So as of December 11th, I have been unemployed (in a full-time status) for one year. And I have learned a few things. I thought I'd write a little something about what I have learned and you can take it or leave it....(keep in mind, I am still without a job). Maybe this is more of "learn what not to do" list than a "to do" list, but you can make up your own mind.
1) Shower every morning, put on some make-up, and put on your pants. And sweatpants/pajama bottoms don't count. Unemployment ranks right up there on the scale of "death of a loved one" when it comes to emotional stress, ask any therapist. As Americans, our identity is so closely linked to our occupation that when we lose our jobs, it's exactly like losing our sense of who we are. And if we aren't careful, "who we are" can easily become a depressed, lost mess. It can be so easy to stay in bed and/or become one with the couch. So by forcing yourself to be clean, forcing yourself to be presentable, and squeezing yourself into your jeans, you are at least "faking" it to yourself that you know who you are: a clean, pretty, presentable person who will find a job. Very soon.
Very important: the whole jeans vs. sweatpants thing. I have gained 30 pounds over the past year. 20 of which have been in the last 2 1/2 months. Not pretty. But it's really hard to notice the waistline expanding when the waistline of your pants expands with it. Plus a kitchen full of Nutty Bars, Swiss Rolls and Doritos calling your name all day doesn't help either.
2) Get out of the house. Take the mornings to apply for unemployment insurance and look for jobs on-line. But if you sit in front of that computer all day, YOU WILL GO CRAZY. I will admit to being addicted to Facebook, because somewhere in my twisted mind I am sure that one day, someone will say, "Hey! You are so great at this Facebook thing, how'd you like a job doing it for $100,000/year."
Plus, I think there is something to be said for "a watched pot never boils." Get out of the house in the afternoons and someone will call you for an interview. Sit there by the phone and no one will.
Volunteer for something. Help out in your child's class. I've been helping out my daughter's kindergarten class on Wednesday afternoons and have learned a ton about how those little minds work. Plus, she loves it and I get an inside scoop on all of the 5-year old drama going on.
Run an errand. I do a lot of grocery shopping (maybe that has something to do with the weight gain....?) because I love that store. There is just something so soothing about the bright calming lights of the HyVee. All of the employees are so friendly. There's free samples at every turn. And who knew that you could get absolutely delicious fried won tons in the Chinese department of a grocery store. Pick an errand to run and get outside.
3.) Don't expect the call. I have applied for on average 5-6 jobs a week and will get 1 call back for every 20-25 jobs I apply for. And that might even be stretching it. No one calls you back any more. And I have a college degree and 20 years experience in the work force. I suppose I am under/over qualified for a lot of the positions that I am applying for, but.....I just need a job. I've read that if you really want the job, you have to call and pester the hiring manager, but I have noticed that a lot of the jobs that I am applying for are faceless. There's no one to call, no one to talk to. Plus, I never really know if I want the job to begin with. I know I want a job, but there's nothing making me fired up to call the company back so that I can work 50 hours a week selling....door hinges.
But they for sure won't call you. At least not as often as you would like and that can bruise the old ego a bit. So don't take it personally. The job market sucks. You just gotta keep plugging away.
4) B.S. Every once in a while you may get an interview and this can be where things get tricky. I have now gotten to do several interviews, and you start to feel like a robot, answering the same questions over and over again. One of my favorites is "Why do you want to sell door hinges?" (Or obviously whatever the company does that you are trying to get the opportunity to do for them.) And then you have to come up with some inspired and passionate-sounding answer to why you just really want a paycheck because you need to pay some bills and feed your children. "Because I like the idea of being able to open the door on a future with your company....(BS, BS, BS...)"
There is a fine line between creative BS and desperation. If you start to feel that your answers to interview questions are like those coming out of a blond beauty pageant contestant's mouth and don't feel like they are your own, you may need to practice your BS-ing. skills. Find a friend and have them interview you. There are also a lot of great mock interview questions on the internet that you can practice with over and over again. The main thing to remember when shoveling out your BS, if you're not sure of the quality, keep things short. Just a whiff, instead of a full-on aromatherapy session will do for your interview.
There's the first four tips. I'll try and share more over the next few days/weeks. But it's time for me to get my pants on and leave the house. Otherwise I could be trapped in my own B.S.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Locked Out
I am the worst mother ever. (And I'm sure all moms will relate to this story and it's accompanying feeling.)
Last night, Grant had his first basketball practice. I remembered to buy him a new ball, but I forgot to get him some new shoes. So there he was slipping and sliding all over the court in his "running around in" shoes that I bought him in September. (I've heard Michael Jordan started out slipping and sliding all over the court in bad shoes.)
So I took him to the store to buy him some new ones and find out that in 3 1/2 months his Size 3 1/2 shoes were waaaay too small. My little man now wears a 5. His feet have grown a full size and a half in just under four months! This kid has been walking around in shoes that are way too small, so now not only do I have to buy him basketball shoes, I also have to buy him "running around in" shoes. (And yes, I do mean my little man. He just started wearing deodorant. Because he needed to. While I'm sure he doesn't want me to share that with the rest of the world, I cannot believe my baby stinks like a man.)
We went to Target, and he picked out a pair of "skater" shoes (on sale only $19.99!!!) and we headed out the door. This morning we woke up and started getting ready for school. Ten minutes before the final bell rang, we were putting the shoes on, and I realized that I have no idea how to tie these shoes. When I was in school, the skaters wore Chuck Taylors and they were easy to tie. These new Millennium "skater" shoes had two sets of laces. Two sets, per shoe. (WTF!!!!-What the French Horn!?) I could not for the life of me figure out how to tie two sets of shoelaces, especially not on a time crunch (now 8 minutes before they need to be at school), so I yelled, swore, and blamed the stupid shoes. I promised them a certain return to Target (with receipt) and made Grant stuff his Size 5's back into his Size 3 1/2's just so we could get to school on time.
I headed out to Target to return the shoes (with receipt) and as I headed back to my minivan, I fished around in my purse looking for my keys and had that sinking feeling.....I locked my keys in the Honda. There they were, plain as day, sitting locked in the van. And I didn't freak out.
Remembering I have no cell phone, I again fished around in the bottom of my purse, feeling my way past lip glosses, pens, a Hot Wheels car and more receipts for some spare change and headed back into the store. I looked up and down the front of the store, by the bathrooms, by the customer service desk and I realized that it is 2010 (almost 2011) and pay phones don't really exist any more and haven't for at least two decades. Again, I didn't freak out.
Right then, my friend Pam walks through the door. Beautiful, beautiful Pam whom I worked with at the radio station. Beautiful Pam, with a cellphone. Quick hug and "How ya doin'" and she lets me borrow her phone. I call my ex-husband (Estranged spouse? Father of my children? Keeper of the extra van key?) and leave a message on his cellphone telling him that I am locked out, and I realize that I don't know if he will get the message at all. Pam and I chit chat for a while. I leave another message on Chris' phone. Pam has got to get back to work and again, I don't freak out.
I started to feel a little bit like that movie with Natalie Portman, where she's pregnant and lives at Walmart. Only, I'm not pregnant, I'm at Target, and I have a debit card. So I buy myself a sandwich and go sit on the bench outside, just in case Chris should show up with the extra key.
I'm sitting outside enjoying the wonderful day. 50 degrees and sunny on a December day in Lincoln, NE. I'm enjoying watching the people go by. A (I hate to be judgmental, but what looks like a scruffy bum) scruffy bum walks by talking on his cellphone. (I am sure by now that I am the last living person without a cellphone.) My friend Meredith drives by and I consider chasing after her, not to see if she can save me or break into my car to rescue my keys, but to tell her Happy Birthday! And then I decide to walk home.
Target is only about 25 blocks or so from my house. I am guessing 4-6 miles. I used to run 3. I could walk for 6 miles. The weather is beautiful. The only place I need to be is at school to pick up the kids at 3:30 and it is only 1 o'clock. So I leave a note for Chris under the windshield wipers and start to walk.
And that was when I realized that I have been truly, truly blessed. The crises that I have suffered over the past two years with my job loss, my marriage failure and the constant challenge of child-rearing. The pain. The depression. The day to day stress and struggle to keep my head above water. What the "bad stuff" truly prepares us for is for moments like this. I locked myself out of my car. Any other time before this, I would have agonized over this. I would have looked at the worst. I would have stressed OUT at being inconvenienced and despaired over my plight.
But today, it was an adventure. Okay, so I locked my keys in my car and don't have a cell phone, now what? Oh, God Bless! Here comes Beautiful Pam! Oh, I'm stranded at Target during lunch time, now what? Oh, God Bless! Target has a delicious turkey flatbread sandwich. I was able to soak in some sun. I could enjoy watching the Christmas shoppers. I had no place I needed to be. And even starting the six mile trudge home, it was 50 degrees outside. I had to take off my scarf because I got warm. God Bless!
We hear all of the time that God does not give us more than we can handle. Of course when we are going through the storm, all of that seems hard to understand. But it is so true. Every challenge only makes us tougher. Every obstacle only makes us smarter, more agile. The challenges in life are God's gift to us. With every challenge in life, we get stronger and He so wants us to be strong. The good thing is He knows how much we can handle. Even when we don't. And he will reward us on our journey. With good friends, a sunny day, and a delicious turkey flat bread sandwich.
Last night, Grant had his first basketball practice. I remembered to buy him a new ball, but I forgot to get him some new shoes. So there he was slipping and sliding all over the court in his "running around in" shoes that I bought him in September. (I've heard Michael Jordan started out slipping and sliding all over the court in bad shoes.)
So I took him to the store to buy him some new ones and find out that in 3 1/2 months his Size 3 1/2 shoes were waaaay too small. My little man now wears a 5. His feet have grown a full size and a half in just under four months! This kid has been walking around in shoes that are way too small, so now not only do I have to buy him basketball shoes, I also have to buy him "running around in" shoes. (And yes, I do mean my little man. He just started wearing deodorant. Because he needed to. While I'm sure he doesn't want me to share that with the rest of the world, I cannot believe my baby stinks like a man.)
We went to Target, and he picked out a pair of "skater" shoes (on sale only $19.99!!!) and we headed out the door. This morning we woke up and started getting ready for school. Ten minutes before the final bell rang, we were putting the shoes on, and I realized that I have no idea how to tie these shoes. When I was in school, the skaters wore Chuck Taylors and they were easy to tie. These new Millennium "skater" shoes had two sets of laces. Two sets, per shoe. (WTF!!!!-What the French Horn!?) I could not for the life of me figure out how to tie two sets of shoelaces, especially not on a time crunch (now 8 minutes before they need to be at school), so I yelled, swore, and blamed the stupid shoes. I promised them a certain return to Target (with receipt) and made Grant stuff his Size 5's back into his Size 3 1/2's just so we could get to school on time.
I headed out to Target to return the shoes (with receipt) and as I headed back to my minivan, I fished around in my purse looking for my keys and had that sinking feeling.....I locked my keys in the Honda. There they were, plain as day, sitting locked in the van. And I didn't freak out.
Remembering I have no cell phone, I again fished around in the bottom of my purse, feeling my way past lip glosses, pens, a Hot Wheels car and more receipts for some spare change and headed back into the store. I looked up and down the front of the store, by the bathrooms, by the customer service desk and I realized that it is 2010 (almost 2011) and pay phones don't really exist any more and haven't for at least two decades. Again, I didn't freak out.
Right then, my friend Pam walks through the door. Beautiful, beautiful Pam whom I worked with at the radio station. Beautiful Pam, with a cellphone. Quick hug and "How ya doin'" and she lets me borrow her phone. I call my ex-husband (Estranged spouse? Father of my children? Keeper of the extra van key?) and leave a message on his cellphone telling him that I am locked out, and I realize that I don't know if he will get the message at all. Pam and I chit chat for a while. I leave another message on Chris' phone. Pam has got to get back to work and again, I don't freak out.
I started to feel a little bit like that movie with Natalie Portman, where she's pregnant and lives at Walmart. Only, I'm not pregnant, I'm at Target, and I have a debit card. So I buy myself a sandwich and go sit on the bench outside, just in case Chris should show up with the extra key.
