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JulieAnn

JulieAnn Carter-Winward


Last Updated: 11/18/2009

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Gender: Female
Status: Married
Age: 41
Sign: Sagittarius

City: Ogden
State: Utah
Country: US

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Monday, June 29, 2009 

Current mood:  indignant



Maybe it's me. 
Maybe I'm naive.


But when a person postulates a "Love, Peace and Fluffy Bunny Good Stuff" mentality, shouldn't their ethics and action match up with that?


Let's have a hypothetical quandary party.


Let's say a person (Person A) borrows money from another person--maybe someone with whom they are intimate. Say they borrow it as a loan for a business venture. Person B lends said funds to Person A.


Now, let's say the relationship ends--rather badly.


Now. Person A marries someone else and gives up/closes down business originally opened or otherwise funded by Person B. Person A marries someone with a significant amount of funds.


Wouldn't Person A still be obliged to pay back (with interest) Person B?


Yeah.


That's what I thought.


Amazing how a little self-delusion and justification can keep a person looking in the mirror every day.



Hypothetical Chowder.


Currently reading:
Execution Dock: A Novel (William Monk Novels)
By Anne Perry
Release date: 2009-03-24
1:36 AM 
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Friday, June 12, 2009 

Current mood:  disgusted


Yeah I know, I got back over two weeks ago. But damn if I'm finally getting to the blog about...Chicago! Chicago!

I had never heard of the 'Midwestern friendlies'. I had no idea what to expect. Hell, I didn't expect anything really...and then K and I were standing on a street corner on the Magnificent Mile and a very well dressed man stopped, turned to us and said:




"You folks look a bit lost. Can I help you?"

What?! Can you even IMAGINE, Utah people, someone here doing that? No way. The well dressed men here are too self-important to stop and answer a question, let alone offer help.
We were stunned; we told him our destination and he politely explained where to catch a cab and that was that.




After spending only a few days in Chicago, I realized it wasn't just a freak happenstance; this guy was a good sampling of the general attitude there.
Here's an example.

Before I left home, I needed a prescription filled. The gum-chomping twenty-something tech told me that I had no more refills. She even intimated that I was filling the RX in multiple places...accusing me covertly of a felony, no less. I told her I had NOT filled it anywhere else and I was leaving town in two days, would she please call the doctor and get refills? She said she would 'work on it.' Blah. Blah.

Fast forward to day two. I called the pharmacy back. Hm, still no word, they said, but they assured me if and when they heard anything they would call me. I was leaving for Chicago the following day, and I told them this. Blah. Blah.

Day three. On my way to the SL airport, frustrated that I had to go without medication... I called the pharmacy on the way there, wondering if perhaps I could have it overnight-ed to my hotel. They informed me that the 'script had been available since the day before--day TWO. No one had called.

Sur-blah-prise. Chomp, chomp.

The tech informed me that they could transfer the prescription to Chicago to a Walgreen's. I shuddered; that was surely a clusterf*** waiting to happen. I reluctantly agreed.

In Chicago, from my hotel room, I called the nearest Walgreen's. I told her my dilemma, expecting gum-chomping and blah blah. Instead I got this:

"We can absolutely take care of that for you, Ms. Winward, don't worry. I'll take care of it in the next few minutes and call you right back."

And she did.

I had my RX within the hour.

And she 'have a good day-ed' me, too.

In contrast, I think about the customer service, and even the pervasive attitude Utah has. It seems kindness and humanity have been pushed aside for status and superiority. We are so concerned with having the Hummer and the Urban Outfitter and Hollister clothes, but we can't manage a polite overture to a stranger. Hell, half the people I know smile to your face, and as soon as you turn your back...




We won't even TALK about the customer service (or the lack thereof) here.
And it's something others notice as well. The friendliness here is vacuous with most people; fake, as if their smiles were formed of glass, only to shatter and impale you the second your back is turned. I can't help but wonder how the religion here plays a part.



"Be ye therefore perfect..."


Well, we can't be. So we'll act like we are. We'll fake it. Fake it 'till we make it.

I just wonder what Hummers and Hollisters have to do with perfection. Or kindness, for that matter.
I don't think it has much to do with it at all. Wait...maybe it does. Perfection, anyway.

