tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6801072882825737472024-03-13T23:08:37.200-07:00Average Joe MamaVery average human / woman / wife / mother.
Starting a journey to a healthier life, while trying to figure out what I want to be if I ever grow up.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-26471126303429101632014-04-27T15:09:00.000-07:002014-04-27T16:32:04.241-07:00Fleeting MomentsI started this blog entry at the beginning of February, but never made the time to finish it. I specifically use the words "<em>made</em> the time" because I do believe that we always have enough time to do the things we want to. So, although I didn't make the time to sit and write (and haven't in eons), I still have thoughts swirling around in my head that need to be dealt with. I figure I'll get this one out and hopefully the rest will follow and stop keeping me up at night. So...<br>
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As I mentioned, it was early February. After I had struggled with getting the kids out of the car and into their classrooms (some days, the begging, bribing, coaxing, etc just doesn't work), I stood in the misty, winter weather in the parking lot chatting with one of my girlfriends (another parent, but I don't like the term "mom friend"). I was feeling worn out and slightly panicked and I couldn't really put my finger on why. I mentioned that the time of year always got to me. Christmas was over, we were into the New Year, my birthday had come and gone, and everything was wet and gray (depressing just writing this out). What was ahead of us now? More wet and gray. No significant holidays or breaks.<div> <br><div>My friend brought up an article she had read about our attachment to "fleeting moments" that we, probably Americans, cling to. What's next? What's next? Holidays, birthdays, vacations. We put all of our energy into preparing for that "thing." Then it comes and goes and we're left with a sense of let-down. And we start looking for the next moment to put energy into. For me, I am realizing, when that thing/ moment/ event isn't on the horizon, I start to panic a little. Where is my energy supposed to go now? Yes, I have a family of five. Yes, I work full-time. Yes, I have so many pets, we look like we're running a suburban farm. Yes, I over-extend myself with volunteer work. But what is my next big THING??</div></div><div><br></div><div>The fact is these moments are, indeed, fleeting. That fourth birthday party, the big Easter dinner, the spring vacation. It makes me think of wedding planning. Months of organizing and energy go into this big (once-in-a-lifetime, we hope) event, then within a matter if hours, the wedding is over and the life-part has to pick up. And sometimes I think it's hard to just sit in the moments that are not fleeting.</div><div><br></div><div>How do we relax into the very moment we're in without putting our focus on the "what's next?" I'm not actually sure. I've spent so much of my life moving on to the next thing, sitting still is a challenge. But I want to figure it out. For my kids, and for myself. Unfortunately, I think that many of us are onto that next thing all the time because we think it will be better than where we currently are. In doing so, we're missing beauty in the nothing-special moments. </div><div><br></div><div>I really do love dinner when we're all just there because it's Tuesday and where else would we be? And I revel in the weekends when we have no plans, so we float around playing, or relaxing or running to the beach on a whim. In actuality, when I look at my life, the time between the fleeting moments is what has meaning. How we exist with our friends and family when we're not revolving around some big moment that will come and go. This is a process for me. I actually have to consciously choose to simplify my focus and not leave where I am now to anticipate the next "exciting" moment. Passing this along to my kids is worth the effort.</div><div><br></div><div>If we can all find happiness and balance in where we are now and all we have to look forward to, we will live more joy-filled lives. I've enjoyed sitting down for a bit to write. I'm happy to have a few things to look forward to. I'll still make plans, but I'm going to work at knowing that right here, right now will always be the best place. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-74106122158605850642013-11-14T10:46:00.001-08:002013-11-14T10:56:36.558-08:00Spider-Man is Dead"Spider-Man is dead. What should I do?" That was the exact text to my husband.<br />
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My four-year-old's fish, Spider-Man, had laid on his side on the bottom of the tank gasping (or whatever things that don't breathe air do). Since I work from home, I could step out of my office every so often to check in on Spidey. Tap the tank. Speak words of encouragement. I'm pretty sure I even said "breathe, damn you!" out loud. Maybe he was just resting.<br />
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We had given our son the heads up (for a few days really) that Spider-Man's days were numbered. And finally his number came up and I panicked. Over a fish. That we'd had for six months, if even. My need to protect my son from the pain of loss was filling me with a peculiar dread. It was his first death.<br />
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My heart actually ached as I paced in the kitchen around the sunk Spider-Man (weren't they supposed to float?). And my overactive imagination immediately went to all of the losses and pain that my kids will endure over their lifetimes. The loss of actual human family members. The death of furry pets that they've known their whole lives. The heartbreak of being dumped by their 8th grade soul-mate. The overwhelming disappointment of not making the 2023 Olympic Gymnastics team. Dreams that don't pan out. People who let them down. It's all <em>going</em> to happen. And isn't it my job to protect their little hearts from breaking?<br />
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No. I suppose it's not. <em>My</em> youthful heart broke. I experienced loss and grief as a kid and managed my way to adulthood without crumbling. And looking back on it all now...the heartbreaks, the losses, the deaths...how we get through them shapes how we receive joy and the big wins. At least a little bit. When my father died, I learned to welcome the grief and sit with it. Allowing myself to grieve and really feel the loss opened me up to let more life in as I moved forward. This is all to say that I suppose my job is not to protect my kids from the difficulties that their lives deal out. My job is to let it happen, allow them to sit with it, comfort as needed and remind them that joy is waiting.<br />
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Now back to Spider-Man. On the drive home from daycare, I told my son that his fish had died.<br />
(Insert sweet, slow music here to set the scene...)<br />
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He asked if he could hold the fish. So I dipped my hand down into the fish tank and pinch up the lifeless body of Spider-Man, dried him on a paper towel and placed it in the palm of my little boy's hand. He stared at it for a long bunch of seconds, then looked up at me and whispered....."can I touch its eye?" (Stop the music.) Oh...um, yes you may touch its eye. And with that, my son poked his finger in his dead fish's eye, and said (ever so quietly) "ew." And we walked down the hallway, tossed Spidey into toilet and gave him a flush.<br />
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So some losses, perhaps down the road, will be harder than others. At least, <em>I</em> got through this one with a lesson learned. Loss happens. We sit with it. Then poke it in the eye and flush it. Thank you, Spider-Man.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-16339701568874807842013-04-29T13:11:00.000-07:002013-04-29T13:11:21.787-07:00The Kid CommitmentIt's only taken me about 12 years, but I think I'm finally ready to commit to my kids. All three of them, even.<br />
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I always wanted kids. Always knew it'd be a mom. It was no problem for me to get pregnant and I had three "easy" and wonderful birth experiences. Then all of sudden I had three kids. And I fought it. Most parents I admire have a real understanding of surrendering to parenthood. And at times I felt fully engaged and happy to jump feet first into my mother role. I kicked ass at throwing birthday parties and making Halloween costumes and any sort of event that required my creativity. But for the last 10+ years, I can say that I fought fully committing to parenting.<br />
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Of course, I kept my kids safe and healthy. Would I throw myself in front of train to save one of my kids? Without question. Would I catch the flu because they cough all over me while I'm tending to them? Always. Will I skip the newly-released Oscar-contending movie because we don't have a sitter? Um....yes, but I will feel annoyed. Will I miss out on dozens of party invitations? Yes and I will feel resentful. Will I go years without vacations because we have to afford daycare and school? You bet I will, and it will be a constant source of irritation. Will I wake up on Sunday mornings and lament the fact that I have to entertain my own kids all day? Yes...and my anger will probably ruin everyone else's Sunday. And has.<br />
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I'm not sure why I started fighting committing to parenting. My kids are pretty great and definitely fill my world with more life than I could have imagined. But I started to agonize over all of the demands and sacrifices that come with choosing to have children. I want to go to happy hour on a sunny afternoon with friends and not worry about picking anyone up. I want to take a weekend trip with my husband without a thought about who we could even call to watch the kids overnight. I want excess money in my bank account so we can take some vacations or buy a new car. I want to check Facebook on my iPhone and not read <em>Spiderman vs Dr Octopus</em> for the 17th time. I want a clean house with a guest bedroom that's not filled with Elmo and stickers on the ceiling. I want...I want...I want.... This was becoming exhausting.<br />
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Finally, and mercifully, my heart adjusted to what I really want (I can't define exactly what happened other than the universe tapped me on the shoulder - or maybe hit me with a frying pan - and I realized my job and responsibilities were way beyond my selfishness). I want a happy home with a ton of laughter (I know everyone says this, but most things are clichés for a reason). I want these people I chose to have and raise to feel confident and that they always matter. I want them to know what <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Way cooler than any happy hour.</td></tr>
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unconditional love feels like so that they know how to give it. I want my youngest son to know how to blow bubbles. I want my middle son to feel awesome because he can spell his name. I want my daughter to feel especially cool because she won the spelling B. I want them to always feel that we are listening. I want my kids to be raised by a mother who 100% wants to be their mom. So...I commit to these three kids (and to their dad), and I surrender to the responsibility I signed up for over these last several years. And I accept, with great love & pride, my role in these lives. Without fighting it. I'm exactly where I need to be and the payoff will be a thousand times greater than sleeping in on a Sunday. <br />
