.

What I would have liked to tell them is that I had a pretty crappy break. Beginning with my boyfriend breaking it off just days before Christmas. Around that time, I also received notification from a collection agency who wanted me to settle an old debt of my ex-husband's. They were going to be helping themselves to the money by garnishing my paycheck. Of course, Christmas shopping was a miserable experience. Something about standing at the checkout counter holding your breath hoping that your account will be accepted tends to take the zip right out of the holiday jubilee. And finally, spending 10 days alone with a 3-year-old who had several meltdowns pretty much eliminated any relaxing that I would have enjoyed.

Oh, and holidays in general have lost a lot of the fun ever since I lost my brother.

But people don't want to hear that when they ask the question. They want to exchange stories of festivities and indulgence. It's a formality, a way to re-connect after a week and a half apart. So I knew well enough to keep a polite smile on my face, and to respond with just enough of a dream-like tone, so I sounded sincere.

Happy New Year

Number of empty champagne bottles abandoned on the side of the road: 4
Number of days left of vacation: 2
In the Attic: Am I hating the holidays too much?

Last night was New Year's Eve. We spent it at Kerry Park in Seattle. On a normal day, one would have a pretty good view of the Space Needle from this park. But when there are hundreds of other people there for the same reason you are, the view gets trimmed down quite a bit. I spent the festivities with Binta up on my shoulders, while I watched the fireworks display through some guy's camera phone, being held in the air, directly in front of my view.

At about 15 minutes to midnight, I suddenly remembered why I don't care so much for New Year's Eve. The horns, the loud boisterous talk, and the stumbling of happy drunk people can be very irritating when you yourself have not been drinking. At one point, a quickly-moving, excited drunk tripped over the front tire of Binta's jogging stroller, causing it to pop out of place. Working on repairing it in the dark with other unstable people surrounding me was precarious work. And it pissed me off.

I feel like I'm nothing but a holiday curmudgeon lately. Looking back at my other posts, I see I'm finding something to gripe about with nearly every holiday tradition this year. The only thing that kept me observing any holiday traditions this year was knowing that Binta deserved to have nice holidays. But my heart was not in any of them. I would have been more than fine with pulling the covers up over my head and hibernating until January 9. (Skipping, of course, birthdays for me and Derek).

I found myself thinking of Derek last night. Specifically, last time I viewed the fireworks from Kerry Park. Derek had just arrived in Seattle after watching his best friend die on Christmas Day, only hours before they were to climb on a plane and spend several days here in Seattle. They had big plans for being in downtown Seattle on New Year's Eve. "It's The Millenium, Tiff," Derek kept telling me, like it was impossible for him to understand why I would choose to do anything less than wild and radical on this significant date. I remember being so worried about the boys' agenda for New Year's, as I was anticipating mass panic and chaos due to the Y2K hype. (Remember how the media built that up?) I didn't think it was a good idea for Derek and Brad to be down in Seattle, caught up in all of the excitement and action. And danger.

I didn't know I needed to worry instead about them enjoying some jumps in Brad's jeep up behind Dad's house. That when Derek was through taking pictures of Marty and Brad racing around in the jeep, Derek would wave his arm to signal the boys to return to pick him up, as they had that plane to catch. I didn't know that Brad would turn the wheel too sharply, sending the jeep over in a roll, and he would be thrown from the vehicle, directly underneath the roll bars. Derek would later tell me about images that were permanently imprinted in his memory of seeing Brad pinned there, and how it felt to stand by and watch him die.

So six days later, it was New Year's Eve. Or "The Millenium," as Derek had referred to it. I was going to a small party with some friends who lived on Queen Anne hill. I knew it would be pretty quiet and in control, far enough removed from "the action" of the city. Derek was sitting on the couch when my friends arrived, and I pleaded for him to come with us. I couldn't bear the thought of my little brother sitting there, staring at the TV, all alone on New Year's Eve while the rest of the world was out drinking, blowing horns, and welcoming the turn of the century.

But what I didn't realize, is that Derek couldn't bear the thought of celebrating a new year without Brad. He couldn't bear the thought of celebrating anything, for that matter. Sitting on the couch staring blankly at the TV, going outside for an occasional cigarette, and falling asleep well before midnight was the only way he could cope with the holiday.

But now I understand all too well. And if I had had the choice, that's probably what I would have chosen last night. It felt wrong last year to cheer in 2005, knowing I was leaving Derek behind in 2004. And I felt the same emotions surging last night as I watched 2006 approach. Realizing that an entire year, all of 2005, had come and gone, and Derek had not seen one day of it.