I'm sitting outside enjoying the wonderful day. 50 degrees and sunny on a December day in Lincoln, NE. I'm enjoying watching the people go by. A (I hate to be judgmental, but what looks like a scruffy bum) scruffy bum walks by talking on his cellphone. (I am sure by now that I am the last living person without a cellphone.) My friend Meredith drives by and I consider chasing after her, not to see if she can save me or break into my car to rescue my keys, but to tell her Happy Birthday! And then I decide to walk home.
Target is only about 25 blocks or so from my house. I am guessing 4-6 miles. I used to run 3. I could walk for 6 miles. The weather is beautiful. The only place I need to be is at school to pick up the kids at 3:30 and it is only 1 o'clock. So I leave a note for Chris under the windshield wipers and start to walk.
And that was when I realized that I have been truly, truly blessed. The crises that I have suffered over the past two years with my job loss, my marriage failure and the constant challenge of child-rearing. The pain. The depression. The day to day stress and struggle to keep my head above water. What the "bad stuff" truly prepares us for is for moments like this. I locked myself out of my car. Any other time before this, I would have agonized over this. I would have looked at the worst. I would have stressed OUT at being inconvenienced and despaired over my plight.
But today, it was an adventure. Okay, so I locked my keys in my car and don't have a cell phone, now what? Oh, God Bless! Here comes Beautiful Pam! Oh, I'm stranded at Target during lunch time, now what? Oh, God Bless! Target has a delicious turkey flatbread sandwich. I was able to soak in some sun. I could enjoy watching the Christmas shoppers. I had no place I needed to be. And even starting the six mile trudge home, it was 50 degrees outside. I had to take off my scarf because I got warm. God Bless!
We hear all of the time that God does not give us more than we can handle. Of course when we are going through the storm, all of that seems hard to understand. But it is so true. Every challenge only makes us tougher. Every obstacle only makes us smarter, more agile. The challenges in life are God's gift to us. With every challenge in life, we get stronger and He so wants us to be strong. The good thing is He knows how much we can handle. Even when we don't. And he will reward us on our journey. With good friends, a sunny day, and a delicious turkey flat bread sandwich.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thanksgiving
The storm was coming with lots of snow and blowing snow and drifting snow, so Chris decided to take the kids up to Fargo for Thanksgiving weekend Tuesday night. My dad was worried that I would be lonely all weekend. My mom was worried that I would be alone on a holiday. I was thrilled that I could have five days to clean the house and do whatever the heck I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. It was like I was 18 again and off to college. Except this time, what I wanted to do was clean. (I know. Shocking!)
If you are a parent of a child under 10 (I am also guessing that this type of thing happens if you are a parent at all, regardless of how old your child is). you know how tough it can be to keep your house clean. You clean a room and the kids are in the rest of the house completely destroying it. And then they come into your brand spankin' new clean room and completely trash that. So you could live in a house that is moderately messy, or clean and have the place look like a lego/moonsand/littlest pet shop tornado came through.
I also have this dog issue. Two of them. I mean I have two dogs with a lot of issues. Mostly where and when and how much they relieve themselves. They are both girl dogs and both have a need to "one-up" each other. Lacey started things by....sprinkling upstairs in our tv room. This is the room in the house with the tv, a fireplace, really the coziest, comfiest place in the whole house. And she peed in there. Well, Rosie couldn't stand that, so she peed on top of it. And so on, and so on, and so on..... I've bought special stuff from the pet store that is supposed to cover up the smell so that they are not tempted to re-offend. Doesn't work. Called my friend the professional carpet guy. Cleaned the stain, but the girls are still at it. I wound up putting the baby gate back up, so they can't even get to the room. Until Wednesday night, when I was up there trying to clean and I left the gate open for 2 seconds to get the vacuum....one of them sneeked a leak.
And now today is Sunday. The kids are on their way home and I only have 1 and a half rooms clean. What did I do with all my free time......
That is what I am thankful for. I have had a pretty rough year. If you have been reading/following my blogs you know already. Job loss, divorce, shoe loss, broken toes, dogs messes (read above). But I have the most fantastic friends EVER. There is one family of friends that basically adopted me this weekend. They invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner, they invited me over to a big bonfire Friday night after the Husker game, and they make me laugh non-stop. My next door neighbors, The Welcomers, also invited me over for a Thanksgiving meal (yeah, I ate like a rock star that day) and we've been borrowing/lending movies back and forth all weekend. My friends Katie and Natalie and DeAnna all stopped over this weekend to chit chat, play with makeup, and Katie loaned me her vacuum when mine went kaput.
These are just a few of my friends and this is just one weekend. I've had a lot of friends step up and offer me a hand or a shoulder over this past year, and this is my opportunity to say Thanks. I don't say it enough, and can't show you enough, but the support I have had from my neighbors, my fellow Mary Kay ladies, my high school and college friends, my former co-workers and their family members, and my siblings is unbelievable. And it means more to me than I can say.
People can say this world is in trouble all they like. That people don't care anymore. But I have proof that they do. Just look at my friends. Happy Thanksgiving!
If you are a parent of a child under 10 (I am also guessing that this type of thing happens if you are a parent at all, regardless of how old your child is). you know how tough it can be to keep your house clean. You clean a room and the kids are in the rest of the house completely destroying it. And then they come into your brand spankin' new clean room and completely trash that. So you could live in a house that is moderately messy, or clean and have the place look like a lego/moonsand/littlest pet shop tornado came through.
I also have this dog issue. Two of them. I mean I have two dogs with a lot of issues. Mostly where and when and how much they relieve themselves. They are both girl dogs and both have a need to "one-up" each other. Lacey started things by....sprinkling upstairs in our tv room. This is the room in the house with the tv, a fireplace, really the coziest, comfiest place in the whole house. And she peed in there. Well, Rosie couldn't stand that, so she peed on top of it. And so on, and so on, and so on..... I've bought special stuff from the pet store that is supposed to cover up the smell so that they are not tempted to re-offend. Doesn't work. Called my friend the professional carpet guy. Cleaned the stain, but the girls are still at it. I wound up putting the baby gate back up, so they can't even get to the room. Until Wednesday night, when I was up there trying to clean and I left the gate open for 2 seconds to get the vacuum....one of them sneeked a leak.
And now today is Sunday. The kids are on their way home and I only have 1 and a half rooms clean. What did I do with all my free time......
That is what I am thankful for. I have had a pretty rough year. If you have been reading/following my blogs you know already. Job loss, divorce, shoe loss, broken toes, dogs messes (read above). But I have the most fantastic friends EVER. There is one family of friends that basically adopted me this weekend. They invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner, they invited me over to a big bonfire Friday night after the Husker game, and they make me laugh non-stop. My next door neighbors, The Welcomers, also invited me over for a Thanksgiving meal (yeah, I ate like a rock star that day) and we've been borrowing/lending movies back and forth all weekend. My friends Katie and Natalie and DeAnna all stopped over this weekend to chit chat, play with makeup, and Katie loaned me her vacuum when mine went kaput.
These are just a few of my friends and this is just one weekend. I've had a lot of friends step up and offer me a hand or a shoulder over this past year, and this is my opportunity to say Thanks. I don't say it enough, and can't show you enough, but the support I have had from my neighbors, my fellow Mary Kay ladies, my high school and college friends, my former co-workers and their family members, and my siblings is unbelievable. And it means more to me than I can say.
People can say this world is in trouble all they like. That people don't care anymore. But I have proof that they do. Just look at my friends. Happy Thanksgiving!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
The F-Word
I have a love/hate relationship with swearing. I don't like hearing swear words around kids and yet I have been known to throw out a well-varied string of foul language while in unexpected pain. My mother goes to church every Sunday but can swear like a sailor while watching high school basketball. (So funny, people around her at the games, noticing how intently she would follow the action, would always ask, "Which player is your son?" And she would say, "None of them, my daughter is the cheerleader.") I actually prefer to listen to edited songs so that I don't hear bad language in my favorite toons, but I know a well-placed swear word can add extra heft when you need to get a point across.
Of course, I don't like it when kids swear. Sure it's funny when a little baby mistakenly says something else when asking for a firetruck. Who doesn't laugh when a toddler runs around with a pirate ship calling it something else? That is funny because it is not on purpose and accidents are funny.
I've always thought that the real reason people swear (and I try to teach my kids this) is because they aren't intelligent enough to come up with a different word. The English language is full of lots and lots of different words that we can use to mean the same thing. We just have to get creative.
Like Spencer. He has been swearing like a truck driver. Without swearing. Just this afternoon, after his brother snatched his gigantic bag of rainbow popcorn out of his hand (leftover birthday treat), just as he was settling in to play another marathon session of Mario, Spencer yells, "Hey! You are such an F-word idiot!!!!"
He didn't specify which f-word. He said literally "you are such an f-word idiot." The f-word could have been...funny, frugal, fantastic, frumpy, flatulent (ooh, that would be a good one), fat, fraternal....you get my point. So, by not swearing, he was using his creative talents to insult his brother in an ambiguous way.
Ambiguous insults. Could be the wave of the future. Could be the answer to world peace. Could be an awesome band name.
Of course, I don't like it when kids swear. Sure it's funny when a little baby mistakenly says something else when asking for a firetruck. Who doesn't laugh when a toddler runs around with a pirate ship calling it something else? That is funny because it is not on purpose and accidents are funny.
I've always thought that the real reason people swear (and I try to teach my kids this) is because they aren't intelligent enough to come up with a different word. The English language is full of lots and lots of different words that we can use to mean the same thing. We just have to get creative.
Like Spencer. He has been swearing like a truck driver. Without swearing. Just this afternoon, after his brother snatched his gigantic bag of rainbow popcorn out of his hand (leftover birthday treat), just as he was settling in to play another marathon session of Mario, Spencer yells, "Hey! You are such an F-word idiot!!!!"
He didn't specify which f-word. He said literally "you are such an f-word idiot." The f-word could have been...funny, frugal, fantastic, frumpy, flatulent (ooh, that would be a good one), fat, fraternal....you get my point. So, by not swearing, he was using his creative talents to insult his brother in an ambiguous way.
Ambiguous insults. Could be the wave of the future. Could be the answer to world peace. Could be an awesome band name.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Search Button
I don't have a cellphone. I have a land line. I know I'm old school, but I really prefer it this way. We tried having just cellphones when we moved into this house, but I could never find the stupid thing when I needed to make a call. It was usually hidden under a couch cushion, or under the coffee table, or in the laundry basket or someplace weird. And if the ringer was off, fugeddaboutit.
We have three phones connected to our landline. One "corded, really old school, attached to the wall" phone-which will never, ever, ever in a gazillion years get lost. And two cordless phones with a really cool feature, when you press a button on the base of the chargers, the lost phones will beep until you find them. So if you need to call your sister, or follow up on a job interview or call the doctor, you just press the Search Button, and beep, beep, beep, you've found your handset!
I just wish someone could install this feature on everything else in my life that I seem to misplace. Mia had a Thanksgiving project for school that involved 3 components: We were supposed to decorate a paper turkey, print out a picture of our family, and bring in a can of food for a Thanksgiving Food Drive for their school.
The paper turkey was just a picture of a cartoon turkey that we, as a family, were supposed to decorate as a togetherness project. We just never seem to have time together. Mia started to decorate it by herself. Grant pitched in by doing some "improvements." Spencer was glued to his video game. I always seem to have to clean something or pick something up or run an errand or look for something, that I never have time to "collaborate." It needed to be handed in on Friday, which I found out about Friday morning, 5 minutes before we left the house. It wasn't on the kitchen table. It wasn't on the homework table, which has turned into a Lego table. And it wasn't in Mia's backpack. I need a Search Button!
I wanted to print out a picture of our family, but couldn't decide which picture to print out. A picture with the kids and mom. A picture with the kids and dad. Just the kids. I'm not even sure if there is a picture of us all together, but now with the separation/divorce I'm not sure what the definition is of our family anymore. I need a Search Button!