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I still want a vacation and will get one soon enough when these kids grow into their lives and away from us. Until then...I am committed to loading them up in the old mini-van and taking them wherever we go on this crazy ride.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-45777889607034771482013-03-29T09:55:00.001-07:002013-03-29T09:55:13.732-07:00Mildly Mental, pt 1I feel like I should start off by apologizing. To my husband, my kids, my friends, my neighbors. For the screaming, the intolerance, the ignoring, the lack of eye contact, the desire to disappear (just under a rock. Don't get nervous). I'm going through what I typically would refer to as a funk. Over the years different things triggered the funk. Work, childbirth, the weather, finances, my weight, parenting, a stranger's rudeness. But a few years ago I nipped the funk in the bud with medication. <br />
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A year or so ago I was put on Cymbalta for pain management due to fibromyalgia. I was, along with probably everyone around me, delighted to see that it not only did ease the pain, but it also "lightened" my mood quite a bit. Less ups & downs, fewer screaming episodes etc. Funny what an anti-depressant can do for you. Yes, my hands were no longer ham-hocks, I could get up from the floor without feeling like my body would crack and I could fall asleep with the pain in my kicking legs keeping me awake. That was the entire point of the anti-depressant; pain management. And it helped. A lot. What seemed like a side-effect was that my edge was gone. The funks were gone (or at least limited) and this was good for pretty much everyone around me. I was "evened out."<br />
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And then I did what I think many people on "mood altering" drugs do; I felt better so I stopped taking them. My body felt better. My personality was much more calm and easy-going. And to make the decision simple, my insurance stopped paying for the Cymbalta so I was going to need to contact my doctor to get on another brand of anti-depressant to manage pain (and personality). So off I went. At first, it was a rough week physically but then I was excited to see that the pain hadn't really come back and I was still plugging along really well with plenty of energy and good nature. Then a month went by.<br />
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You know when you take a nap in the middle of the day, but sleep a little too long and you can't really fully wake back up. So groggy that you might as well go back to bed. That's a good way to understand what I feel like most of the time right now. But mix in anger, frustration and physical pain. <br />
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Please don't get distressed by this. I tend to refer to myself as a sad clown. I'm pretty good out in the world (still nailing the jokes, smiling at the check-out ladies, volunteering for too much and making plans for the summer). My mild mental irritation (if you will) is directed more toward those who have to be around me every day. Luckies. Really, I just don't want to be around anyone and for those unfortunate to live in my house, the price is paid by enduring my anger, frustration, disinterest, blame and general blahs. Hence, starting this post with apologies to all these guys.<br />
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The point! I actually have one. The point for writing all of this down is to a.) express how completely disappointing and depressing it is to confirm for myself that I <em>need</em> to be on medication. That it adjusts my personality to a place that makes me so much happier and removes the eggshells for everyone around me. And b.) this is "part 1" of my little story as I thought I would follow up on my well-being once I get back on an anti-depressant that clearly manages quite a bit for me. It's all okay. It's going to be even more okay in a few weeks when the physical pain is under control and my severe edge is smoothed out a bit. And now that I have accepted the fact that I need a little "support" in pill form to keep the rockiness at bay, I can continue to make summer plans and anticipate that they might actually be fun. For everyone. I will keep you posted.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-22800767607912074702013-03-04T17:26:00.001-08:002013-03-04T17:26:43.983-08:00Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor.......your huddled parents yearning for a babysitter.<br />
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Okay...so we're not sailing in from another country with a dream of what the unknown new world could promise. I often times feel lately that I am on a ship that isn't going to hit port for a long, long time. I'm dirty most of the time. I'm scraping together leftover food to make a meal. I'm surrounded by poop. I haven't slept properly in days (and I look like it). My clothes are old (or maternity-wear from three years ago). And we're a little anxious about the future unknown. <br />
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I sat at my 11 years old daughter's volleyball game yesterday and realized that in 9 years I could very well be sitting in the exact same bleacher seat watching my future 11 year old son playing volleyball. I know it's not the PC (Parentally Correct) thing to say, but that thought did not send a bittersweet pang to my heart. It sent a lightening bolt of anxiety to my gut. I'm going to be wading through all of this parenting goo for HOW long?? I know....I <em>chose</em> this. And most of the times I actually feel like I'm pretty good at it. But I would be fibbing all over if I didn't admit that somedays I just want to drive. And drive. And drive. Maybe check into a hotel and order some room service. Watch a movie. I know I'm not alone in this. But lots of "happy mommies" don't like to bring it up.<br />
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It's hard, that's all. And, well, parenthood is really quite a commitment unless you're okay with pushing your little birds out of the nest with your foot and hoping they take flight on their own. And I'm tired. AND I miss my creativity that somehow seems to have gone missing with all of the puzzle pieces, Buzz Lightyear's arm, the Cars 2 DVD and pretty much every sock that might actually make a pair. I've heard other parents often say "I can't even remember what life was like before so & so was born." Really? Were you in a coma? Because I can remember what being awake and energetic felt like. I seem to recall having friends and being invited to parties. I can recall what NOT stepping on a miniature stegasaurus in the dark felt like.<br />
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A year or so ago, we were at a party (without the kids) and were chatting with a couple we'd just met. Somehow it came up that they, like most of our friends, were not child-rearing people. I don't care about or judge that decision (and clearly sometimes I can be envious of it), but the husband got in my face as we were saying good-byes, shook my hand and blurted "childless by choice!" Excellent. I think about that weird moment from time to time. I said nothing then. But I do work through several retorts in my head every once in a while. Most of them starting with "well gooooood for yoooou...." and end with me crying and saying "you have no idea how hard this is!" <br />
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Again...I chose this parenting gig. And because it was a choice, I feel like I can't get all complainery about it. (OR I will write a short blog post about it.) Being your own person is hard enough. Then you go and add a bunch of other people with different personalities and capacities to the mix of responsibility, and I don't know how we all don't have more twitches. It's a little like the X Men with the mutants and the mortals. Instead of having knives come out of my knuckles, I have three kids come out of my minivan. We're still all a bunch of weirdos. Some of us are just attempting to raise little weirdos of our very own.<br />
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Time to go hop on the boat again. Hopefully the sway of the waters (read: drive to daycare) will ease me into the evening routine and I'll be reminded why I chose to raise these little castaways. My queasiness over this parenting deal is temporary. I actually do rather enjoy the ride and there is, more than not, a bittersweetness to looking out at the horizon.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-27576923098890942962013-03-01T15:57:00.001-08:002013-03-02T08:16:03.631-08:00In the next moment... I found myself nose to nose with the mirror again (or is that just "nose to mirror?"). I was inspecting the eyebrows that I have decided to stop plucking. Not horrible. Nothing a little toothbrush with hairspray can't tame. In the next moment, I was holding the small package of fake eye-lashes I recently purchased, cursing the fact that they didn't come with the glue and digging through my tween daughter's play make-up drawer to find leftover lash glue from Halloween. I guess I was lucky the glue was dried up since I can only imagine the long fake lashes tangling with my newly, unruly brows.<br />
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More recently, I was at the bathroom mirror again (I don't even own a "skinny" mirror so I don't really know why I spend so much time in front of it). This time it was to stare at my natural hair color that I have decided to allow to shine through. It's about 3-4 inches into its natural shine. And I use the word "shine" as if the definition is "dull and mouse-like highlighted by white wires." I don't know why it fascinates me to watch the unveiling of my aging. But it grabs my attention every time my face is three inches from that ol' looking glass. In the next moment, I was digging through a box of wigs from a "rock star" themed birthday party, trying to find something fun and a little weird to wear out (in public). <br />
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I comment too often on the fact that my hands are puffed up from fribromyalgia or dry and cracked from living in an area where, even though there is constant moisture in the air, we run the heat 8-9 months out of the year. Yet I just painted my nails black, fully aware that I was embracing my middle-age digits and proudly flashing my cool on 1/3 inch of non-manicured nails.<br />
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I've become quite...what's the word that means "slightly less than obsessed?" That's what I mean. I've become quite <insert word> with the dichotomy I have going on these days. The fascination with my aging and need to reveal my natural physical self, and then the desire to go over the moon to disguise myself. Bushy eyebrows above fake eyelashes. Gray wiry hair pulled back with a sequin & feather chartreuse clip. Months worth of unshaven legs under fishnet stockings.<br />