See, the LDS church teaches that if you pay your tithing, you'll be blessed. By "blessed" it means you'll have money. I mean, it is what the direct translation is, isn't it? That, and maybe you won't get the herpes from Sister Haverson.

I sat through enough "look how we were 'blessed' (monetarily) when we sacrificed to pay tithing" talks/testimonies to know about what I speak.

I saw a black Hummer driving in downtown SLC, and the licence had the word "BLESS'D". The BYU sticker was prominent on the back window. Interesting and typical.

I suppose it's fair to say that the people of Utah are heading to Heaven in their Hummers. I just wonder about that pesky needle's eye...
Chowder



Currently listening:
Crank
By Original Soundtrack
Release date: 2006-08-29
2:38 PM 
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Thursday, May 21, 2009 

Current mood:  amused





K and I attended our daughter's baccalaureate ceremony last night. It's worth noting that it was in a Catholic church, complete with mass. The mass was long and interesting and I got a taste of a different type of religious population: the Catholics.





I think if I had to be Christian, I'd be a Catholic. They are so mystical and have such interesting rituals. Of course, the strange image of a giant life-sized Jesus on a crucifix sculpture gave me the creeps. And it turned me on. But not for him or anything. No nunnery for me, have no fear. (Although the Rapture of St. Teresa gives me hope...)















(I think that some repression was going on when the Jesus sculpture was made. Just sayin'.)

























After mass and the ceremony there was a dinner. We sat with one of our daughter's friends and her family. Our daughter and I were talking about the first time we met--at one of her plays. Then she corrected me: "No I think we met way earlier, the year before, at my dad's poetry reading. You were married."



A hush fell over the table.



She tried to back track but there was really no way of fixing it unless I piped in with "Well we were just friends at the time and we weren't romantically involved until after my divorce papers were filed.....and and and." No.



She stumbled and "but...and...I mean-ed" for about five minutes. My husband had gone to get punch. She finally gave up and shrunk a little on herself. It didn't help that my other daughter and I were laughing hysterically.



But the piece de resistance came when she informed us that, as K and I stood in the very back of the chapel with all of the graduates behind us ready to march in, they all noted with delight that Wanker has his hand on my ass.



I hadn't even noticed.


Amen.



I mean chowder.


Currently reading:
Execution Dock: A Novel (William Monk Novels)
By Anne Perry
Release date: 2009-03-24
1:38 PM 
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Friday, April 03, 2009 

Current mood:  melancholy
Category: Life

Friday, April 03, 2009



In a Year
























Wayne D. Carter May 5, 1927-April 3, 2007


Geraldine R. Carter Oct. 16, 1930--April 3, 2008










So much has happened in a year. It has been a whole year of healing, and yet today the passing of my parents feels as fresh as if it has just happened. The scab has been removed and I am without the salve of shock to mitigate the loss.








I was up at midnight with my son--he has croup. When I finally returned him to his bed, I found myself realizing the date and the tears wouldn't stop.








What's the big deal, it's just a date, I tell myself. But I know it is so much more.












A year of happiness that I could not share. A Christmas without stress that I couldn't enjoy with them. A new husband they do not get to meet; new grandchildren they do not get to love. A new, better, happier, more grounded daughter of whom they do not get to be proud.












But the chance to share it with them--that's what I miss. The every day phone calls, I miss. The holidays, the family, the singing, the piano.








And I can go over every good, positive thing that has happened to me and my family over the past year, and it seems to underscore that aching, gaping hole in my life; it accentuates the loss because I can't share it with them.








For all of the happiness I feel and have, it still holds a bitter-sweet edge because of the losses of the past two years. I miss them more than I can write here.








It's snowing; my son is home sick. Fire burns in the fireplace. I am warm, I am safe. I am finding salve in my husband's arms and finding warm compresses in the many joys of my life.








But make no mistake, the wounds are still raw and sore.








It's been a whole year. And I feel as though today is the funeral, and I am finally present in my mind and heart to attend it.












Peace








Currently listening:
The Best of James Taylor
By James Taylor
Release date: 2003-04-08
2:37 PM 
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Tuesday, March 17, 2009 

Current mood:  blessed




I wonder about that from time to time. About my legacy. When people ask me about my mom or dad, I have a few things I say that I hope captures their essence:




"So what was your mom like?" They ask





"She was a firecracker--an amazing sense of humor, kind and a tremendous cook."