The whole school is doing a Thanksgiving Food Drive for unprivileged families in our community. The goal is to get each kid to donate a can of food for the less fortunate. At the school my children attend, 45% of the kids qualify for the free/reduced lunch program. I think that we might qualify. But I'm too afraid to check. I am a smart and talented person. I have a college degree. I work hard and take great pride in what I can accomplish. I cannot qualify for the free/reduced lunch program. I give to charity. I don't accept it. All I need is a job, not charity. An opportunity to show what I can do. I know that I can make some company a lot of money. I have a billion ideas (a few of them good!) floating around in my head.
A job. A chance. I need a Search Button.
We have three phones connected to our landline. One "corded, really old school, attached to the wall" phone-which will never, ever, ever in a gazillion years get lost. And two cordless phones with a really cool feature, when you press a button on the base of the chargers, the lost phones will beep until you find them. So if you need to call your sister, or follow up on a job interview or call the doctor, you just press the Search Button, and beep, beep, beep, you've found your handset!
I just wish someone could install this feature on everything else in my life that I seem to misplace. Mia had a Thanksgiving project for school that involved 3 components: We were supposed to decorate a paper turkey, print out a picture of our family, and bring in a can of food for a Thanksgiving Food Drive for their school.
The paper turkey was just a picture of a cartoon turkey that we, as a family, were supposed to decorate as a togetherness project. We just never seem to have time together. Mia started to decorate it by herself. Grant pitched in by doing some "improvements." Spencer was glued to his video game. I always seem to have to clean something or pick something up or run an errand or look for something, that I never have time to "collaborate." It needed to be handed in on Friday, which I found out about Friday morning, 5 minutes before we left the house. It wasn't on the kitchen table. It wasn't on the homework table, which has turned into a Lego table. And it wasn't in Mia's backpack. I need a Search Button!
I wanted to print out a picture of our family, but couldn't decide which picture to print out. A picture with the kids and mom. A picture with the kids and dad. Just the kids. I'm not even sure if there is a picture of us all together, but now with the separation/divorce I'm not sure what the definition is of our family anymore. I need a Search Button!
The whole school is doing a Thanksgiving Food Drive for unprivileged families in our community. The goal is to get each kid to donate a can of food for the less fortunate. At the school my children attend, 45% of the kids qualify for the free/reduced lunch program. I think that we might qualify. But I'm too afraid to check. I am a smart and talented person. I have a college degree. I work hard and take great pride in what I can accomplish. I cannot qualify for the free/reduced lunch program. I give to charity. I don't accept it. All I need is a job, not charity. An opportunity to show what I can do. I know that I can make some company a lot of money. I have a billion ideas (a few of them good!) floating around in my head.
A job. A chance. I need a Search Button.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Envy and Cheezits
So I went back to the well this weekend. Or the cave. Or where ever it is that you go when life's got you down and you need the love and support of those who love and support you. And I also realized that it sucks to be around happy people. Unless they are kids.
I have three adorable, yet challenging kids. My sister Krissy has the same. We've been pregnant simultaneously twice and have two sets of children that are only a month apart. If you can only imagine 6 kids and two dogs (mine at home soiling the carpets and leaving fabulous "Why'd ya go?" presents for me) running all over an enormous, happy house in Elmhurst, IL.
My sister is amazing. She's a size 2. She's gorgeous. Doesn't look a day over 26 (Actually she does, but she's the kind of woman that looks better in her 30's than she did at 21.) She has a huge house, a happy marriage, lots of money, kids who behave and dogs who don't bark at the mailman or pee on the carpet. Perfection. Oh, yeah and she is a great and giving person.
Which makes it hard to be me right now. Because I feel completely the opposite of that. I feel gray and small (and fat) and lumpy and bitter and shriveled and sad and pathetic. Next to her fabulousness, I'm just...bleh. And she'll read this and tell me, "No! You're awesome!" and give me a pep talk and offer to paint the world for me, all I'd have to do is name the color. Because that is the kind of person she is. Awesome. And I'm not. Not right now.
It's not envy exactly. I love my sister and wish her only happiness and the thought of myself being envious of her life is not true at all. I'm envious of everyone that is happy right now. People who have jobs that they can complain about. People who can buy things knowing that they will have paychecks coming in the next few months. People who can text on their cell phones. People who can decorate their houses for Halloween. People who can go to movies. People who can get their children haircuts without putting them on the charge card. People who can plan for Christmas. People who can sign up their kids for anything without wondering about the pricetag and whether or not you can afford it. People who can buy their kids a second pair of shoes. People who don't have to worry about someone they love lying to them over and over again. Envy.
So that is why I chose to focus on our children this weekend. Something about their exploits, innocent and new. I could sit and watch them envy-free. I could just enjoy their sweet spirits and their innocence. (Plus the wise sage Luke-who is my eldest nephew and who's brilliant mind who I cannot wait to see bloom, insisted that I write about them.)
Highlights of the weekend include:
1) Grant and his cousin Alec (both 9) coming upstairs from the play room with matching bloody noses. (?????) Both of them.
"What were you guys doing?" I query.
"Oh, nothing. We were just playing a game." Alec quips. Neither one was crying. No whining. No crying. Just bloody noses. And Grant looking a little green.
I could remember some crazy games of Twister growing up. Or maybe playing Barbies. Or an intense game of Monopoly with my brother. But nothing that would involve two bloody noses.
"Oh, in that case...." I handed them some tissues and sent them on their way.
2) If anyone can throw a party, it is my sister Krissy. She had the music pumping for the kids. Pepperoni pizza on these funky skull and cross bone plates. And she served sparkling apple cider in fun Halloween glasses. So festive!!!! I looked over at Mia (my 5-year old) and she looked horrified.
"What's the matter sweetie?" I ask.
"I don't want to drink....beer!" she cried. The look on her face was priceless. I plan on holding that one in my mind when she's 16 dresssed in a white tank top and miniskirt and out with some Nebraska corn-fed boys looking for the street dance. At least I know she doesn't like beer!
I assured her it was just apple cider. She took a tentative sip and loved it! (You better believe I am buying a shotgun with the first paycheck of any job I might get.)
3.) The kids were sitting at the table, playing with the new toys that Aunt Krissy had bought for them earlier in the day. When sweet little blue-eyed, blond-haired 5-year old Jack asks me, "So....when did'ya get a divorce?"
That one threw me. I've had conversations with my own kids. And conversations with grown-ups. With well thought-out and scripted reasons of why my marriage fell apart. But when a kindergartener just throws it out there in the middle of a "happy" day.....I just didn't know what to say. So I went in the pantry and cried. In the middle of single serving packets of chocolate chip cookies and Cheezits, I cried.
And then I realized, I am having a breakdown surrounded by Capri Suns and Enteneman's donuts. Small bags of fish crackers and pretzels. 5 oz bottles of water and granola bars. It was a little weird. Things in small packages. Little things to grab when you need that small something to get you to the next stage.
I have decided that even if my envy seems like it can consume me, even if the happy grown-ups are more than I can handle, I need to remember to look at my little somethings. (And the adorable little somethings around me.) Innocence. Purity. Easy nibble-ability. All in convienent self-serve packages.
I have three adorable, yet challenging kids. My sister Krissy has the same. We've been pregnant simultaneously twice and have two sets of children that are only a month apart. If you can only imagine 6 kids and two dogs (mine at home soiling the carpets and leaving fabulous "Why'd ya go?" presents for me) running all over an enormous, happy house in Elmhurst, IL.
My sister is amazing. She's a size 2. She's gorgeous. Doesn't look a day over 26 (Actually she does, but she's the kind of woman that looks better in her 30's than she did at 21.) She has a huge house, a happy marriage, lots of money, kids who behave and dogs who don't bark at the mailman or pee on the carpet. Perfection. Oh, yeah and she is a great and giving person.
Which makes it hard to be me right now. Because I feel completely the opposite of that. I feel gray and small (and fat) and lumpy and bitter and shriveled and sad and pathetic. Next to her fabulousness, I'm just...bleh. And she'll read this and tell me, "No! You're awesome!" and give me a pep talk and offer to paint the world for me, all I'd have to do is name the color. Because that is the kind of person she is. Awesome. And I'm not. Not right now.
It's not envy exactly. I love my sister and wish her only happiness and the thought of myself being envious of her life is not true at all. I'm envious of everyone that is happy right now. People who have jobs that they can complain about. People who can buy things knowing that they will have paychecks coming in the next few months. People who can text on their cell phones. People who can decorate their houses for Halloween. People who can go to movies. People who can get their children haircuts without putting them on the charge card. People who can plan for Christmas. People who can sign up their kids for anything without wondering about the pricetag and whether or not you can afford it. People who can buy their kids a second pair of shoes. People who don't have to worry about someone they love lying to them over and over again. Envy.
So that is why I chose to focus on our children this weekend. Something about their exploits, innocent and new. I could sit and watch them envy-free. I could just enjoy their sweet spirits and their innocence. (Plus the wise sage Luke-who is my eldest nephew and who's brilliant mind who I cannot wait to see bloom, insisted that I write about them.)
Highlights of the weekend include:
1) Grant and his cousin Alec (both 9) coming upstairs from the play room with matching bloody noses. (?????) Both of them.
"What were you guys doing?" I query.
"Oh, nothing. We were just playing a game." Alec quips. Neither one was crying. No whining. No crying. Just bloody noses. And Grant looking a little green.
I could remember some crazy games of Twister growing up. Or maybe playing Barbies. Or an intense game of Monopoly with my brother. But nothing that would involve two bloody noses.
"Oh, in that case...." I handed them some tissues and sent them on their way.
2) If anyone can throw a party, it is my sister Krissy. She had the music pumping for the kids. Pepperoni pizza on these funky skull and cross bone plates. And she served sparkling apple cider in fun Halloween glasses. So festive!!!! I looked over at Mia (my 5-year old) and she looked horrified.
"What's the matter sweetie?" I ask.
"I don't want to drink....beer!" she cried. The look on her face was priceless. I plan on holding that one in my mind when she's 16 dresssed in a white tank top and miniskirt and out with some Nebraska corn-fed boys looking for the street dance. At least I know she doesn't like beer!
I assured her it was just apple cider. She took a tentative sip and loved it! (You better believe I am buying a shotgun with the first paycheck of any job I might get.)
3.) The kids were sitting at the table, playing with the new toys that Aunt Krissy had bought for them earlier in the day. When sweet little blue-eyed, blond-haired 5-year old Jack asks me, "So....when did'ya get a divorce?"
That one threw me. I've had conversations with my own kids. And conversations with grown-ups. With well thought-out and scripted reasons of why my marriage fell apart. But when a kindergartener just throws it out there in the middle of a "happy" day.....I just didn't know what to say. So I went in the pantry and cried. In the middle of single serving packets of chocolate chip cookies and Cheezits, I cried.
And then I realized, I am having a breakdown surrounded by Capri Suns and Enteneman's donuts. Small bags of fish crackers and pretzels. 5 oz bottles of water and granola bars. It was a little weird. Things in small packages. Little things to grab when you need that small something to get you to the next stage.
I have decided that even if my envy seems like it can consume me, even if the happy grown-ups are more than I can handle, I need to remember to look at my little somethings. (And the adorable little somethings around me.) Innocence. Purity. Easy nibble-ability. All in convienent
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Bumpers
The other day I got rear-ended. On 84th Street on my way to HyVee to buy some groceries. There were a bunch of people turning into Kohl's for some reason and the traffic was backed up and I had to stop and the guy behind me wasn't paying as much attention as I was. Bam!
I get out. He gets out. My rear bumper is already pretty messed up from the day I drove the minivan off the Honda lot. I got rear-ended that day within 5 minutes of driving off the lot. No kidding. But all she left was the imprint of the screws on her license plate. This guy left the imprint of the screws of his license plate and a little extra small dent just for good measure.
I look at the damage. The guy was young, but not too young. Maybe 5 years younger than I am. His car was some average white sedan made most likely in the late '90's. He worked hard for the little money he had and it showed. I am unemployed. I am a single mom. I have no money and very soon could go into some serious debt. A little ding on my back bumper is really no big deal. To drag police officers and lawsuits and tickets and deductibles seemed like a serious waste of negative energy. So I sent him on his way. And he was happy.