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It goes deeper than the superficiality of it all (it has to, right?). I think that as I get older and, dare I say, mature...I'm realizing that my limits are my own creation. I think I'm testing myself to see if I'll follow the commonly accepted guidelines to aging. Dress your age, settle down, grow old gracefully, become complacent, etc etc. The fact of the matter is that my growing older has made me anything but content. (And I realize that I'm not exactly elderly at 42, but I'm rounding a corner that does make one assess things a bit.) There are a few things I once always assumed I'd do or have that I understand will never happen in my life. I will not have a singing career. I will not be in the Peace Corps. I will not be a foot model. (The foot model concept is the least possible option than the first two. I don't have good feet. But I once did.) But I seem to be getting some bigger (at least different) aspirations and am allowing myself to evolve. I am starting to like the idea of being the middle aged woman with some clever skills, cool experiences and a lot of moxie. Some days I'm a working mother trying to portray a sense of normalcy to these people I'm raising, and other days I may focus on that magnum opus I've been concocting. Some days I may be mousey-haired and other days I may be sporting glittery false eye-lashes. There's really no limit in what the next moment may bring.<br />
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<em>NOTE: I wrote the above entry several weeks ago. I'm not sure why I didn't post it. But I wanted to add that today my "hair chalk" arrived in the mail. So I stood in the bathroom following the directions by wetting the front of my hair, then wetting the blue chalk, coloring in the strands I wanted colored, and securing the color with a "heating device." And there...in my typical place in front of the bathroom mirror I stood and saw that I <u>literally</u> was a blue hair.</em> <em>Might go with pink next time.</em><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-56799230055869763592012-12-10T23:29:00.000-08:002012-12-11T07:23:34.576-08:00Grinchy McScrooge...or am I?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I always find myself in a sort of melancholy state this time of year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not completely humbugged, but sort of wishing I could just wake up on January 2 with the holidays behind me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize this does not jive with many mothers who really seem to enjoy the wonder in their children’s eyes and the magic of their own cookie baking, tree trimming and Elf on the Shelf hiding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The “carpe eggnog” is lost on melately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlgedoVCFznioK3iNLMsO2hc_2e_PagHLzJgW726xPsrzigBXBzccgsXPl9bjR5Z9a1tjRhbxohNrkU2QaKSOBDA4-q_BZxEqVds0QlY-Hmfo3USIqGv5FRThSekEREIZiY48vZHOBEZs/s1600/bah-humbug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlgedoVCFznioK3iNLMsO2hc_2e_PagHLzJgW726xPsrzigBXBzccgsXPl9bjR5Z9a1tjRhbxohNrkU2QaKSOBDA4-q_BZxEqVds0QlY-Hmfo3USIqGv5FRThSekEREIZiY48vZHOBEZs/s320/bah-humbug.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm okay with a "humbug" that makes me laugh.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We're limited in how much we can get for gifts this year so I attempted to talk my family into "experiential" gifts this year, but somehow "let's plan a camping trip" did not entice the 11-year-old like the signed poster of Katniss from the Hunger Games. The musical Cookie Monster doll and the Avengers action figures will not be replaced by a road trip down the Oregon Coast. Pity, really.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I stand in department stores, drugstores, grocery stores...really anywhere that's playing Bing Crosby's <em>Oh Holy Night</em> over the speakers while shoppers are picking up gifts for second cousins, Reindeer pooping candy, snowman cookie cutters and any myriad of holiday fun...and I can feel a swell of ick. My eyes burn as I see others with their shopping bags filled up with whatever items take the shape of something exciting and gifty. I miss the days of getting people everything they wanted and filling the house with goodies and a few fancy new decorations. We did have that luxury at one point. And frankly the holidays are more fun knowing that we can give gifts AND pay our bills. Am I really this shallow?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I started to write more here about "yes, I am this shallow and isn't it hard to be struggling around the holidays, etc etc." But I walked away from my blog for a little while today and was blessed to settle myself down, see what is in front of me and know that where I am right now is perfect. I often read Daily Word which gives inspirational messages for each day of the year. One recent message was titled Creativity. In brief, it said to look in different places to explore creativity. It resonated with me but I wasn't sure why. I think maybe I'm figuring that out. Surveying the Christmas gifts we're giving this year, they're all pretty damn cool because I had to put more thought into meaningful gifts. I had artist friends help me out because I decided to ask. I found inexpensive, beautiful items because I looked in strange places. Writing, photos, and memories make some sweet gifts. I found other ways to give when I volunteered to write features for the Tent City that's gone up in our neighborhood and by cooking for some neighbors in need. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It may seem that this post has taken a turn from holiday curmudgeon to holiday horn tooter. It's really just to make the point that the giving really <em>IS </em>what it's all about, but the giving doesn't need to come from wallets full of dough. The opportunity to be creative in our giving is in front of us. If we take these opportunities, the giving AND receiving is that much more meaningful. Yes...Cookie Monster, Avenger action figures and even the signed Katniss poster will be waiting under the tree on Christmas morning. I'm thinking the rest of the day will be filled with a few walks, perhaps a beach trip to make a sand snowman, and lots of opportunities for family photos. Maybe these photos of our happy family will be Christmas gifts next year.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-54507507947148152152012-10-16T21:35:00.001-07:002012-10-16T22:49:52.334-07:00How to RememberOne year ago today was my father's last day of life. We didn't know it. We had no idea we were even close. Definitely as my parents have aged, I had thought a bit about losing them. But that was supposed to be 10, 15 years away. But it wasn't.<br />
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Tomorrow morning at 8:30am or so will mark one year since I spoke to my father for the last time. I called him on my way to volunteer at my daughter's school (drive times were always the best time to catch up with dad). His regular booming voice greeted me and we chatted about the fact that he had figured out how to get a rebate on the washer and dryer he'd purchased a year before (these were the little victories that he loved), and he thanked me for emailing over a bunch of pumpkin patch pictures of my kids. I remember him saying "they are so cute," which was always funny coming from my dad. He told me all about the great weekend he and mom had celebrating her birthday, going to the folk festival and then to the fish fry at church. It had been a beautiful, jam-packed weekend of fun. Then he gave the phone over to my mom so that we could have our quick catch-up time too. And that was it. About five hours later, my dad was gone.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxLMm47y-VbtFhQ0W2V3qRLi_r5agwtTkYvD0BGNSnjy2HFjpKDtrEtb2Fr2hWo44GoSJI-l96dtnDflpfcnEHcWRzQvNGNkRy4dZxhHHgiJXDjRGJ09KOA7CTVQU4yCdTOw7nUl5V_m0/s1600/Dad+&+RQ.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxLMm47y-VbtFhQ0W2V3qRLi_r5agwtTkYvD0BGNSnjy2HFjpKDtrEtb2Fr2hWo44GoSJI-l96dtnDflpfcnEHcWRzQvNGNkRy4dZxhHHgiJXDjRGJ09KOA7CTVQU4yCdTOw7nUl5V_m0/s320/Dad+&+RQ.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad & my daughter, Rainey.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
These last few days have been painful. A day hasn't gone by in the last year that I don't think about him and still feel some sort of disbelief that he died. But the pain at this year-mark is more about the fact that his memory is one year old now. I don't have anything in 2012 of him. My sadness is in losing the sound of that last conversation the further away I get from it. I'm worried that I will forget.<br />
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When he was alive, I didn't need to call up his laugh, his gait, or the way he chatted up the clerk at Home Depot. Now it seems like I'm grasping at what to remember. As if I need to grab anything my memory will allow and stuff it down somewhere safe. It's a hard transition to learn that your parents' memory just becomes a part of you. I had forty years to know my father. It would be impossible for him to vanish. I look at my mother who has never forgotten either of her parents and their presence in her life. The funny stories, the integrity, the familial love. I'm sure she can still see her mother's hands and the way she did certain things.<br />
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It's the newness of this loss for me. Or maybe the first anniversary. The process is still, well, a process. I'm figuring out how to move forward and hold on at the same time. To grieve and celebrate. To enjoy sitting with the memories of my father, knowing that these will not escape me and that, most likely, he is still impacting the person that I am becoming. I'm slowly understanding that it may not be about what I remember, every last detail. But it may be more about how I remember my dad, and how I fold his memory into my days. And these will be good days.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-48088621635699666552012-10-04T15:37:00.000-07:002012-10-04T16:12:55.797-07:00Miss Joan's ClassI've spent a good deal of my life looking for the next thing. The next event, the next project, the next boyfriend (okay, I'm not doing that <em>now</em>)...you get the idea. I've never been so hot at just sitting still. And I fear this is catching up to me. As I'm wrestling gray hairs, quieting creaking bones and denying that I'm falling asleep in front of the TV, I'm starting to want to back up a bit. Or, at the very least, slow things down.<br />
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My babies are no longer babies. My two year old now asks to use my iPhone to play a game (sigh). My girl is eleven now and has started a savings plan to pay for a trip to Paris in the next few years. She has also "decided" that she wants to attend Parson's School of Design for college to get a degree in Fashion Design. I guess she takes after me as far as looking forward to the future. She does, however, still believe in Santa Claus (she won't admit if she doesn't), play a vicious game of hide & seek, and roll down any grassy hill she comes upon. I don't fear she's lost her zest for living in the present. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes the goal to run to the top of the hill is enough<br />
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A few days ago, I was talking to my three year old son. We were talking about superheros and firemen and the many topics boys get enthused by. I asked him what he wanted to be when he got big. He thought silently for a few seconds and then answered, "I want to be in Miss Joan's class." This was truly a thoughtful and sweet answer. While he may dream of being Batman or the Hulk, he really just wants to be in Miss Joan's class when he's "big." At daycare, there are three classes; Toddlers, Pre School and Pre K. Currently in Pre School, the next class for my son will be Pre K, Miss Joan's class. That's all he wanted. The next logical, but no-less exciting, step in his little life. <br />