My dad's a little harder. He's more complex, so I stick to generalities with him:




"Dad was awesome. He loved us."




Even in the movie, Sleepless in Seattle, there was a 3-second legacy speech:




"Your mom could peel an apple in one, long, curly strip..."




That's a lot of pressure, coming up with that 3-second pitch for a legacy, so I thought I'd take some of the pressure off of my kids by giving them some ideas about what they could say about me after I'm gone.





"My mom had her way with words. Of course, the words resisted."





"Mom made enemies as readily as she did friends. She even had a couple of stalkers! It was cool."




"Mom was a snappy dresser and an avid virtual bowler."




"My mom could scowl like a sailor and swear like a nun."




"My mom was so funny....but looks aside..."




"Mom always knew when to listen, and when to close the door while we were in mid-sentence."




"My mom could microwave a burrito so that there were no frozen parts, and yet, it wasn't hard on one side."




"My mom liked to keep a clean house. But then she'd give it away to the dust mites."




"My mother was so goofy, she'd sit for hours at the computer writing in a "book". Ha ha ha!"




"Mom liked to play with paints. We're still trying to figure out what to do with all of her art; all 1,072 pieces. Wanna take a look-see?"




"Mom's facial expressions could say it all. Her mouth usually over-rode it though."




"You never got in mom's way. Especially before the Lasik surgery."




"Mom was hilarious behind the wheel. Then they invented the whole car, and it just got scary."




"Mom knew how to cook. At least this is what she told us."




"My mom could make anything funny. Funerals were a real bitch."





"Mom was generous and kind to everyone--on her blog. In person? Notsomuch."




"Mom was great with children. Of course this was also on her blog."




"My mother made the party lively. Still trying to live that down."




"Mom could make cookies like no one else. Just ask the NHL."





These are only a few suggestion for that awkward time when they have to capture my essence in a nutshell. I hope, somewhere in there, they say "She loved us." That's the one I hope they don't miss.






Chowder
1:26 PM 
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Monday, March 16, 2009 

Category: Romance and Relationships




There is a feud a-brewin'. It's brewin' in my bed.






(For the sake of my sanity, from now on, I will spell 'brewing' correctly. Thank you.)






I have a quilt. I believe my sister-in-law made it, but my mother had it and now it's mine. It's that lovely cool cotton with little brown yarn ties and some of the stuffing's popping out. I can't sleep without it. It is my woobie. My blankie. I had a pink version of this woobie as a baby.






Enter husband, K.






K's pet name for said woobie is "fuckin' blanket."






You see, it keeps him from cuddling with me at night. And cuddling for K entails making sure that every inch of his anatomy is pressed up against mine.






Our mattress will need to be flipped soon because my side of the bed has been compressed to about 3 inches of fluff, while his is pristine and, up to this point, still a virgin--never been slept on.

































Now, if by some horrific chance, the F-blanket gets in BETWEEN us...he will throw it. Off of the bed. With a resounding "fuckin' blanket". This is usually followed up, or preceded by, a growl.










But see, I'll retrieve the woobie because...well, it's my woobie. You don't come between a girl and her woobie.












You just don't.









Chowder
Currently listening:
Converting Vegetarians
Release date: 2007-04-03
12:47 PM 
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Wednesday, March 11, 2009 

Current mood:  bouncy
Category: Writing and Poetry
As most of you know, I'm writing a novel. Not just any novel--THE novel.



Yeah, yeah, you say. We've heard THAT before.
Well, here's how I know it's my breakout novel. For one, I'm reading this fantastic book:






I've met Donald Maass. Not only is he a hell of a nice guy, but he's right on every point in his book. If you're writing a novel--get it.*

Here's the other ways I know it's THE novel. I have help.

They are especially helpful when they try to "get" the pointer on the monitor.



My cats can be very sweet. A nice relief.




The other way I know this is THE novel is my garbage can.
This is the garbage can of a real novelist.



And of course, I try to look my best for "work" every day; I am, after all, a professional.









Oops. Wrong one.



