Saturday was the Husker game vs. Texas. Chris had the kids in the afternoon, so I thought it would be fun to join my friends watching the game at a bar in downtown Lincoln. If you've never captured the frenzied fan atmosphere of Game Day in Husker Nation, you are surely missing out. Thousands of people, not only descend upon Memorial Stadium to cheer the Big Red on, but thousands of ticketless souls also (myself included) love to just drink in the spirit (pun intended) and revel in the sport of fandom.
I didn't get downtown until 2 and the game started at 2:30, so officially, I couldn't even find a parking spot "downtown." It was a little more like....down, dowtown. Not in the safest neighborhood in Lincoln. But there I saw it.....a spot just big enough to fit the Honda! If I just nestled it in so carefully.....backing up just a little bit to get it in just right......easy, easy....and I just gently kissed the car in front of me. I was being as careful as I could be. There was a guy on his cellphone on the other side of the road and two scary looking ladies (using the term the kindest spirit) smoking cigarettes outside of their rundown apartment. I admit, I was bumper to bumper with the car ahead of me, but I was grateful to have found a spot at all with all the craziness of Game Day action.
And then there was the game. (Ouch) Head hanging low, I head back to my car. It was dark. I was a little scared. I had my keys in hand, just in case some psycho wanted to steal my purse with the 4 different shades of lipgloss I have inside. Most of the traffic had gone by this point. I think that most people just wanted to go home and stick their heads in cartons of ice cream. (Yes, the loss was that bad.) And then I saw the note.
"You parked into my car and damaged the back bumper. Your plate info was taken along with pictures. Expect to hear from my lawyer."
Really? Really? First of all, I remember back in the day, the entire purpose of bumpers was to allow for a little bumping and scraping from time to time. That was why they were called "bumpers." Second of all, if you are this un-used to "creative parking" at Husker games, you should take the shuttle in. And third of all, what lawyer has access to running license plate numbers? And why would you pay that lawyer the $85 an hour to fix a $25 scratch on your bumper?
But really what struck me is how irate someone had gotten over something so stupid. Would this guy have gotten so mad if I had been there? If he had gotten to see my "disheveled-unemployed-I-need-help" face? It's a car!!!! When did we get so possessive of our "things?" I didn't hurt him or any of his family members. I maybe (and just maybe) scratched the bumper of his car a little bit. Something he worked hard for, sure, but again, just a "thing." It wasn't like I plowed into him. I nestled my car up next to his. Going maybe .5 miles/hour. It's a "thing!" If I had caused any damage (or even thought I had), I would have popped a note on his car. (Remember, there were witnesses.) Again, it is just a thing.
One day, we'll all be going somewhere where posessions don't matter. What kind of cellphone we had. What kind of shoes we wore. What kind of car we drove and whether or not it had a teeny tiny scratch on the back end bumper. What is most important is how we treat other people, how we spread kindness and love and how we forgive even those whose names we don't know: people who trespass against us (and drive Honda Odyssey mini-vans.)
I get out. He gets out. My rear bumper is already pretty messed up from the day I drove the minivan off the Honda lot. I got rear-ended that day within 5 minutes of driving off the lot. No kidding. But all she left was the imprint of the screws on her license plate. This guy left the imprint of the screws of his license plate and a little extra small dent just for good measure.
I look at the damage. The guy was young, but not too young. Maybe 5 years younger than I am. His car was some average white sedan made most likely in the late '90's. He worked hard for the little money he had and it showed. I am unemployed. I am a single mom. I have no money and very soon could go into some serious debt. A little ding on my back bumper is really no big deal. To drag police officers and lawsuits and tickets and deductibles seemed like a serious waste of negative energy. So I sent him on his way. And he was happy.
Saturday was the Husker game vs. Texas. Chris had the kids in the afternoon, so I thought it would be fun to join my friends watching the game at a bar in downtown Lincoln. If you've never captured the frenzied fan atmosphere of Game Day in Husker Nation, you are surely missing out. Thousands of people, not only descend upon Memorial Stadium to cheer the Big Red on, but thousands of ticketless souls also (myself included) love to just drink in the spirit (pun intended) and revel in the sport of fandom.
I didn't get downtown until 2 and the game started at 2:30, so officially, I couldn't even find a parking spot "downtown." It was a little more like....down, dowtown. Not in the safest neighborhood in Lincoln. But there I saw it.....a spot just big enough to fit the Honda! If I just nestled it in so carefully.....backing up just a little bit to get it in just right......easy, easy....and I just gently kissed the car in front of me. I was being as careful as I could be. There was a guy on his cellphone on the other side of the road and two scary looking ladies (using the term the kindest spirit) smoking cigarettes outside of their rundown apartment. I admit, I was bumper to bumper with the car ahead of me, but I was grateful to have found a spot at all with all the craziness of Game Day action.
And then there was the game. (Ouch) Head hanging low, I head back to my car. It was dark. I was a little scared. I had my keys in hand, just in case some psycho wanted to steal my purse with the 4 different shades of lipgloss I have inside. Most of the traffic had gone by this point. I think that most people just wanted to go home and stick their heads in cartons of ice cream. (Yes, the loss was that bad.) And then I saw the note.
"You parked into my car and damaged the back bumper. Your plate info was taken along with pictures. Expect to hear from my lawyer."
Really? Really? First of all, I remember back in the day, the entire purpose of bumpers was to allow for a little bumping and scraping from time to time. That was why they were called "bumpers." Second of all, if you are this un-used to "creative parking" at Husker games, you should take the shuttle in. And third of all, what lawyer has access to running license plate numbers? And why would you pay that lawyer the $85 an hour to fix a $25 scratch on your bumper?
But really what struck me is how irate someone had gotten over something so stupid. Would this guy have gotten so mad if I had been there? If he had gotten to see my "disheveled-unemployed-I-need-help" face? It's a car!!!! When did we get so possessive of our "things?" I didn't hurt him or any of his family members. I maybe (and just maybe) scratched the bumper of his car a little bit. Something he worked hard for, sure, but again, just a "thing." It wasn't like I plowed into him. I nestled my car up next to his. Going maybe .5 miles/hour. It's a "thing!" If I had caused any damage (or even thought I had), I would have popped a note on his car. (Remember, there were witnesses.) Again, it is just a thing.
One day, we'll all be going somewhere where posessions don't matter. What kind of cellphone we had. What kind of shoes we wore. What kind of car we drove and whether or not it had a teeny tiny scratch on the back end bumper. What is most important is how we treat other people, how we spread kindness and love and how we forgive even those whose names we don't know: people who trespass against us (and drive Honda Odyssey mini-vans.)
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Men in Blue and the Boy on the Red Bike
So they say that God only gives you what you can handle. Well, today I got tested.
I do think it is important for kids to start to develop a sense of independence. Play on their own. Make some mistakes. Scrape some knees. All without Mommy looking over their shoulder. Yesterday, I let my nine-year old ride with his friend to his friend's house after school with the promise that he would come right back. He followed directions and I was so proud. I was hoping that this could be a changing point. A sign of maturity. He did just get a new pair of glasses. Maybe the new spectacles gave him a new vision (pun intended) on how a mature, responsible 3rd grader should behave.
He asked to do the same thing today. He had homework, but since he was so responsible the day before, I told him to come right back and could get started on his homework later. He took off with his buddy at 3:45. I figured that they probably took the long way. They had been joking about going past not one, but two girls' houses on their special route. It was 4:25 and I started to get nervous. He was supposed to come right home and work on that homework. I went over to the friend's house where his dad told me that they hadn't seen Grant since 4:05 when they sent him home.
So now you know what starts racing through my mind. Of course there's the panic. The what-if. But I wouldn't let my mind go there. I just figured he must have stopped at a friends house on the way home. I took the route back looking for his tell-tale red bike in the front yard of his 3 possible stops. I went to each house and rang the doorbells. No one was home at any of the three houses. No parents, no kids, no one. I started to get even more nervous. I went to the school. There were lots of kids playing, but no Grant. I drove slowly through the neighborhood. Why couldn't I find that bike?
I'm friends with several police officers and I know the stats. The majority of child abduction cases involve a parental dispute or some other kind of family issue. And think of the times you even hear about those. I tried to think of the odds. But then I also thought about what else could be going on, could Grant be so upset about our changing family environment that he ran away? I called Chris and he told me to call the police.
They came to the house quickly. Took Grant's description and his new school picture. ( I had grumbled about having to spend $60 for school pictures. The cheapest/value package was $20 x 3 kids=expensive, but now totally worth it.) He told me what would happen if they didn't find him in an hour. They told me what would happen if they didn't find him in 4 more hours. By this time, Grant had been not seen for an hour and a half.
I asked him if this happens frequently. And he said, "All the time." Usually kids go over to play at a friend's house and never tell anyone. But this police officer said, "But we never take chances." He hopped back in his patrol car and worked on canvassing the neighborhood.
Some of my neighbors started coming home from work and had noticed the patrol car right outside of our house. And then I see him. Grant riding his bike back to our house. He had stopped at a friend's house, one of the houses that I had stopped by to see if he was there. There had been no bike in the driveway. No one had answered my knock at the door. Somehow he had been squirreled away inside playing video games with two of his buddies.
And I started to think about all of the things we tell our kids to keep them safe. Don't answer the door, if you don't know who is there. These boys had an older brother home, but he must not have seen or recognized me at the front door. Their bikes were all in the garage. (There has been a rash of bike burglaries in our neighborhood. Read my blog post Training Wheels.) They were trying to be safe and at the same time, scared me to death.
Grant is grounded. Big time. And I keep letting him know that I am not angry with him. I was just scared. And he needs to really, really learn a lesson. If you want respect, you have to give it. Independence isn't free, it is earned. Integrity. Trust. Responsibility. All traits that even we as adults struggle with every day. But really, it all boils down to this: Do what you say you are going to do. Be where you say you are going to be. And everything will be all right. (And no one will have to call the police. God bless them.)
I do think it is important for kids to start to develop a sense of independence. Play on their own. Make some mistakes. Scrape some knees. All without Mommy looking over their shoulder. Yesterday, I let my nine-year old ride with his friend to his friend's house after school with the promise that he would come right back. He followed directions and I was so proud. I was hoping that this could be a changing point. A sign of maturity. He did just get a new pair of glasses. Maybe the new spectacles gave him a new vision (pun intended) on how a mature, responsible 3rd grader should behave.
He asked to do the same thing today. He had homework, but since he was so responsible the day before, I told him to come right back and could get started on his homework later. He took off with his buddy at 3:45. I figured that they probably took the long way. They had been joking about going past not one, but two girls' houses on their special route. It was 4:25 and I started to get nervous. He was supposed to come right home and work on that homework. I went over to the friend's house where his dad told me that they hadn't seen Grant since 4:05 when they sent him home.
So now you know what starts racing through my mind. Of course there's the panic. The what-if. But I wouldn't let my mind go there. I just figured he must have stopped at a friends house on the way home. I took the route back looking for his tell-tale red bike in the front yard of his 3 possible stops. I went to each house and rang the doorbells. No one was home at any of the three houses. No parents, no kids, no one. I started to get even more nervous. I went to the school. There were lots of kids playing, but no Grant. I drove slowly through the neighborhood. Why couldn't I find that bike?
I'm friends with several police officers and I know the stats. The majority of child abduction cases involve a parental dispute or some other kind of family issue. And think of the times you even hear about those. I tried to think of the odds. But then I also thought about what else could be going on, could Grant be so upset about our changing family environment that he ran away? I called Chris and he told me to call the police.
They came to the house quickly. Took Grant's description and his new school picture. ( I had grumbled about having to spend $60 for school pictures. The cheapest/value package was $20 x 3 kids=expensive, but now totally worth it.) He told me what would happen if they didn't find him in an hour. They told me what would happen if they didn't find him in 4 more hours. By this time, Grant had been not seen for an hour and a half.
I asked him if this happens frequently. And he said, "All the time." Usually kids go over to play at a friend's house and never tell anyone. But this police officer said, "But we never take chances." He hopped back in his patrol car and worked on canvassing the neighborhood.