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It struck me that this really was a wisdom nugget coming, unknowingly, from this kid of mine. Most of us have dreams that are big. (I dream that we'll be able to travel somewhere every year and that my husband and I will start a band in our garage). But many times, the next thing might not excite us, so we look further down the road...and further than that...until we lose sight of what direction we're going. I have a fantastic job, a weird and funny family, great friends, and a home that I love. I think right now...at this very moment...my dream is a family dinner tonight, followed by a walk in the cool fall weather.<br />
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We all have Miss Joan's class in front of us. It holds our friends, lots of laughs, some tears, and plenty of unknowns to make it exciting. I think the joy is when we stop looking, enjoy exactly where we are and just know that the next step is coming.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-2444352554381054402012-08-31T12:09:00.001-07:002012-08-31T12:09:44.243-07:00The Heart of ItFive years ago today, I married my husband, Brad. It was a nice ceremony with about 85 guests. Of course, I still look back on what I should have done differently as far as food or entertainment or general pomp. While I regret not spending enough time with certain guests, a day doesn't go by that I don't thank my lucky stars that I got to marry this man.<br />
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It seemed I'd already lived a full life (previously married with a 6 year old daughter), so I was well into my mid thirties the day we said our "I do's." And from that moment we were off and running. In our five years of marriage we've had two sons (15 months apart), moved homes, experienced a scary car accident (Brad's sweet dad), lost two jobs (and both were mine, thank you very much), lost a parent (my dear dad), hit below rock bottom financially (blessed to have family that kept us floating), and dealt with some minor health issues. And here we are. Together and pretty darn strong.<br />
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At times I'm sorry that we never knew each other in our earlier years. I wish we'd been younger together so that we could have experienced truly starting out together. And I worry that, because we found each other later, we won't have as much time together. I really want to celebrate our 50th anniversary like my parents did. (Another reason I need to get my blood pressure under control!). I know this regret and worry is ridiculous. Especially when I can already look back on an exceptionally long list of ups, downs, goods, bads, laughter, tears and everything in between. <br />
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Brad was my comfort through the births of our two boys. He supported me through a tough layoff from a job I'd had for several years. He sat on the kitchen floor with me while I tried to absorb that my father had died. He laughs at my jokes (most of the time). Somehow he still finds me attractive, and even though I have told him numerous times that grabbing my butt when I'm getting something out of the freezer is not exactly a turn on, I'm glad that he doesn't stop doing it. Brad consistently picks up my slack...pretty much always. <br />
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I am grateful that we have so much laughter ringing through this house. Some screaming too. But usually after we have reprimanded a kid for hiding from us under a cushion for 15 minutes, we typically can sneak away for a snicker. I'm confident that my kids will know how to love and how to be in a solid relationship because of the example we're setting. And that's really all it's about, isn't it. Not the timing or the quantity or the stuff accumulated. But the heart of it all is how this time, right now, is spent.<br />
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So Happy Five Year Anniversary to my husband. And Happy Right Now.<br />
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I love us.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-7170712196067554292012-08-13T14:16:00.000-07:002012-08-13T14:16:14.250-07:00Scarlet (O'Hara) Fever<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't feel like it. Look how beautifully restful I am!</td></tr>
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Later. Once I have some money. As soon as we get through <fill in random event>. Next week. In the Fall. Once school starts. After the holidays. Let's get over this busy hump. Next month. Once I lose weight. Not now. Don't feel like it. When the kids aren't in daycare. Once we have more time. <strong>After all...tomorrow is another day!</strong><br />
<br />Despite my facade of being a go-getter, I'm really quite a procrastinator. And it kills me because it's truly a trait I can not stand in others. I suppose I can still claim to be a go-getter as I tend to put many things out there that I really do want to...um...go and get (?), but I put off and delay moving in the right direction to accomplish my going and getting. <br />
<br />I want to be more fit and healthy. I want to feed my family better. I want to watch less TV and spend less time with my eyes on my iPhone. I want (and need) to be more organized at home and at work. I want to ride my bike more. I want to play guitar and sing regularly. I want to save money. I want to have more energy. I want, I want, I want....<br />
<br />These aren't exactly unattainable goals. It's not as if I'm saying I want to start a modeling career or get a PhD in physics. If I want to ride my bike more, I could actually put my garage door up, roll my bike out, check the tires, hop on and start peddling. Our television has an on/off switch so I could turn it off and read a book or play more with my kids. Or work on organizing the home office. But most times, I reward myself for having a busy day by plopping in front of the TV, eating ice cream and doing nothing. Congratulations to me! <br />
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After eating out last night, my husband and I had the conversation (once again) that "starting tomorrow" we were going to get on a better track. Better eating, more exercise, more energy, etc. But we weren't starting then...we were starting tomorrow. Why do we ever think that tomorrow is the better time to do anything? I fear that I will have only a life filled with tomorrows if I don't make a very big shift within myself. <br />
<br />A few months ago I had written a post on nuggets of wisdom that come at the right time (<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=680107288282573747#editor/target=post;postID=8917458085665522025">click here to read it)</a>. I get a little book from Unity called the Daily Word, and today's page was titled "The Time is Now." It reads "Now is the time to flourish, to live life fully, to claim the full wealth of my good!" I am grateful that this little nugget popped up today and I'm hoping I will get a fire in my belly to stop putting off all of the goodness that will contribute to my life.<br />
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So I guess I have started! I began this blog post about two weeks ago and kept putting off finishing it, until now. I have a dinner menu prepared for this evening and a short to-do list to get a few things checked-off around the house. I'm not even turning the TV on tonight. I think I may be feeling that fire.<br />
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<strong>After all...today is the day! </strong>(Sorry, Scarlet)<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-22933454774302621042012-07-26T16:43:00.000-07:002012-07-31T12:08:59.594-07:00Winner Winner Chicken DinnerLast week I entered a Facebook contest. An organization that sells fair trade items from around the world asked for a description of a design cut from a metal drum. I immediately went to work crafting my entry in 50 words or less and submitted it. And so did one other person. So the big contest was between the two of us (I had no idea the competition would be so fierce). The organization posted that we should "share" the contest with our Facebook friends in order to get the votes (and, of course, to increase their own fans). I did as suggested and quickly mopped the floor with my worthy 50-words-or-less-about-metal-drum-art opponent. The prize awaits me 3,000 miles away, so I had to email my mother that I was the big, fat winner and could she please go and pick up whatever incredible prize I earned through the art of my skillful writing. Or...because my friends were nice enough to click "like" and thusly I won.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKq0MTUamhV6o8dt4bWlQa_Z1Twdvn2We1QkeAu4TL8auwwrDyv_EH0t6Dw2xLFEW8BggRfnlPHqQeCaYkWx3wYpfWq-QAOcWfIOiSgu5Y9-M20dH2Eci8nhVjYkAlltc5jHk0YgqR0Ozg/s1600/Winner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKq0MTUamhV6o8dt4bWlQa_Z1Twdvn2We1QkeAu4TL8auwwrDyv_EH0t6Dw2xLFEW8BggRfnlPHqQeCaYkWx3wYpfWq-QAOcWfIOiSgu5Y9-M20dH2Eci8nhVjYkAlltc5jHk0YgqR0Ozg/s1600/Winner.jpg" /></a>I actually started feeling sort of guilty. My entry was fair and clearly not judged on my ability to write a winning description of anything. I felt that the other entry was more poetic and less literal than mine. Then I thought maybe I should just point out that I don't live in town, but how about just giving the prize to the other entrant. But I didn't. BECAUSE I WON. Yes...with the help of my friends. And yes...because only two of us entered. Winning feels good, darn it. Who am I to begrudge myself of the West African paperweight or Indonesian potholder waiting for me?<br />
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I've won some great things in my life. A cruise to the Caribbean. A trip to London (okay, it was my husband, but I partook). These were thrilling wins. Jumping up & down, calling everyone I know and screaming wins. But I also find that I'm a touch overly excited when I "win" little things. And "win" is in "quotation marks" because these aren't even real wins. (And "quotation marks" is in "quotation marks" because that's what they are.) We "won" Irish Dance Lessons at a school auction last year, which really meant that we paid forty bucks for something for which no one outbid us. We'll see what a winner I feel like when I'm standing amongst a roomful of twelve-year-olds named Molly and Siobahn heaving myself in and out of jigs.<br />
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I'm super excited when I get a free gift-with-purchase. Hurray! I only had to buy Golden Flax Cereal to get the Golden Flax Cereal ruler! I remember years ago, my mother had ordered several items from one of those catalogs that sells awesomeness, like dishwashing gloves with long-fingernails painted on them. When the box was delivered, she had "won" a free gift! It was an ice tray that froze ice cubes into the shape of boobs. Yep...bosoms. As memory serves...it was a series of a woman's head with two giant knockers. Score! Way to win, Mom!<br />