There we go. BTW, posing like this and typing? Huge challenge.







And that's how I know my novel is going to be big.
And I haven't had coffee yet.

Chowder




*in all seriousness, this book is a must-have and a great read to boot. "To boot"? I don't even know what that means.
Currently reading:
Writing the Breakout Novel
By Donald/ Perry, Anne (FRW) Maass
2:33 PM 
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Friday, January 30, 2009 

Current mood:  indescribable
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural





My sister and I sat at the kitchen table and talked about mom's death. We didn't know how we would bear it when dad died--but dying he was and we were heart broken.



And then I woke up.




And my dad wasn't there and I couldn't say goodbye again.


I can't sit in their kitchen with their too-soft vinyl flooring, their blue and cream wall paper. I couldn't see my mom at the counter making salad, my dad at the table paying bills and reading mail. He even read the junk mail.




And I have no pictures because I'm on a new computer--so I feel like my past is even further away than before.




And I am up at 4 am because grief, like an angry fist, churned in my gut and nothing--not even sleep--would come to comfort me.




Well, not entirely true; warm, strong arms wrapped around me and they gave me the strength to get up and write.




Thank you, Love.




Chowder




4:48 PM 
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Wednesday, January 28, 2009 

Current mood:snarky









Hey smokers....what the hell?



Allow me to explain.



I have noticed with some alarm the penchant smokers have to pilfer, snatch and outright STEAL lighters.



WTF, people?



I'm sorry that you've gotten yourself addicted to a substance that slowly poisons your body using things such as rat poison;


I'm sorry that you chose to continue inhaling despite the unpleasant first gag-cough-choke reflex you experienced when your body rejected the smoke;


I'm sorry you continue to choose your smoking over things like your health, the welfare of those around you and the well-being of your family who will most likely lose you at an early age through some horrific wasting away process brought on by your choices.


And I'm really, really sorry you have acquired a habit that requires fire.


MY fire.


I'm being too harsh?


Hmm, I don't think so.


I am VERY ATTACHED TO MY LIGHTERS.


They light my pretty candles and yummy Nag Champa incense. Additionally there's nothing worse than waiting to blow out the candles on a cake and all lighters in the house have been snatched by smokers who feel, because of their choice, they are entitled to steal other people's property.


What is the disconnect there, people? It is stealing. Just because you are an ADDICT (yes I said it) doesn't give you the right to take shit that isn't yours.


You think that FIRE is communal property. It isn't.


My lighter was really pretty too.
Hands OFF cupcakes, or you'll wish the cancer had gotten to you first.

That is all.

Chowdrrrrhmph
Currently listening:
Kid A
By Radiohead
Release date: 2000-10-03
3:44 PM 
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Tuesday, January 27, 2009 

Current mood:  blessed
Category: Life
 






In 2006 we had to move. DEH and I were separated and we had no choice but to move together. We found a 4400 sq. foot house on a hill with a view; a house that was just as much an illusion as was our attempts to reconcile and stay together. In 2007 I lost my father. I lost the last vestiges of hope for reconciliation ( or so I thought)....and we were forced to move again.




















in 2007 I found another house.... I lived here alone with my children. It was here that I began painting. It was here that I found I could be alone. It was here a struck up a friendship with a fellow blogger and writer. It was here that I found out my mother had passed away. I remember right where I was: standing on the garage steps leaving to go see her, to say goodbye.

It was at this house I learned I loved to work in a garden.







It was in this house I gave "it" one more try--and found that nothing would ever change.

 

It was in this house I got divorced.


It was in this house that, at my mother's funeral, everything changed. A friendship turned into something so much more, on a dime, all of a sudden and forever.




It was from this house I moved into a new life with the man--literally--of my dreams.







It is in this house I fall in love every day, over and over with this man. It's in this house I've added two new daughters. It's in this house I learn to manage my illness better.




It's in this house I mourn my parents, finally. It's in this house my youngest started school, my oldest moved out to be on her own.



It is in this house I write the best novel of my life. It is in this house I settle into happiness.

 



Houses are just places to live, places to put your stuff. But what we do within the confines of those walls determines everything that goes on--inside of ourselves.

 





Chowder


 
3:17 PM 
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