Some of my neighbors started coming home from work and had noticed the patrol car right outside of our house. And then I see him. Grant riding his bike back to our house. He had stopped at a friend's house, one of the houses that I had stopped by to see if he was there. There had been no bike in the driveway. No one had answered my knock at the door. Somehow he had been squirreled away inside playing video games with two of his buddies.
And I started to think about all of the things we tell our kids to keep them safe. Don't answer the door, if you don't know who is there. These boys had an older brother home, but he must not have seen or recognized me at the front door. Their bikes were all in the garage. (There has been a rash of bike burglaries in our neighborhood. Read my blog post Training Wheels.) They were trying to be safe and at the same time, scared me to death.
Grant is grounded. Big time. And I keep letting him know that I am not angry with him. I was just scared. And he needs to really, really learn a lesson. If you want respect, you have to give it. Independence isn't free, it is earned. Integrity. Trust. Responsibility. All traits that even we as adults struggle with every day. But really, it all boils down to this: Do what you say you are going to do. Be where you say you are going to be. And everything will be all right. (And no one will have to call the police. God bless them.)
Friday, October 8, 2010
New Chapter
I haven't exactly decided how to tackle this one. I am now starting a new chapter in my life and I haven't decided how to handle it or discuss it or write about it, but write about it I must.
One of my nephews doesn't understand why I talk about all of this personal stuff on my blog. "Why does she want everyone to know her business?" I don't know why. It does seem stupid. Private stuff should be private. Why does anyone feel the need to share feelings and private thoughts for potentially the whole world to see? Because if I didn't write about these things, I would go crazy. If I were an artist, I'd paint. If I were a sculptor, I'd sculpt. If I were a song writer, I'd sing and you better believe I've got the makings of an award-winning, heart-wrenching country song. (Might still work on that one). What I am is a story-teller. I tell stories. I have to. Otherwise my head would explode and (as I have already explained in multiple previous blogs) I don't like to clean. So that is a mess that just can't happen.
My next chapter is that of a single mom. Chris and I have decided to split and all I can say about it, is that it sucks. Everything sucks. I could write about details and pain and blame and hurt and confusion, but it can all be summed up in two words. It sucks. One day, maybe I'll write it all out, and they'll make a movie, and Julia Roberts will play me, and I'll make a gazillion dollars, but that is another day. Right now it sucks.
My parents divorced just before my fifth birthday. And I love both of my parents equally. My mother is there for me on the phone everyday, no matter what I might need. My dad suffers from a certain amount of wanderlust, loves to travel and somehow finds a way to make a pitstop in Lincoln on his way to wherever his Jeep and camera take him. He came here last week to be my shoulder and he will never know how much that means to me.
So I have proof that there is life for kids after divorce, and my own kids are handling things pretty well at this point. They all know that both mom and dad love them very much. That we are still a family, just a different kind of family.
So starts the new chapter. I'm not sure what is next. I know I really need to find a full-time job. I know I'll need to find childcare and someone to watch the dogs. I know I'll need to give extra kisses and hugs and snuggles. I know I'll have to figure out bills and finances and taxes and how to mow the lawn. And yes, I'll have to clean. It sucks, but when you're surrounded by people who love you, you can tackle anything.
One of my nephews doesn't understand why I talk about all of this personal stuff on my blog. "Why does she want everyone to know her business?" I don't know why. It does seem stupid. Private stuff should be private. Why does anyone feel the need to share feelings and private thoughts for potentially the whole world to see? Because if I didn't write about these things, I would go crazy. If I were an artist, I'd paint. If I were a sculptor, I'd sculpt. If I were a song writer, I'd sing and you better believe I've got the makings of an award-winning, heart-wrenching country song. (Might still work on that one). What I am is a story-teller. I tell stories. I have to. Otherwise my head would explode and (as I have already explained in multiple previous blogs) I don't like to clean. So that is a mess that just can't happen.
My next chapter is that of a single mom. Chris and I have decided to split and all I can say about it, is that it sucks. Everything sucks. I could write about details and pain and blame and hurt and confusion, but it can all be summed up in two words. It sucks. One day, maybe I'll write it all out, and they'll make a movie, and Julia Roberts will play me, and I'll make a gazillion dollars, but that is another day. Right now it sucks.
My parents divorced just before my fifth birthday. And I love both of my parents equally. My mother is there for me on the phone everyday, no matter what I might need. My dad suffers from a certain amount of wanderlust, loves to travel and somehow finds a way to make a pitstop in Lincoln on his way to wherever his Jeep and camera take him. He came here last week to be my shoulder and he will never know how much that means to me.
So I have proof that there is life for kids after divorce, and my own kids are handling things pretty well at this point. They all know that both mom and dad love them very much. That we are still a family, just a different kind of family.
So starts the new chapter. I'm not sure what is next. I know I really need to find a full-time job. I know I'll need to find childcare and someone to watch the dogs. I know I'll need to give extra kisses and hugs and snuggles. I know I'll have to figure out bills and finances and taxes and how to mow the lawn. And yes, I'll have to clean. It sucks, but when you're surrounded by people who love you, you can tackle anything.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Training Wheels
The sky was orange the day we let go. I don't know what possessed us to finally take off Spencer's training wheels 15 minutes before a severe thunderstorm was going to hit Lincoln. There was lightning in the western sky, the air was thick with a low-rumbling threat, and, for some reason, we decided it was time to take off the training wheels of our 6-year old's bike that he got from Santa Claus 8 months earlier.
He had been riding like a pro with all of the other kids in the neighborhood, zipping up and down the street, so Chris just got it in his head to take those training wheels off. Dad stood by with his hand on Spencer's back seat to steady it from any inevitable spill. He was ready to run with the newbie and save him from any road rash that might occur, when Spence just took off! Like a bird takes to the sky. Spencer rode his bike like he had been riding it since birth. No stumbles. No wobbles. No crash and burns. Cycling poetry. And then the rain came.
There is a large group of 9-6 year old boys in our neighborhood and they all "ride bike," mostly in the church parking lot across the street. (Sorry, Pastor Kim!) It's really cute how they all hang out, and I can only imagine the trouble that all of these boys are going to be getting into in 5 years. They love their freedom to roam. And all I have to do, if I need to find my boys, is look for the large assortment of bikes strewn across whichever family is lucky to be the "host" for that afternoon.
We live in Lincoln, NE. Not necessarily the safest city in the world, but pretty darn close. It's NEBRASKA for crying out loud. And our neighborhood tends to be pretty safe. At least a lot safer than the neighborhood I grew up in. Kids would come down to the pool over the summer and just leave their bikes on the grass. Kids ride their bikes to school and don't bother locking them. Sometimes I leave the house and don't even bother locking the door. (My hometown friends are shocked, I know!)
The boys were out playing last night. Rather than parking the bikes in the garage, (What happened to my street smarts?) we parked them right up next to the garage, in between the garage and the minivan, right up next to the house. I went to work at MilkWorks at 9:30am and came home at 12:30pm. Bikes still there. I went over to volunteer at the school at 1:40pm. Bikes still there. My Mary Kay co-hort Dana came to pick something up at 2:30pm, two bikes still in formation. We came home from school at 3:45pm. Spencer goes outside at 4:00pm to find....THAT HIS BIKE IS GONE!!!!!
Someone took it. The primary suspect is obviously a kid. One bike stolen=one perpetrator. If it was a group of International Bike Theives casing the joint in their Van of Evil, they probably would have taken both bikes. Which leads me back to the One Perpetrator idea. I could also guestimate that the perp had to have either been a Middle-Schooler (They get out at 3:00pm) or a Catholic School kid. (Out at 3:15-ish. At least, that's about the time that they walk by the house and cause my dogs to go crazy!!!!!)
The perp needed to be fairly brazen. The bike was stolen while positioned in between my minivan and the garage door. I had the blinds up and the house looked occupied. Someone had to have gotten close to the house and nabbed the bike without fear of someone being alerted by the obnoxious barking twosome from inside. (Although, one time a cat popped up and rubbed itself all over our deck. Rosie was, like, a foot away and never woke from her bone-dream slumber. Missed opportunity.)
Spencer cried for an hour after he found out what happened. And it truly broke my heart. Not just because someone took something special that belonged to him, but because he found out that there are people out there who really suck. People who will do really cruddy things to other people. For no good reason.
I tried to decide what to do. Money's tight. I just found out about a fantastic fundraising opportunity the PTA is doing: Cookie Dough-top seller wins a free bike! I know I have a lot of calorie-defiant friends and, with my entreprenueurial know-how, I knew we could win. But then I remembered that we have a popcorn fundraiser for the Boy Scouts and have to sell $600 worth of popcorn, (And yes, I will be calling you) so I changed my priorities.
So I decided to check Craig's List and see what used bikes were out there. I found one for $15 with all kinds of rust on it. I found another used one for $200, which wasn't worth what Santa paid for the original stolen bike. And then I thought to myself....it's not Spencer's fault that his bike got stolen. He is innocent. Why should he ride around someone else's crappy rusty old bike, just because some idiot stole his? Why should he suffer, not only the loss of innocence, but the humiliation of someone's broken hand-me-down just because someone decided to take what wasn't theirs to take.
I went online. Target had bikes for $59.99. We went and found a flashy orange one. Brighter and snazzier than his last one. With a kickstand. Spencer rolled that bike up to the register and I charged it. Debt police, you can come and get me later. Found out the bike was on sale! I saved $10! It was meant to be.
And the best part was that we learned quite the lesson, even though this bike never came with training wheels.
He had been riding like a pro with all of the other kids in the neighborhood, zipping up and down the street, so Chris just got it in his head to take those training wheels off. Dad stood by with his hand on Spencer's back seat to steady it from any inevitable spill. He was ready to run with the newbie and save him from any road rash that might occur, when Spence just took off! Like a bird takes to the sky. Spencer rode his bike like he had been riding it since birth. No stumbles. No wobbles. No crash and burns. Cycling poetry. And then the rain came.
There is a large group of 9-6 year old boys in our neighborhood and they all "ride bike," mostly in the church parking lot across the street. (Sorry, Pastor Kim!) It's really cute how they all hang out, and I can only imagine the trouble that all of these boys are going to be getting into in 5 years. They love their freedom to roam. And all I have to do, if I need to find my boys, is look for the large assortment of bikes strewn across whichever family is lucky to be the "host" for that afternoon.
We live in Lincoln, NE. Not necessarily the safest city in the world, but pretty darn close. It's NEBRASKA for crying out loud. And our neighborhood tends to be pretty safe. At least a lot safer than the neighborhood I grew up in. Kids would come down to the pool over the summer and just leave their bikes on the grass. Kids ride their bikes to school and don't bother locking them. Sometimes I leave the house and don't even bother locking the door. (My hometown friends are shocked, I know!)
The boys were out playing last night. Rather than parking the bikes in the garage, (What happened to my street smarts?) we parked them right up next to the garage, in between the garage and the minivan, right up next to the house. I went to work at MilkWorks at 9:30am and came home at 12:30pm. Bikes still there. I went over to volunteer at the school at 1:40pm. Bikes still there. My Mary Kay co-hort Dana came to pick something up at 2:30pm, two bikes still in formation. We came home from school at 3:45pm. Spencer goes outside at 4:00pm to find....THAT HIS BIKE IS GONE!!!!!
Someone took it. The primary suspect is obviously a kid. One bike stolen=one perpetrator. If it was a group of International Bike Theives casing the joint in their Van of Evil, they probably would have taken both bikes. Which leads me back to the One Perpetrator idea. I could also guestimate that the perp had to have either been a Middle-Schooler (They get out at 3:00pm) or a Catholic School kid. (Out at 3:15-ish. At least, that's about the time that they walk by the house and cause my dogs to go crazy!!!!!)
The perp needed to be fairly brazen. The bike was stolen while positioned in between my minivan and the garage door. I had the blinds up and the house looked occupied. Someone had to have gotten close to the house and nabbed the bike without fear of someone being alerted by the obnoxious barking twosome from inside. (Although, one time a cat popped up and rubbed itself all over our deck. Rosie was, like, a foot away and never woke from her bone-dream slumber. Missed opportunity.)
Spencer cried for an hour after he found out what happened. And it truly broke my heart. Not just because someone took something special that belonged to him, but because he found out that there are people out there who really suck. People who will do really cruddy things to other people. For no good reason.