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I'm not a bad loser. At all. I typically expect to lose. I'm not a bad winner either, I swear. I love seeing others win or succeed. Winning feels good no matter what side you're seeing it from (well, I suppose a lot of losers wouldn't say that). If I could, I would have everyone over to handle the Vietnamese letter opener that may be waiting for me for my big writing win. And we'll have cocktails with boob ice cubes. And then we'll all be winners.<br />
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Thanks to those who voted for me.<br />
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UPDATE: My winning Nicaraguan jar! Love it! Completely worth the guilt.<br />
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I've never had a perfect-looking home. Never the soft-gray sofas with ornamental pillows with "pops" of orange. Or custom-made ceiling-to-floor lush curtains in a silvery blue that pooled on the carpet. I typically had cutains that I sewed from a sheet with a pattern I liked at the time. One particular "sheet curtain" was cut and resewn about four times to fit various window sizes over many years. Even long before kids, I had mix-matched furniture, odd collections of items pinned to the walls (from antique hats to crosses from Mexico) and white twinkly lights hooked to the ceiling in some corner I'd dubbed "the reading nook."</div>
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I rather fancied my anti-mainstream decor (if you will). Until I'd go visit someone else's house, decorated in all Pottery Barn or West Elm, and pulled together with what seemed like the graceful ease of an interior designer. I felt a little envious pang when someone would gush over their billowy drapery and beautiful original artwork. I have original artwork! Just because it's a God's Eye made out of yarn and popsicle sticks from when I went to vacation bible school 30 years ago, doesn't make it any less original. </div>
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The thing is I like visiting other people's homes that are elegant and beautiful. I like standing in their living room and looking at expensive paintings or antique objects in a curio cabinet. I like a nicely painted room and well-framed photographs. But I don't need those things. At all. </div>
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Photos on the ceiling above the bed. Go to bed & wake up happy!</div>
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Lately, I've been walking around my house and loving all of the weird, accidental decorating going on. I love my Day of the Dead decor that goes from dining room to kitchen, spotting the house with dancing skelatons and sugar skulls. I love the overflow of my kids' artwork that I decide to stick up wherever I feel it belongs. I love that our bedroom has absolutely nothing "master" about it, except a 3/4 bath. We have my husband's childhood bedroom furniture in use, randomly framed photos, a glass heart hanging from an off-center nail on the wall, a tissue flower made by our three-year-old, a handmade dreamcatcher, a paper daffodil in a vase in the window sill, and about 15 photos taped to the ceiling directly above the bed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kid art created for a new baby</td></tr>
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It's cool to me. It makes me happy and it feels like life. I have stopped running around, tidying up all of this life every time someone comes over for a visit. I find that most people don't mind standing amongst the skelaton collections and handmade tissue flowers. We really don't need to have curtains that match the stripe in the ottoman or blue pillows that pick up the sky in the garden painting. Our homes should reflect our life and our loves. When we're gone, the pillows will be sold or given away. That yarn and popsicle stick God's Eye will be the treasure.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-64787806233226465292012-07-19T12:22:00.001-07:002012-07-19T12:24:36.910-07:00Dirty Fingernails Make You a BadassI have a thing about long fingernails. I don't like them at all. And I am really not too keen on painted long fingernails. I don't know why, exactly. Friends, fear not! You don't need to sit on your hands next time we go out or fear I'm rolling my eyes when you shout out an expletive over chipping one of your beautifully maintained nails. I just don't like 'em. And I certainly don't like them on me. I realize this is probably because I never can seem to keep my nails long (or clean), and it struck me the other day that short, dirty fingernails sort of make you a badass.<br />
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This summer, I have definitely made use of my hands. Instead of sitting in front of my computer, I have stained furniture, done more gardening & weeding than usual, made a bunch of tie-dye shirts, and scraped and scrubbed an old grill. All of this showed in my hands, specifically under the ol' nails. I will admit, I liked going into Home Depot with crimson wood stain down my arm and fingers (I never said I was neat, or even good at any of this stuff). I liked walking by the professional contractors who were covered in saw dust and spackle. I was one of them with the remains of my craft in my cuticles. It took some self control not to yell out, "oh...you guys building a a two-story deck? Yeah..I stained four drawers and will probably weed my 3' x 5' garden later. Take it easy."<br />
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My daughter had some friends over a few weeks ago, so we tie-dyed shirts and then I scrubbed down our old fire pit. My hands were stained from the dyes a lovely mix of tangerine, night sky and clover. Then the wet rust from the fire pit pulled all my badassery together quite nicely. I honestly felt like I could walk around my neighborhood saying "who wants to mess with me?" and the neighbors would take one look at my filthiness and flea. Of course, if they followed me home to see the hangers of colorful tie-dyed shirts hanging in the tree and the gaggle of 10 year old girls making s'mores over the fire pit, they might question how tough I am after a little soap and water.</div>
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<br />My mother always weeds her garden (and mine, thank you mother) barehanded. No gloves. She says she likes the way it feels. I follow in her soily fingerprints. I like the feel of dirt on my hands and being able to feel a weed loosen in my grip. I guess I feel like hands are meant to get dirty. So long fingernails don't make sense to me. I prefer chipped, chewed, dirty nails that show that I really like to get down and work or play hard.</div>
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<br />As a note....I do scrub my hands quite a bit and you can invite me out for a fondue dinner without the fear that my grimy hands will be hovering over the cheese. And while I don't mind my husband coming in after mowing the lawn, smelling like grass with black under his nails, I do typically guide him to the bathroom sink after a while to suds up. And even though I have some strange aversion to painted fingernails, as I write this, my toenails are painted bright red and decorated with butterfly stickers. I mean, dirty toenails....that's just unnatural.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-39483575215720539732012-07-12T12:44:00.001-07:002012-07-12T12:44:19.538-07:00My Earth Mother FriendsI was in the western part of Virginia last month visiting my family. (I'll save my comments on the humidity for a time when I really have nothing else to write about.) Through the miracle that is social media, I have connected over the last few years with two dear friends from college who also happen to live in this area. Finally, we made plans on this trip to meet.<br />
<br />So I packed my three kids and my mom in the car and we drove sixty-plus miles through winding country lanes, up gravel single-car roads, past 182 cows & 98 sheep, and some incredibly beautiful rolling Virgina hills spotted with haybales. And at the end of the winding road, on top of a lovely hill, were these two crazy gals and NINE kids (between the two of them). We stood in the driveway hugging and jumping around in a circle in giggly disbelief that we were actually laying eyes on each other again.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My daughter, chickens, goat...and Elizabeth.</td></tr>
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Nothing had changed. And everything had changed. Our cores were the same. The reasons we loved each other back in college and could laugh for hours at our complete silliness, yet talk seriously about life...that was still there. But instead of standing in front of a call-board or in a Movement For Actors class (yes, we were theatre majors), I visited these women in their homes that were filled with children's artwork, chalkboard walls, colorful murals, mix-matched chairs and squeals of laughter. Outside were chickens, roosters, goats, and a duck named Elizabeth. And glorious views of green hills and horses beyond their gardens of homegrown goodness.<br />
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My delicious friends had become beautiful Earth mothers. Love and babies and dirt and fresh eggs. It just pulled me in. There was something so, I don't know, joyous (?) about their lives. Their appreciation of the land, their friendship with each other's families, the love of the small town in which they lived and all of the farmers they'd come to know...it was an enviable world. At least I envied it. The happy chaos managed with such grace was definitely to be admired. At one point during our visit, one of my friends was making lunch for...oh five adults and TWELVE kids...and she was being surrounded closer and closer by hungry kids in the kitchen. This would have sent me into a screaming fit ending in the fetal position, but she just put her hands up and said with her typical smile "get up off me!" (I don't know why that phrase made me laugh). And she regained her space, going back to preparing lunch and chit-chatting. Together, these two friends of mine run a Montessori camp this summer (which will be preschool in the fall) and started a theatre company in an old empty theatre space in their small town. All while raising spectacular children (and chickens, roosters, goats, and a duck named Elizabeth). The fullness of their lives overflowed to me and I'm still carrying it with me.<br />
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Back home in Seattle for a month since I spent the day with my old friends, and I still feel pulled to find the joyful chaos in my own home. As I contemplate the difference in how I approach my life compared to my precious Earth mothers, I realize that I don't surrender enough. They do. They don't fight against the constant motion, the noise, the laundry, the goat poop on the front porch...they just go with it. (Don't be confused by the word surrender. They discipline and have the respect of their families. "Get up off me" was immediately understood.) Unlike them, I try to control the craziness, or expect things to be "just so" in order for everyone to find enjoyment. I learned, in the rolling hills of Virginia, that life is in the motion. The joy <em>is</em> the chaos. The moments of silence (few & far between for these women) are precious and when we can take some time to reflect on how blessed these lives of our's are. <br />
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I suppose I could be simplifying the "meaning of life" for many people. Or maybe overthinking it for some. But when you take a step back and really look at how your days are spent, give some thought to how well you surrender yourself to what's in front of you. How many times can you stop and just let the moment be? It's not easy. I'm working on it. I have my Earth mother friends to guide me. They are true teachers. And, if you don't stop long enough sometimes, you can miss how inspiring a bunch of chickens, roosters, goats, and a duck named Elizabeth really can be.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-32305124937328942852012-07-02T13:58:00.002-07:002012-07-02T13:58:11.785-07:00Does This Fish Make Me Look Fat?I feel like lately I have been teetering on the fence between super-awesome and not-too-awesome. It's been a bit of a rough eight months since I lost my job and my father in the same week last October. The last few months have been insightful, painful, filled with joy & sadness, unpredictable, freeing and completely weighty. And I can experience all of this in one single day sometimes.<br />
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In between sending out resumes & being rejected and tending to my house & kids properly, I have fancied myself a creative type. Working on quilts, baking bread and scones (which, side note, are pretty awesome), holding a make-shift daycamp in my house, writing, and adding to the many screenplays in my head (oddly, no studio has plucked them from my head and brought them to the big screen yet). While we are getting desperate for another income, I have stayed quite strong throughout and am proud that I have found some fulfillment and creativity during this time. And then my fat has to come in and ruin everything.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A larger fish would have been more slimming.</td></tr>
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I was a skinny kid. Developed early, so I was a pretty curvy teen-ager and 20 year old. In my early twenties, I started gaining some weight. I can recall my parents commenting on my weight gain when I had reached 137 pounds (if I could get within 20 pounds of that now, I'd be ecstatic). And now I'm easily 50-60 pounds overweight. I've now been heavy for around 20 years (if we want to count my obesity at 137 pounds) and it's been a struggle to get it under control most of the time. The prescription I am on contributes to some weight gain, but I'm pretty sure my lack of exercise does too.<br />
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I think what gets my goat the most about being overweight is that it seems to overshadow many of the positive turns I've taken. Having great kids, an incredible husband, awesome friends, a sense of humor, and the ability to stay strong in some intense times is somehow dimished by my size 16 jeans. <br />
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I really want to wax on about the unfairness of it all, but I am going to continue on with the joyfulness I feel now. I will still unabashedly go fishing in my flowerly, frilly swim suit with my kids. And I will catch teeny tiny fish that make me appear even larger than I am. But I will try (again) this summer to get the weight down. I don't want my appearance to outweigh (literally!) anything else I do. Brad wants me to write down my current weight and post it on the wall to track my weight loss, but I didn't want to share that with him. I thought posting a picture of me in a swim suit on my blog made more sense. So...in a few months, I will post another picture to show any changes in my shape and how I accomplished it. Or I'll get a bigger fish.<br />
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I think the point is that it feels good to know where your food (or wine) comes from. And I will admit that the "goody two-shoes" vibe increases if you're pushing around a couple of kids. (A couple of kids at the farmers market, that it. Not the local vineyard. I would imagine that having a bunch of toddlers running underfoot while you're swishing & spitting $55 wine would decrease your level of superiority.) I frankly love having my boys covered in red juice as they shove fresh strawberries and dirt into their mouths. And there's something sort of cool about the three-year-old using a garlic stalk as a wand / sword / brother-beater.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Goody Two-Shoe Booty</td></tr>
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We visited the brand-new Saturday market in my neighborhood this morning, and I went whole hog (literally!). For the first time, I bought pork from a local farmer. We talked about his farm (out near Yakima), how he raises the animals, and the fact that his third child is due on Tuesday. It meant something, while I was cooking up bacon for BLTs for lunch, that I knew exactly who had raised and packaged this meat. I made it a point to speak to all of the vendors and farmers where I purchased items. I know that the garlic butter was made in small batches, what kind of strawberries I had, and the fact that there was slightly less sugar than usual in the hibiscus & lemon sorbet I sampled. I look forward to returning each week to keep the conversations going.<br />
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I suppose it's the sense of being a part of something that makes me feel special, and thus a tad superior. Like going to see a friend's band perform at a bar and screaming "I know him!" the whole time. I'm pretty sure that tomorrow morning, when I'm cracking eggs I bought today from the cool red-headed mohawked guy, I'll be in the kitchen yelling, "I know him! I totally know him!" And I will start my day feeling "better than."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-18837686730887608192012-06-08T14:03:00.000-07:002012-06-08T14:03:01.356-07:00Personal Movie Actor-OuterI find lately, seeing as I have a quite a bit of "me" time on my hands, that I imagine little moments out of my day as scenes from movies. Or scenes from <em>a</em> movie. The movie in my head. (This is confiding a lot since I am risking coming across like an insane person. And/or completely narcissistic.) I feel somewhat confident that I am not alone in doing this. But I do believe it's one of those unspoken tidbits in our culture. The personal movie acting-outer. <br />
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I get nervous sometimes when I'm home alone and someone comes to the door. And a snippet from my "action" movie begins. SPEED...aaaand ACTION! I may lean against the kitchen wall and sneak a peek down the hallway to have a look out the window to see who is at the door. Or I will get on my hands and knees (yes, I have done this) and crawl through the living room, onto the couch and peer through the blinds. My heart pounds. I barely breathe. And then the Little Leaguer selling chocolate bars walks back down my driveway. AND SCENE!<br />
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Just a few days ago, I applied make-up to my face. Brown eyeliner, some blush and some earthy colored lipstick. Then I went about my day, which consisted of putting away laundry, making beds, cleaning the kitchen, looking for a job, etc. A few times I'd catch a glimpse of myself in a bedroom mirror. And I felt ridiculous all painted up. I'm not really sure why. I'm not against make-up. I'm sure I <em>need</em> it to enhance my look. Aaaaaand ACTION! Like a Geisha looking in the mirror attempting to see her true identity, an identity that had been stolen from her when she was a child, I slowly began to wipe the make up off my face. First smearing it, but then wiping my face clean, revealing my natural beauty (reminder: this is a movie. And I already mentioned the potential for narcissism.) Satisfied, I took a simple bobby pin and pulled a strand of hair off my face. I stood about an inch from the mirror inspecting my clean face for a few seconds, then went back to my chores. AND SCENE! I was particularly brilliant in this one.<br />
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Just yesterday, I became a character typically played by Laura Linney. The likable, scattered, about-to-crack mother, driving the two boys home from daycare. I'd given them both peaches in their car seats to eat on the drive home. In the rear view mirror I could see the juice of the fruit running down their faces, fingers and down to their elbows. Both boys were getting sticky and a little uncomfortable, thus whiny. I kept an upbeat tone telling them "it's just fruit from the peaches. we'll get you cleaned up as soon as we get home. it's not a problem to get a little messy." But in my movie close-up, my subtle expression was revealing "what made you think peaches in the car with no napkins made sense? now you'll have a mess to deal with. why don't you have more foresight?" I gazed out at the open road ahead. And then, we pulled into the driveway. AND SCE..... um...I said AND SCEN.....why hadn't the action stopped? I totally nailed that one! The boys were waiting for me to take the peach pits and half eaten bits of fruit from them. Which I did. Then I unbuckled them from their carseats with my own sticky hands. Wiped them both down with a previously-used napkin from the car floor. In my head, I was yelling AND SCENE! AND SCENE! AND SCENE! Then I realized the credits were running. The boys and I decided to have a rambuncious running contest to the mailbox. And FADE.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-57260972488060322522012-05-30T12:18:00.000-07:002012-05-30T12:18:51.047-07:00Sleepless in a Muumuu<div style="text-align: justify;">
This evening I will use a sleep apnea monitor. Not the face-mask craziness, but the strap-around-your-chest and stick-up-your-nose number. Pretty sure I'll be getting lucky tonite! </div>
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I paid a visit to the Sleep Center today to discuss my lack of sleep and how it may be impacting my fibromyalgia. In addition to the sexy monitor I'll be wearing to bed tonight, I also will be keeping a sleep diary for the next two weeks ("Dear Sleep Diary, If I wasn't writing in you, I'd probably be sleeping..."), and get into bed at 12:30am and out of bed at 7am. The idea is that I cut down the amount of time I'm in bed tossing and turning, and I actually fall asleep as soon as I hit the pillow. We shall see how this works for me, and everyone who has to deal with me.</div>
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Like most of the doctors' offices I seem to be frequenting these days, I am easily 30 years younger than the other patients in the waiting room. You know it's bad when I was excited to see the June issue of Golden Years magazine has already come out. I am actually starting to wonder if I am acclimating too much to "senior living" these days. I've had two doctor appointments already this week and a visit to the "beauty parlor." And then, out of nowhere, well actually from the Vermont Country Store (?), I get a catalog featuring a myriad (and I MEAN a myriad!) of muumuus, and, thankfully, homeopathic skin tag remover. And heaven knows I have been longing for those forgotten raisin biscuits!</div>
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What's worse is that I find myself lingering on the muumuu pages a little too long and my mind starts thinking that they actually do seem pretty comfortable, and the red bandanna fabric could be cute for summer. </div>