I tried to decide what to do. Money's tight. I just found out about a fantastic fundraising opportunity the PTA is doing: Cookie Dough-top seller wins a free bike! I know I have a lot of calorie-defiant friends and, with my entreprenueurial know-how, I knew we could win. But then I remembered that we have a popcorn fundraiser for the Boy Scouts and have to sell $600 worth of popcorn, (And yes, I will be calling you) so I changed my priorities.
So I decided to check Craig's List and see what used bikes were out there. I found one for $15 with all kinds of rust on it. I found another used one for $200, which wasn't worth what Santa paid for the original stolen bike. And then I thought to myself....it's not Spencer's fault that his bike got stolen. He is innocent. Why should he ride around someone else's crappy rusty old bike, just because some idiot stole his? Why should he suffer, not only the loss of innocence, but the humiliation of someone's broken hand-me-down just because someone decided to take what wasn't theirs to take.
I went online. Target had bikes for $59.99. We went and found a flashy orange one. Brighter and snazzier than his last one. With a kickstand. Spencer rolled that bike up to the register and I charged it. Debt police, you can come and get me later. Found out the bike was on sale! I saved $10! It was meant to be.
And the best part was that we learned quite the lesson, even though this bike never came with training wheels.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Old Lady
Today, I became an old lady. I know 39 is not technically old, but when I told my dad how old I was going to be, he winced. I am officially middle-aged. I could live to 78. But that means half of my life is over. And what the heck did I do with it?
I have to admit to not remembering a whole lot over the past 39 years. Bits and pieces. But when I try to remember specific things, I can't. I wish I could. My 20-year high school reunion was last year and everyone was reminiscing about the "good old days" and all the trouble that we almost got caught for, and I don't remember much. My sister and mom are always remembering the funny, crazy stuff that happened when we were younger and I often find myself in a fog. I just can't remember.
Perhaps I can't remember things, because I am always focused on the present and worrying about the future. I'm a big worrier and I need to stop. If I have learned anything over the past year, is that I have NO CONTROL about what happens in life. No control over my career. No control over my children. No control over what happens from day to day. All I can do is continue to get up every day and try to be as nice as I can to people. Smile and be nice.
I have to admit to not remembering a whole lot over the past 39 years. Bits and pieces. But when I try to remember specific things, I can't. I wish I could. My 20-year high school reunion was last year and everyone was reminiscing about the "good old days" and all the trouble that we almost got caught for, and I don't remember much. My sister and mom are always remembering the funny, crazy stuff that happened when we were younger and I often find myself in a fog. I just can't remember.
Perhaps I can't remember things, because I am always focused on the present and worrying about the future. I'm a big worrier and I need to stop. If I have learned anything over the past year, is that I have NO CONTROL about what happens in life. No control over my career. No control over my children. No control over what happens from day to day. All I can do is continue to get up every day and try to be as nice as I can to people. Smile and be nice.
My birthday has been a combination of disappointments and joys. I got to work at my part-time job today and everyone called me on the phone (from other parts of the office) and wished me a Happy Birthday. A woman named Teresa (who could quite possibly give the famous nun with the same name a run for her money) gave me a birthday card and a vase filled with flowers. I love working with all women! (Which leads me to another question...why are women so much more into birthdays than men? Except for his 21st, you don't really ever hear of a bunch of guys getting together to celebrate some other dude's birthday. At least not without a bunch of tequila shots.)
The kids came home from school and started fighting. (Bad) Chris called and said he was taking me out to dinner. (Good) I had to clean the house-okay, part of it-before the babysitter could come. (Bad) Babysitter doesn't show up, got the wrong time. (Bad) Chris goes and gets takeout from The Oven (Good! I love Indian food.) The kids sing me Happy Birthday and when it comes to the part that goes "Happy Birthday dear....." they sing my real name instead of "Mommy." (Hysterical- I didn't think they knew my real name. I thought they just knew "Mom" and how to whine it from across the house.)
So bring on the next 39 years. Again, I will have no control over what happens. I'll just try to keep being nice to people. And maybe I'll have unexpected flowers, a clean house, a tummy full of spicy comfort food and kids who know my name. Or are at least around to sing me Happy Birthday.
Now, where is the Gingka Biloba?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Pinkie and Balance
I broke my pinkie toe last Friday night. Which is the stupidest, most ridiculous thing you could do. At least when you break an arm or a leg, you get fussed over. You get to go to the doctor and get x-rays and a cast, and people sign it. You aren't expected to do anything, because you can't do anything.
When you break a pinkie toe, you can still get around. Oh, it hurts, but you can still limp around. I didn't even bother going to the doctor, because it's not like they have a cute pink pinkie toe cast that I could get one or two friends to sign (with really, really small signatures). They would have just looked at it, charged me a couple-a-hundred bucks, and prescribed me some ibuprofen. I diagnosed myself on webmd.com. (Which I am considering for a new career: Webmd-doctor. I'll plug your symptoms in and the computer will spit out your diagnosis at a fraction of the cost of traditional health care.)
So I'm limping all over the place. After I broke the pinkie toe, I stood for 2 hours hosting a Mary Kay Party for my friend Amy. (And amazingly, found the perfect shade of lipstick to match my increasingly purple toe.) Grant had a birthday party with five crazy 8-9 year old boys the next night, and I hobbled down to the pool, so the little miscreants...I mean, angels, could have a fun party. And then Sunday, Mia had her first soccer game of the season. And you know the field needs to be 10 miles away from the parking lot. It's in the official YMCA soccer rules.
You lose a lot of power when you break your pinkie toe. Part of it is because you can only wear flip flops. Of course, I love flip flops, but for a power shoe, you are much better off with a boot or a pump or at least a killer Adidas runner. Part of it is, you can't turn around very fast. A kid would laugh or try to get away with something (smash one of my terra cotta plants, for example or try to give the dog chocolate birthday cake), and my dexterity with a broken pinkie toe was severely diminished. The whole "Mom's got eyes in the back of her head" concept fades quickly when Mom can't whirl around and give the evil eye.
But the power that I lost the most when I broke my pinkie toe, was the power of balance. Believe it or not, that little teeny tiny appendage, that doctors won't even put a cute little teeny tiny cast on, is responsible for your ability to balance. When I was at Mia's soccer game on Sunday, it was gusty. Winds of over 40 miles an hour. (Total exaggeration, but it makes the story better.) I was standing, trying to squint my eyes to the sun and reduce the onslaught of wind-born particulate. I felt myself buffetted by the extremes. An impressively strong gust knock me off my right-footed stronghold. And to the rest of the Y soccer parents, (who, of course, were not paying attention) I totally fell on my butt.
How often are our lives out of balance? We spend too much time at work. There's never enough time for the kids. Marriage? We spend an hour or two on the weekends, maybe. Faith? Finding just an hour on Sundays is a challenge. We are constantly struggling to find balance with all that makes life good. Worth living.
But from what I learned through my broken pinkie toe, that it is sometimes just that little thing that can help you keep the balance. Watching a thunderstorm roll in, with your daughter on your lap. Getting rainbow popcorn as a treat for school, just so your 9-year old can feel like a rock star on his birthday. Taking those training wheels off of your 6-year old's bike because you know he didn't really need them anyway. Having a Facebook "instant message" chat with your husband, even though he's in the next room. Saying a prayer for a friend who's dad just passed away.
Little things, but they keep you from falling over.
When you break a pinkie toe, you can still get around. Oh, it hurts, but you can still limp around. I didn't even bother going to the doctor, because it's not like they have a cute pink pinkie toe cast that I could get one or two friends to sign (with really, really small signatures). They would have just looked at it, charged me a couple-a-hundred bucks, and prescribed me some ibuprofen. I diagnosed myself on webmd.com. (Which I am considering for a new career: Webmd-doctor. I'll plug your symptoms in and the computer will spit out your diagnosis at a fraction of the cost of traditional health care.)
So I'm limping all over the place. After I broke the pinkie toe, I stood for 2 hours hosting a Mary Kay Party for my friend Amy. (And amazingly, found the perfect shade of lipstick to match my increasingly purple toe.) Grant had a birthday party with five crazy 8-9 year old boys the next night, and I hobbled down to the pool, so the little miscreants...I mean, angels, could have a fun party. And then Sunday, Mia had her first soccer game of the season. And you know the field needs to be 10 miles away from the parking lot. It's in the official YMCA soccer rules.
You lose a lot of power when you break your pinkie toe. Part of it is because you can only wear flip flops. Of course, I love flip flops, but for a power shoe, you are much better off with a boot or a pump or at least a killer Adidas runner. Part of it is, you can't turn around very fast. A kid would laugh or try to get away with something (smash one of my terra cotta plants, for example or try to give the dog chocolate birthday cake), and my dexterity with a broken pinkie toe was severely diminished. The whole "Mom's got eyes in the back of her head" concept fades quickly when Mom can't whirl around and give the evil eye.
But the power that I lost the most when I broke my pinkie toe, was the power of balance. Believe it or not, that little teeny tiny appendage, that doctors won't even put a cute little teeny tiny cast on, is responsible for your ability to balance. When I was at Mia's soccer game on Sunday, it was gusty. Winds of over 40 miles an hour. (Total exaggeration, but it makes the story better.) I was standing, trying to squint my eyes to the sun and reduce the onslaught of wind-born particulate. I felt myself buffetted by the extremes. An impressively strong gust knock me off my right-footed stronghold. And to the rest of the Y soccer parents, (who, of course, were not paying attention) I totally fell on my butt.
How often are our lives out of balance? We spend too much time at work. There's never enough time for the kids. Marriage? We spend an hour or two on the weekends, maybe. Faith? Finding just an hour on Sundays is a challenge. We are constantly struggling to find balance with all that makes life good. Worth living.
But from what I learned through my broken pinkie toe, that it is sometimes just that little thing that can help you keep the balance. Watching a thunderstorm roll in, with your daughter on your lap. Getting rainbow popcorn as a treat for school, just so your 9-year old can feel like a rock star on his birthday. Taking those training wheels off of your 6-year old's bike because you know he didn't really need them anyway. Having a Facebook "instant message" chat with your husband, even though he's in the next room. Saying a prayer for a friend who's dad just passed away.
Little things, but they keep you from falling over.
Monday, August 16, 2010
The Call
This unemployment thing is getting old. I have now been without a full-time job since December, the kids will be going back to school on Wednesday and I swore that I thought I would have something by then. The embarrassment of it all kills me. This summer, I could focus on being a partial "stay at home" mom. There's nobility in that. Now that the kids are in school, I'm just staying at home. Kind of lazy, unless I consider the options and the two options are cleaning and cleaning. (Just thinking about it makes me shudder.)
It's been very hard to find a full time job that pays enough for child care. Even with the kids in school, most daycare centers charge almost as much for school-aged kids as they do for the little ones. I suppose this covers the costs of "Early out" days and days off. I do get calls for interviews for jobs that I am over-qualified for and get nothing from anything else. I am applying for 4-8 jobs every week. (I would apply for more, but I am not a registered nurse or a shadow shopper) I am surprised at the jobs that I don't get calls on at all. For one position I applied for, I had two well-connected people send in letters of recommendation for me, I followed up with a phone call after I dropped off my resume, and I STILL didn't get a phone call for an interview. I would be fine with not getting the job, but based on two recommendations, I would have thought I would have been able to get a foot in the door. (Who would want to work for such rude people anyway?)
I do think that a lot of people look at my resume and see RADIO. Well, what else can she do but talk on the radio and play songs and be silly? Well, of course that is what I am good at, but I had the opportunity to work with hundreds of different businesses and charities and help market their messages. Contesting and fundraising and promotion. I know audio production and advertising and from a creative standpoint I'm not just an "out of the box" thinker, I'm a "Hey! It's free! What can we do with the box?" thinker.
So you can imagine how excited I got when I saw a listing on the Nebraska Workforce Development website for an audio production specialist/marketing director. It was a part-time position that could develop into full time. (Great! What's another part-time job?) It didn't pay very well, but I figured "what the heck, if they like me, maybe I could ask for more in a few months." I sent my resume and got a call the next day! I actually got a call!
He wanted to interview me the next day. I still have the kids at home, so I told him it would have to be after school starts on Wednesday. Fine. 2 o'clock. I asked if he had a website, he said that he doesn't, that they are working on one and hope to have one dones soon and if I had any web developement experience, that would be welcome too! And then he told me the address of the office......
In the basement of a building that has an ..... (I'm trying to think of the best way to phrase this) adult pajama store on the first floor. Adult pajamas and accessories. "Hmmmm," I thought to myself. "That's odd. But it is on a hill, maybe the entrance is on the hill and......"
I did some research. And sure enough, this company was the company that owned the ....Adult Pajama and Accessories store! I would be doing audio production and marketing for...an Adult Pajama and Accessories store!!!!!!
I started to think about what if I had never done the research and just walked into the interview. You know how some companies have their products on display in the office, Coca-Cola has logos and posters all over the place, car dealers have mini-models of their vehicles on display? Can you imagine what this office might look like? And I would have just just walked in all dressed in my "Please Hire Me" outfit and made the discovery there. There on the wall, featuring the latest products and accessories! Thank goodness for the internet.
I do feel like I have become a little bit desperate, but a 38-year old mom of three kids can't really bus the kids around from school to soccer practice to Mary Kay party to working at....an Adult Pajama and Accessories Store! Imagine career day at school. My desk at the office, I would have pictures of the kids right next to the latest "product" I needed to showcase. I suppose I would be able to get a discount, which would make shopping for the holidays easier. But all the same, I decided the job wasn't for me.
I called and cancelled the interview. He didn't even ask why. But at least I got the call, so that's something.
It's been very hard to find a full time job that pays enough for child care. Even with the kids in school, most daycare centers charge almost as much for school-aged kids as they do for the little ones. I suppose this covers the costs of "Early out" days and days off. I do get calls for interviews for jobs that I am over-qualified for and get nothing from anything else. I am applying for 4-8 jobs every week. (I would apply for more, but I am not a registered nurse or a shadow shopper) I am surprised at the jobs that I don't get calls on at all. For one position I applied for, I had two well-connected people send in letters of recommendation for me, I followed up with a phone call after I dropped off my resume, and I STILL didn't get a phone call for an interview. I would be fine with not getting the job, but based on two recommendations, I would have thought I would have been able to get a foot in the door. (Who would want to work for such rude people anyway?)
I do think that a lot of people look at my resume and see RADIO. Well, what else can she do but talk on the radio and play songs and be silly? Well, of course that is what I am good at, but I had the opportunity to work with hundreds of different businesses and charities and help market their messages. Contesting and fundraising and promotion. I know audio production and advertising and from a creative standpoint I'm not just an "out of the box" thinker, I'm a "Hey! It's free! What can we do with the box?" thinker.
So you can imagine how excited I got when I saw a listing on the Nebraska Workforce Development website for an audio production specialist/marketing director. It was a part-time position that could develop into full time. (Great! What's another part-time job?) It didn't pay very well, but I figured "what the heck, if they like me, maybe I could ask for more in a few months." I sent my resume and got a call the next day! I actually got a call!
He wanted to interview me the next day. I still have the kids at home, so I told him it would have to be after school starts on Wednesday. Fine. 2 o'clock. I asked if he had a website, he said that he doesn't, that they are working on one and hope to have one dones soon and if I had any web developement experience, that would be welcome too! And then he told me the address of the office......
In the basement of a building that has an ..... (I'm trying to think of the best way to phrase this) adult pajama store on the first floor. Adult pajamas and accessories. "Hmmmm," I thought to myself. "That's odd. But it is on a hill, maybe the entrance is on the hill and......"
I did some research. And sure enough, this company was the company that owned the ....Adult Pajama and Accessories store! I would be doing audio production and marketing for...an Adult Pajama and Accessories store!!!!!!
I started to think about what if I had never done the research and just walked into the interview. You know how some companies have their products on display in the office, Coca-Cola has logos and posters all over the place, car dealers have mini-models of their vehicles on display? Can you imagine what this office might look like? And I would have just just walked in all dressed in my "Please Hire Me" outfit and made the discovery there. There on the wall, featuring the latest products and accessories! Thank goodness for the internet.
I do feel like I have become a little bit desperate, but a 38-year old mom of three kids can't really bus the kids around from school to soccer practice to Mary Kay party to working at....an Adult Pajama and Accessories Store! Imagine career day at school. My desk at the office, I would have pictures of the kids right next to the latest "product" I needed to showcase. I suppose I would be able to get a discount, which would make shopping for the holidays easier. But all the same, I decided the job wasn't for me.
I called and cancelled the interview. He didn't even ask why. But at least I got the call, so that's something.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Morgan Freeman
One of the best money-saving (and co-incidentally time-saving) tips that I can give anyone is to get rid of your cable television. It was one of the first things that we cut when I lost the job, and we haven't missed it at all. The kids have been having a ball playing with one another, playing video games and watching a show here or there on the computer. I can get stuff done at night and we are just freed up to live.
We have been going to the Redbox to rent movies though. If you haven't used the Redbox yet, you probably will soon. These little vending machines are popping up all over taking the place of traditional video stores. (By the way, the best job I ever had was at Take 2 Video in Fargo, ND. Just walking around and helping people pick out movies. Old school, but I loved it!) It's only a dollar a night to rent a movie, the only catch is that you can only rent what is in the machine at that time. So if you pull up hoping to rent the most popular movie out at that time, you may be severely out of luck.
Its hot again in Lincoln, so Mia (my 5-year old) and I decide to get some shakes from Sonic and then I decide to rent a movie for after the kids are in bed. I am not in the mood for a fluffy romantic comedy, all nauseatingly sweet with impossibly happy endings. (Seriously, as women, are we only supposed to fall for the guys that disgust us?) I am not in the mood for an action movie or a gore fest. (For some reason, I can't watch any horror movies since I have become a mother. Protective instinct or something, but I can't stomach them). So I chose Invictus-with Morgan Freeman. I still haven't even watched the movie yet, but I had a basic idea because I saw the previews.
Mia is fascinated with my movie choice. "Is it not for kids, Mom?"
"No, it's a movie for grown-ups, honey," I say
"Is it violent with lots and lots of blood?" She wonders.
"I don't know. I don't think so." I say, not really knowing. But I know that most Morgan Freeman movies aren't really the explosion, possessed killer dolls hell-bent on revenge types.
"Are there lots of bad words?" She quizzes.
"There might be a few," I answer. But I know that Morgan Freeman is playing Nelson Mandela in this movie, and it wasn't directed by Quentin Tarantino, so I felt pretty okay that there wouldn't be too much swearing.
"Well why is it only for grown-ups then?" she asks me.
"Well it's a drama, sweetie, and dramas can get pretty serious," I tell her.
She pauses for a moment to process and asks, "Like if a monster seriously wants to bite someone's head off? Seriously?"
"Yes, sweetie. That's it."
I love Morgan Freeman. (And not just because he used to be on the Electric Company.)
We have been going to the Redbox to rent movies though. If you haven't used the Redbox yet, you probably will soon. These little vending machines are popping up all over taking the place of traditional video stores. (By the way, the best job I ever had was at Take 2 Video in Fargo, ND. Just walking around and helping people pick out movies. Old school, but I loved it!) It's only a dollar a night to rent a movie, the only catch is that you can only rent what is in the machine at that time. So if you pull up hoping to rent the most popular movie out at that time, you may be severely out of luck.
Its hot again in Lincoln, so Mia (my 5-year old) and I decide to get some shakes from Sonic and then I decide to rent a movie for after the kids are in bed. I am not in the mood for a fluffy romantic comedy, all nauseatingly sweet with impossibly happy endings. (Seriously, as women, are we only supposed to fall for the guys that disgust us?) I am not in the mood for an action movie or a gore fest. (For some reason, I can't watch any horror movies since I have become a mother. Protective instinct or something, but I can't stomach them). So I chose Invictus-with Morgan Freeman. I still haven't even watched the movie yet, but I had a basic idea because I saw the previews.
Mia is fascinated with my movie choice. "Is it not for kids, Mom?"
"No, it's a movie for grown-ups, honey," I say
"Is it violent with lots and lots of blood?" She wonders.
"I don't know. I don't think so." I say, not really knowing. But I know that most Morgan Freeman movies aren't really the explosion, possessed killer dolls hell-bent on revenge types.
"Are there lots of bad words?" She quizzes.
"There might be a few," I answer. But I know that Morgan Freeman is playing Nelson Mandela in this movie, and it wasn't directed by Quentin Tarantino, so I felt pretty okay that there wouldn't be too much swearing.
"Well why is it only for grown-ups then?" she asks me.
"Well it's a drama, sweetie, and dramas can get pretty serious," I tell her.
She pauses for a moment to process and asks, "Like if a monster seriously wants to bite someone's head off? Seriously?"
"Yes, sweetie. That's it."
I love Morgan Freeman. (And not just because he used to be on the Electric Company.)
Friday, July 23, 2010
Roadkill Bingo
To be honest, I haven't been exactly "unemployed" since December, more like "underemployed" or "multi-ployed." I've been working at several part-time jobs and projects to try and make some money. (This being one of them. If you like my little stories, recommend them to friends!) One of my jobs is at a non-profit breastfeeding center here in Lincoln, MilkWorks-a fantastic resource for families who want the healthiest options for their children.
So I have a teenager babysit my kids for the few hours I'm at my part-time job. She lives out in the country which is one of my favorite things about living in Lincoln, NE. You can drive a half hour in any direction, and you're in the country. Good Nebraska country. I love it! No plastic cows to "milk" like the Science and Industry Museum in Chicago. Real, honest to goodness farms with animals and their various smells. (As Sally Ganem, the Governor's wife once told me at a real working dairy farm in Firth, NE, "That, my dear, is the smell of money!")
This morning I drove out to pick my babysitter up with all three kids in the back of the minivan, and we see it. A dead critter in the middle of the road. The six-year old noticed it first. "Mom, you just passed some roadkill." I usually get the heebeejeebees when I pass road kill, but I thought that maybe I could turn this into a learning opportunity.
"Roadkill?" I say.
"Yeah, some animal is dead in the middle of the road," says my adorable 5-year old daughter.
"Well, what do you think it was?"
The six-year old pipes up, "A squirrel!" The five-year old guesses, "A moose!"
The wizened eight-year old, not even looking up from his Nintendo DS says in the cool even tone of an old west sharpshooter, "Nope. That critter was a skunk."
We pick up the babysitter and decide that this could be the most fun contest that we've ever had: Roadkill Bingo. She was guessing that it might be a raccoon and I suggested possum. We drove slowly past. Speed limit was 55 miles an hour, but we were crawling in order to correctly identify the carcass of a wild (although not so wild now) animal. Bets were placed. It was all on the line. And the winner was.......
Dead skunk. And then we caught a whiff. No mistaking that smell.
That, my dear, is the smell of money.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Lost Shoes
There is something evil a-foot at my house. And I'm not exaggerating when I say "a-foot." My shoes keep disappearing.
At first it was my cute black strappy sandals that were always a little too sexy to wear to work (when I had a job). Then it was my neutral strappy heels that were fine to wear to work. And then some. They were summer shoes, so I just started thinking that maybe I had put them in a box and then....I have no idea. I've searched my closet. I've searched the coat closet and I've searched the garage. (Which is scary. It's organized, but there is so much stuff in there!) I cannot find either pair of shoes anywhere.
And then it was my ultra-hot black suede platform peeptoes. Or peeptoe. Only one of those is missing. I know that I would never leave one in the box where it is supposed to be and leave the other one in the back of the minivan. These are MY shoes. I love them and take care of them. This particular pair of shoes was extremely special to me (and expensive). They were the first indulgence that I bought with my Mary Kay money ($100) before I lost the radio job, when I had some "extra" money. Something completely frivilous. Something completely for me. And now, I only have one.