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It's time for me to get myself back to a youthful 41 year-old. Out of the blue, my blood pressure has gone up quite a bit, so I'm starting to work at getting some weight off and finding some sort of regular exercise routine. This way I can stay off more pills and out of the geriatric waiting rooms in which I seem to keep finding myself. I think I have set this goal about 87 times in the last few years, but I'm really going to use the next month to plunge into a healthier, and ultimately happier, me. For the month of June, I'm going to attempt to cut out alcohol. Mostly to see how it impacts my fibro and my weight (and really to just prove to myself that I <em>can</em> cut it out). I'm going to also start the month on a mini-fast /cleanse. I have done this a few times before and the results have been incredible. I'll be documenting my fasting days for your reading pleasure. You can mostly expect posts on how delicious mint tea tastes after 3 days of fasting. </div>
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Seeing that it's May 30th, I still have a few days to prep for my JUNE OF REBOOTING MY BODY 2012. So....fries and gravy with a couple of beers for lunch it is! Not really. This old bod would atrophy at that. Some leftover whole wheat cous cous with spinach & chard will work for me today. Just pull me out if you see me down at the local diner ordering the early bird special at 4:30pm. Although, that really could be a sweet place to show off my new muumuu.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-74833869122487069222012-05-08T11:39:00.001-07:002012-05-08T11:39:49.276-07:00Lessons from Bird Poop I lived in New York City for several years before making the trek out west. I loved living there, and still miss aspects of it quite often (nowhere else will you have or need a 3-inch stack of delivery menus on top of your refridgerator. I miss Indian food being delivered to my door in less than 7 minutes). I was fortunate to live on the Upper West Side for the bulk of the time I was there (I'll save details on my Bay Ridge, Brooklyn days for another time). In fact, I'll save details on life in NYC for another time. This post is about the one week in Spring, which is gorgeous in New York, that two birds...um..."relieved" themselves on my head. Two different days...two different birds (I <em>think</em>)....same week.<br />
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I'm sure many people make it through life without ever knowing the delightful sensation of "was that water? Is it raining? oh...please tell me that bird did not....oh gross...ugh, oh crap....is it on my shoulder too?..." It's not pleasant. And for the most part, it brings your day to a screeching halt, unless you are okay telling people your new hair product is Pigeon on a Wire #45. It typically must be dealt with.<br />
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This one week in May, I was clearly the target of some teenage pigeons throwing the equivalent of poop snowballs at unexpecting adults going about their day. The first time, I felt it, knew exactly what it was, turned on my heels and walked straight home to get cleaned up. There was a sense of embarassment and maybe even shame by not being savvy enough to step aside or duck the shots of the hooligan birds. The second time (a few days later), I felt it, knew exactly what it was, looked up and the sky and yelled at the top of my lungs "are you <span style="font-size: large;">KIDDING ME</span><span style="font-size: small;">?!?!?" In my mind's eye, I shook my fist in the air, took a slingshot out of my back pocket, cocked it, and threatened every bird within eyesight as I slowly backed my way home, as if daring one of them to try something.</span><br />
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Let's see, that must have been over 10 years ago. I remember at the time swearing that I would never, EVER be the bullseye for a bird again. The double whammy had the feel of "poop on me once, shame on you. poop on me twice...." As if I just wasn't being mindful enough to avoid the second "incident." And 10 years later, I have kept that oath. Of course, I now know that is just pure luck. While I'm definitely overly aware of the birds overhead and would never stand directly under a crow on a wire on in a tree (more crows than pigeons in the Pacific Northwest than in NYC), I know it's probably just a matter of time before I wear my bullseye hat again.<br />
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I have no control over it. Just like I can't say I'll never stub my toe again, or get a cold again. It's very funny to me that I actually think about when I had vowed that I'd never "allow" the bird poop - head connection to happen to me again. And it brings up all of the other things I said I'd never do again that are much more substantial than the crisis of bird-fouled hair. When I started making a good living, I was never going to be broke again. When all of my bills were paid, I was never going to be in debt again. Then I lost my job and we're scratching by. When I lost 30 pounds, I was never going to be overweight again. Then I had two more kids and take medication that makes the fat fight harder. When I make a healthy dinner, read Are You My Mother 3 times and easily put a kid to bed, I am never going to make lazy parenting decisions again. And while I consider myself a good mom, I still have moments of throwing Kraft mac & cheese on a plate and putting the iPad in the tent that the 3 year old insists on sleeping in so that we can have a few moments of quiet. It rather goes on and on.<br />
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I'm realizing that vowing to do or not do things that are part of life is really not life. Struggling financially is difficult, but we'll get through this with lessons learned. My weight battle stinks, but I will find great pride in getting to a healthy place (eventually). I will forever question my parenting, but I still carry an inkling of confidence that these kids are going to be great. As far as the birds go, I can't let go of my personal vow to never be pooped on again. I know it's out of my hands and I will have to accept it and handle accordingly. Maybe next time I will actually have a slingshot in my back pocket. Or maybe I'll wear more hats or start carrying around a scarecrow. Only the birds and I know. Well actually...only the birds know.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-13130288875103201432012-05-01T10:36:00.000-07:002012-05-01T10:38:52.517-07:00A Sea Hag Looks at 40I stood too close to the mirror once again this morning. Still finding it hard to believe that I am 40 years old. My eyes have aged quite a bit in the last few years. Doesn't help that I have a cold to truly bring out the redness where white used to me and the dark circles where brightness used to be. I'm not sure when I started having to "tame" my eyebrows, rather than just pluck them. Or when my eyelashes started falling out leaving me to coax what's there to reveal itself through an eyelash curler and globs of mascara. 20 years ago, when I went without make-up, I looked like a 10 year old boy. Now, without make-up, I look like the "before" picture in a make-over feature for middle-age women in Redbook.<br />
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Don't be deceived by my comments. At least 80% of the time I'm okay with how I've aged on the outside. The body needs to have a major overhaul, but I think I'm still somewhat hip looking (without doing that "oh dear someone needs to tell her no one over 18 should be wearing that hat" thing). I think my moments in front of the mirror are more about my life. I can see the age, but beyond the laugh lines and sprigs of gray hair along my part, I can't help but think that I reached 40 and don't really know what I have to show for it.<br />
<br />I remember being a teenager and sitting in the car listening to a mix tape someone had made for me (or maybe it was my brother's cassette) and playing Jimmy Buffet's "A Pirate Looks at 40." Something about that song, even as a 17 year old, made my heart ache. I remember thinking, how sad it must be to go through life (at least, to 40) never really getting to your purpose. I've heard that song several times over the last 20+ years and it still gets to me. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZHNSrl9KsU&feature=youtube_gdata_player">Click here if you want to give the tune a listen.</a><br />
<br />I'm not sure if females are pirates, so I prefer to use Sea Hag for myself. So I'm looking closely at myself in the mirror this morning, seeing a 40 year old Sea Hag still searching for where I am supposed to land. I've certainly plundered. I've had way too much ale and offended many. I'm raising a handful of skallywags. Part of me dreams of just pulling up all of my people, loading them on my ship and setting sail to nowhere in particular. But instead I'm here on land, a 40 year old pirate who has to find that purpose, that whole point of it all, so I'm not spending the next 40 years wondering what's right, fighting what feels wrong, and never just relaxing into the sea air. It's definitely a cliche to say that we spend so much of our life searching that we never really see what's right in front of us (so I jazzed up the cliche by adding in all of the pirate talk). The 40 year Sea Hag in the mirror is definitely starting to understand this more and more. Maybe that's what 40 is all about, realizing that maybe you missed something and going back to find it. I gave myself one last close-up look in the mirror, as if I would see something I'd never seen before.<br />
<br />And then, in a moment of complete non-piratey clarity, I remembered that I'm actually 41. Guess I need to go find a new song.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-89174580856655220252012-04-27T16:05:00.000-07:002012-04-28T15:32:26.031-07:00Wisdom NuggetsOne of the things I love about eating healthier is that the items that are packaged always seem to have little inspirational notes on them. I made myself a cup of tea this morning and the little tea bag tag read "Be patient. Things will soon be back to normal." I will not deny that I smiled at my teacup. Some things have been falling into place recently (a few potential job opportunities) so that we're starting to see that normalcy might actually be kicking in. Such a wise tea bag. Part of me wanted to go through the entire box of tea just to see what other gems are in there to kick-start my day in a positive way.<br />
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I like to think of these little messages as nuggets of wisdom. So not only is my body benefiting from taking in more natural foods, but my mind & soul are being nourished by my enlightened kombucha bottle. I have a love/hate relationship with kombucha, but I'm pretty much addicted to it now. There's a local guy in Seattle who sells it down at the farmer's market, but his just comes in plain glass bottles (recycled back to him, of course) and it has no nuggets. Today, my store bought bottle of this fizzy, mushroomy goodness has a quote from a philosopher in New York; "If the space that separates us is the same, then we are only different in name," (<em>Daniel Olsen</em>). That there is some deep kombucha.<br />
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Coke doesn't have any nuggets. All a Coke can will tell you is "carbonated water, high fructose corn syrup, phosphoric acid, caramel color, natural flavorings and caffeine." I don't know...it doesn't have that same "pow!" that my box of pure pink Himalayan sea salt has with "Fashion your life as a garland of beautiful deeds." Noted, pink sea salt, and thanks for the inspiration in addition to seasoning my veggies.<br />
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So yes...while working on cooking and eating healthier, I am definitely attracted to packaging with thoughtful quotes and inspirational messages. I don't necessarily buy one bag of quinoa over another due to Zen sayings. Although it is rather nice to grab your grains out of the pantry and be reminded<strong> </strong>"Nothing is there to be done. There is nothing to do. One has just to be. Have a rest and be ordinary and be natural. “ (<em>Osho</em>). Words to reflect on while waiting for water to boil. I like the idea that the people who are manufacturing these items are thinking enough to, not only be ethical and natural in the growing and packaging of the goods (because I can pretty much guarantee that if there's a quote on the box, that box is made from recycled materials), but they're passing along these wisdom nuggets that might actually be meaningful to the consumer as a human.<br />
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Maybe I'm just a sucker for inspiration wherever I can get it. Maybe McDonald's and their "I'm Lovin' It" would speak to me if I was on a fast food kick. Although I don't know many people who reflect on "lovin' it" thirty minutes after a double Big Mac and jumbo fries hit their system. Regardless, the little sayings make me feel good. When I am sipping my kombucha while checking Facebook for the 18th time, it's nice to have the bottle remind me, "That is the problem of life. If we are not fully ourselves, truly in the present moment, we miss everything," (<em>Thich Nhat Hanh</em>). Why, thank you for the nugget, bottle of healthiness...I will put down the iPhone and look out the window now.<br />
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UPDATE: I drank tea the morning after I wrote this entry and the tea bag tag read: "You'll be going on a long journey. Wear sensible shoes." Whoa...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-1345698336894901862012-04-25T16:35:00.000-07:002012-04-25T16:35:14.441-07:00Grown-Up MagicI'm sitting in my car, on yet another gray & wet day, outside Rainey's school waiting for pick-up. I had lunch with a good girlfriend today and figured, rather than drive home long enough to pull into my driveway before I had to return, I'd just sit here until 3pm. It's a bit after 2pm and apparently recess. I find it odd that these kids get a break 30 minutes before the bell rings. It's like taking a nap at 10:30 before your 11:30 bedtime.<br />
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Rainey spotted me across the playground and ran over with a gaggle of girls, waving & shouting hellos through the chain link fence. It's funny that she's still at the age (10) that she not only admits she has a mother, but seems rather proud of me. I'm already dreading the day when my uncoolness reveals itself and becomes the center of everything wrong with her world.<br />
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For anyone who has kids in their lives (whether you birthed them or get to hand them back when you're done playing), you know the look of "you are amazing" that kids can often bestow on adults. The wonder of what being a grown-up is all about. I remember thinking my babysitters were not just the Sleeping Beauty level of beautiful, but SO mature, and magical in the way they heated up foil-covered TV dinners, smelled like bubble gum & hairspray, and talked about their boyfriends picking them up once my parents got home. It's hard to believe I'm probably 25 years older now than said magical babysitters were then, and they are now in their late 50s. Ouch.<br />
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I took a few tai chi classes last year and was telling the teacher that I was trying to get into better shape for my kids (really meaning so that I could keep up with them and have more energy), and she said "they only see you as beautiful." Which was great since my chi was then taken over by forced-back tears and a runny nose. It's too bad we, as adults, so often don't see the "magic" anymore. The TV dinners seem like a reflection of my imperfect parenting now, and I feel like I'm in a continual swirl of the farthest thing from wonderment. The sacrifices made to achieve the life I now have seem irrelevant and the magical moments are living in my memories of the "good ol' days." I'm working on some sort of middle ground now. One where I live in reality (although I sometimes really love the idea of going to "Amy's Magic Land of Wonder" and never returning), but see the incredible moments that I am living. My family, my friends, these kids I am assisting with growing up. I won't deny that there's a part of me that wants to wear bright blue eyeshadow and sing opera loudly as a way to appear "magical" to my kids and create colorful memories for them. But we'll make due with me barely getting dinner on the table, sitting in a never ending pile of laundry and begging my newly planted garden to grow. Because really (and I know this), lying on our bellies in the dirt and being eye-level with some thriving snap pea sprouts is actually pretty cool and, dare I say....magical.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-17168588610040760882012-04-18T13:05:00.001-07:002012-04-18T13:05:43.202-07:00Bok Choy, Baby!Tuesday is my "farm to table" organic veggie delivery day, which means after 3pm every Tuesday I drive about a mile up the road to a house (owned by someone I don't know who has volunteered to be a drop-off spot) and pick up a box with my name on it and drive back home. It's got this sort of weird / awesome clandestine feel to the whole thing, like I'm a swiss chard smuggler.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdO82EHTzCJy3-KKFsLotoU62whDTYodXg612GHTOXZFBvE-3Yzou_VlriJ1AOTuK9z-iuvDH8wXGlw-h_fZa-weNUO6pVRBdLpKbwNG7rPC2_0bGee8aaD4-nxTQhASb9bCHGsutPrD7/s1600/veggies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdO82EHTzCJy3-KKFsLotoU62whDTYodXg612GHTOXZFBvE-3Yzou_VlriJ1AOTuK9z-iuvDH8wXGlw-h_fZa-weNUO6pVRBdLpKbwNG7rPC2_0bGee8aaD4-nxTQhASb9bCHGsutPrD7/s400/veggies.JPG" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Really...how cool is this stuff?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'm seriously giddy about getting this cardboard box open. I kid you not that Tuesdays are now Vegetable Christmas for me. It's like getting that gift from the cool, funky aunt that you open and love instantly and don't really know what it is ("I love it! Is it windchimes or a bolo tie?"). I typically tear into the box, read what the heck everything is and then go on online to figure out how to cook it. Yesterday's delivery did not disappoint. Among the strawberries, avocados, green leaf lettuce and pears (all of which I'm quite skilled at using/ eating), was rainbow chard, bok choy and sunchokes. I did get rainbow chard last week too, so I'd already done my research on how to prepare it (and it went over quite nicely with the adults in the house). But bok choy and sunchokes are new territory. I was instantly excited about the baby bok choy because on the packing list it read "bok choy, baby" so I got to say that over & over for my own enjoyment. We'll be having it tomorrow (details to come).<br />
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Now sunchokes (AKA Jerusalem Artichokes) are ugly little buggers. Sort of a cross between potatoes and ginger root in appearance. Gnarly, if you will. My internet assistant advised to keep it simple and cut them up into chunks on a pan, sprinkle with salt & olive oil and toast in the oven for 30-40 minutes at 350. I loved them! We had fish, garlic quinoa, chard and sunchokes for dinner and I downed most of the 'chokes. They are the consistency of a potato with the taste of an artichoke heart. Delicious! (Good source of iron and low in fat, but does have a lot of carbs & sugar calories, so I suppose I can't go on an all-sunchoke diet).<br />
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I will admit that eating foods like this and becoming more knowledgeable about different vegetables (not to mention that I get weekly delivery of organic goodies from local farms) does make me a bit smug. Which is something I don't feel when I'm standing in our pantry eating leftover Easter candy. But I'm okay with being proud of my weekly Vegetable Christmas. I may even start wearing a Vegetable Christmas sweater.<br />
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Happy Bok Choy, Baby!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-680107288282573747.post-50289123367410215952012-04-16T22:08:00.000-07:002012-04-16T22:08:51.486-07:00Sty of the BeholderAs I've had a lot of time to myself over the last several months, I've become quite tuned in to how the planets tend to align for me. The coincidences or serendipitous occurrences that bring me to certain realizations or "light bulb" moments (or as Oprah would say - the "aha!" moment) that make me believe that my current struggles are serving a bigger purpose. Someday I'm positive I'll look back on this time in my life as the "period of enlightenment."<br />
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So it most certainly did not get lost on me last week that I had developed a super awesome sty in my eye. There were a few reasons that this seemed so relevant; <br />
1.) I have been a bit on edge (read: a raging lunatic to my family) over the utter mess our house has been in recently. The clutter gets to a point that hurls me over the edge and I burst into thoughtful shouts of "what do you people do here?," "why am I the only one who cleans up?" and "I'm just going to throw everything out!" And one day last week, I said to my daughter, "we should be embarrassed to live in such a sty!" See where I'm going here?! I was looking at my sty of a house through the sty IN MY EYE! <br />
2.) It just so happened that I was throwing my very first Avon sample party on Saturday. So as I was gathering samples of Merry Mauve and Passionate Cherry lip gloss, my eye was puffed out with what can only be described as an eyelid zit poking out from under the top lashes. The universe was teaching me a lesson in humility, patience and the ability to laugh at myself. All I could see was me trying to push the Glittersticks eyeliner to my horrified guests with one eye gummed shut. Once I did manage to laugh at the thought, the stars lined up and cleared up my ocular goo the day before my party of beauty.<br />
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A few hours before the party, I inserted my contacts once again, and painted up my face with Denim Blues eyeshadow and Flambe lipstick. My hair was working and I was feeling pretty and confident for my glamorous hosting gig. I'm sure I gave myself a few winks and the proverbial thumbs-up in the bathroom mirror. As I went to walk out of the bathroom, I decided to spray a little air-freshener just to jazz things up a bit. At the very moment I was opening the bathroom door and spraying the Sunshine Linens air spray, my daughter opened the front door sending a slight breeze toward me and the air freshener directly into my face and eyes.<br />
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And once again, I thanked the aligned stars and the universe for the glorious, and apparently much needed, enlightenment.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2