Now, it's my silver peeptoe wedges. These I got from Payless. (Much more responsible). But again, only one is missing. The other is sitting there mocking me, "Go find my partner. I'll just sit here on the shoe shelf waiting for you to wear me. No that's okay, I'll wait. (sigh)"
Now these shoes are important for several reasons. Number 1: My Mary Kay convention is next week and I wanted to look cute, professional and impressive and that's hard to do in flip flops. Number 2: Because of a woman's Universal Love of Shoes.
Now all women don't love high heels. Some prefer adorable flats or comfy Bierks. Some like penny loafers, espadrilles, wedges, platforms, running shoes, aerobic shoes, Converse All-Stars....you get the idea. And I didn't even mention boots! The reason that women love shoes is because no matter how big our thighs get, how much weight we gain over the holidays, how many beers and nachos we may consume during our "unemployed phase," we know our shoes will always fit. Every once in a while post pregnancy, our dear "soul" mates let us down, but that's only every once in a while (unless you're that family on cable that named all of their 19 children with a "J" name). Shoes are our standard. A tool in our fashion arsenal that we always know we can rely on when we need to feel a certain way. Powerful. Sexy. Strong. Successful. Comfortable. Shoes are directly linked to our psyche.
So you can imagine how anxious I feel not knowing where my shoes are. I feel like I've lost a little of my self. Somewhere I have two pairs of shoes and two solo shoes waiting for my feet to wear them again. And I have no idea where to look. I've looked in my closet. Under my bed. In my daughter's room (of course, the first place I looked). Searching, searching, searching. And the anxiety of the unfulfilled quest is making me cranky. I've almost bitten my children's heads' off when they have asked me a question whilst I was on hands and knees searching with a flashlight in the dark, dusty corner of the coat closet. I am looking for my shoes.
When you are looking for something, searching, it can be consuming. You forget who you are. You forget the people around you. It feels as if the world will not be "right" until you find what you have lost. Because you know in your heart, you never should have lost it in the first place. If you would have tried a little harder to keep track of it. If you could have been a little more organized. If you would have just been able to focus and give it your attention, instead of just taking it for granted that it would always be there. It's lost and it's all your fault. You've looked everywhere for it, so now what can you do?
The anxiety of looking for something can be overwhelming. Looking for shoes, looking for love, looking for a job, looking for salvation. The good news is, is that there are always people to help. All you have to do is figure out the right people and ask. You might not always luck out, and it might take a ridiculously long time to find your "something", but at least you're looking.
I've thought about paying the kids a few bucks to be my Shoe Bounty Hunters and try to track the missing footwear. But I guess if I really needed to, I could always go and buy more (well, at least the Payless Shoes-unless you are in need of some lipstick....).
At first it was my cute black strappy sandals that were always a little too sexy to wear to work (when I had a job). Then it was my neutral strappy heels that were fine to wear to work. And then some. They were summer shoes, so I just started thinking that maybe I had put them in a box and then....I have no idea. I've searched my closet. I've searched the coat closet and I've searched the garage. (Which is scary. It's organized, but there is so much stuff in there!) I cannot find either pair of shoes anywhere.
And then it was my ultra-hot black suede platform peeptoes. Or peeptoe. Only one of those is missing. I know that I would never leave one in the box where it is supposed to be and leave the other one in the back of the minivan. These are MY shoes. I love them and take care of them. This particular pair of shoes was extremely special to me (and expensive). They were the first indulgence that I bought with my Mary Kay money ($100) before I lost the radio job, when I had some "extra" money. Something completely frivilous. Something completely for me. And now, I only have one.
Now, it's my silver peeptoe wedges. These I got from Payless. (Much more responsible). But again, only one is missing. The other is sitting there mocking me, "Go find my partner. I'll just sit here on the shoe shelf waiting for you to wear me. No that's okay, I'll wait. (sigh)"
Now these shoes are important for several reasons. Number 1: My Mary Kay convention is next week and I wanted to look cute, professional and impressive and that's hard to do in flip flops. Number 2: Because of a woman's Universal Love of Shoes.
Now all women don't love high heels. Some prefer adorable flats or comfy Bierks. Some like penny loafers, espadrilles, wedges, platforms, running shoes, aerobic shoes, Converse All-Stars....you get the idea. And I didn't even mention boots! The reason that women love shoes is because no matter how big our thighs get, how much weight we gain over the holidays, how many beers and nachos we may consume during our "unemployed phase," we know our shoes will always fit. Every once in a while post pregnancy, our dear "soul" mates let us down, but that's only every once in a while (unless you're that family on cable that named all of their 19 children with a "J" name). Shoes are our standard. A tool in our fashion arsenal that we always know we can rely on when we need to feel a certain way. Powerful. Sexy. Strong. Successful. Comfortable. Shoes are directly linked to our psyche.
So you can imagine how anxious I feel not knowing where my shoes are. I feel like I've lost a little of my self. Somewhere I have two pairs of shoes and two solo shoes waiting for my feet to wear them again. And I have no idea where to look. I've looked in my closet. Under my bed. In my daughter's room (of course, the first place I looked). Searching, searching, searching. And the anxiety of the unfulfilled quest is making me cranky. I've almost bitten my children's heads' off when they have asked me a question whilst I was on hands and knees searching with a flashlight in the dark, dusty corner of the coat closet. I am looking for my shoes.
When you are looking for something, searching, it can be consuming. You forget who you are. You forget the people around you. It feels as if the world will not be "right" until you find what you have lost. Because you know in your heart, you never should have lost it in the first place. If you would have tried a little harder to keep track of it. If you could have been a little more organized. If you would have just been able to focus and give it your attention, instead of just taking it for granted that it would always be there. It's lost and it's all your fault. You've looked everywhere for it, so now what can you do?
The anxiety of looking for something can be overwhelming. Looking for shoes, looking for love, looking for a job, looking for salvation. The good news is, is that there are always people to help. All you have to do is figure out the right people and ask. You might not always luck out, and it might take a ridiculously long time to find your "something", but at least you're looking.
I've thought about paying the kids a few bucks to be my Shoe Bounty Hunters and try to track the missing footwear. But I guess if I really needed to, I could always go and buy more (well, at least the Payless Shoes-unless you are in need of some lipstick....).
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Smell of Truth
There has been a smell in my house. A bad smell. A foul smell. And I don't know where its coming from.
A lot of times when people have a smell in their house, its usually because there's something in the drain that may have gone bad. Maybe the garbage hasn't been taken out enough. Maybe even a dog brought a critter into the house as a little "Thank You, Master" present. That was not this smell.
This smell was definitely human. More specifically, this smell was old pee. Being a mother of three children, I have often smelled the smell of a forgotten, misplaced diaper. Sometimes under a bed or crib. Sometimes stashed in the far corner of a closet. Sometimes hidden in a toy box. Sometimes hidden behind the bedroom door for days. (Honestly who can say that they ever check behind a door? The last place anyone ever cleans, behind a door). I am an "old pee smell" expert and that was what the smell was.
I am also the mother of boys. I don't know why, but boys have a tendency to want to "mark." Is it their inner boy-wolves coming out to play? Is it a matter of distance, the whole 10 feet to the toilet? Or is it a matter of "Hey guys! Watch what I can do!"?
Nevertheless, I had to find the source of the smell. For if I could kill the host, I could stop it's spread. And it was spreading. Everytime I walked into my house, it would get worse. Up the stairs? Worse. In the boys' room? The mothership. While I couldn't tell if the smell was originating from the closet or the bookshelf, the source definitely came from the room of the small male children.
I knew I could spend all day trying to find the origin. I could tear apart their entire closet (which by the way I did about a month ago. Now it is jam-packed with toys that I swore that I threw away. I swear!) I could get one of the dogs to try and do the old bloodhound thing. Or I could just ask.
Now my kids have gotten pretty good at dancing around the truth. They know that if they blame someone else, someone else will get in trouble. That if they point enough fingers, mom will get so confused by all of the fingers that she will just give up and get on Facebook to unwind. (I almost typed "un-wine." Freudian slip.) They have learned how to lie and how to lie well.
So I knew I couldn't just ask, "Which one of you peed in the boys' room?" I wouldn't get a straight answer, and I would never be able to find the source in order to kill the host smell. I had to promise freedom from persecution. Anonymity. I was making deals with little devils, but I had to find out where that smell was coming from. So I came up with, "I'm sure that none of you peed in the boys' room, but if one of you did, where would I find that pee?"
Answer: "In the air conditioning vent, Mom!" (......Are you kidding me???) How the heck do you clean that up? I do have to say that I found it strange that the smell got worse everytime the air conditioner kicked in. And it has been hot lately. So the problem really had trickled over the entire house. Still working on figuring out how to clean this one.
I have been lied to. A lot lately. Or at least I think I have, but you just really never know. Thats the thing about lying and liars. If they are good at it, you never will know. And even if they are not good at it, you might not want to think that they are capable of doing that. Of lying to you. We can never really know the difference between what is the truth and what is just what someone wants you to think is the truth. Sucks really. As much as we would like to believe someone, to trust them, you never really can. But, to clean up a mess, maybe you don't need to trust them. Maybe you don't even need the truth. A lie will work too, as long as you can figure out where the smell is coming from and figure out the best way to clean it up.
A lot of times when people have a smell in their house, its usually because there's something in the drain that may have gone bad. Maybe the garbage hasn't been taken out enough. Maybe even a dog brought a critter into the house as a little "Thank You, Master" present. That was not this smell.
This smell was definitely human. More specifically, this smell was old pee. Being a mother of three children, I have often smelled the smell of a forgotten, misplaced diaper. Sometimes under a bed or crib. Sometimes stashed in the far corner of a closet. Sometimes hidden in a toy box. Sometimes hidden behind the bedroom door for days. (Honestly who can say that they ever check behind a door? The last place anyone ever cleans, behind a door). I am an "old pee smell" expert and that was what the smell was.
I am also the mother of boys. I don't know why, but boys have a tendency to want to "mark." Is it their inner boy-wolves coming out to play? Is it a matter of distance, the whole 10 feet to the toilet? Or is it a matter of "Hey guys! Watch what I can do!"?
Nevertheless, I had to find the source of the smell. For if I could kill the host, I could stop it's spread. And it was spreading. Everytime I walked into my house, it would get worse. Up the stairs? Worse. In the boys' room? The mothership. While I couldn't tell if the smell was originating from the closet or the bookshelf, the source definitely came from the room of the small male children.
I knew I could spend all day trying to find the origin. I could tear apart their entire closet (which by the way I did about a month ago. Now it is jam-packed with toys that I swore that I threw away. I swear!) I could get one of the dogs to try and do the old bloodhound thing. Or I could just ask.
Now my kids have gotten pretty good at dancing around the truth. They know that if they blame someone else, someone else will get in trouble. That if they point enough fingers, mom will get so confused by all of the fingers that she will just give up and get on Facebook to unwind. (I almost typed "un-wine." Freudian slip.) They have learned how to lie and how to lie well.
So I knew I couldn't just ask, "Which one of you peed in the boys' room?" I wouldn't get a straight answer, and I would never be able to find the source in order to kill the host smell. I had to promise freedom from persecution. Anonymity. I was making deals with little devils, but I had to find out where that smell was coming from. So I came up with, "I'm sure that none of you peed in the boys' room, but if one of you did, where would I find that pee?"
Answer: "In the air conditioning vent, Mom!" (......Are you kidding me???) How the heck do you clean that up? I do have to say that I found it strange that the smell got worse everytime the air conditioner kicked in. And it has been hot lately. So the problem really had trickled over the entire house. Still working on figuring out how to clean this one.
I have been lied to. A lot lately. Or at least I think I have, but you just really never know. Thats the thing about lying and liars. If they are good at it, you never will know. And even if they are not good at it, you might not want to think that they are capable of doing that. Of lying to you. We can never really know the difference between what is the truth and what is just what someone wants you to think is the truth. Sucks really. As much as we would like to believe someone, to trust them, you never really can. But, to clean up a mess, maybe you don't need to trust them. Maybe you don't even need the truth. A lie will work too, as long as you can figure out where the smell is coming from and figure out the best way to clean it up.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Ribbons and Victory
Feels like 108 degrees. Actually 95. The sun is blaring. The humidity makes the air so thick you could choke on it. My daughter Mia and I are at her track meet. But not just any track meet, the Field Finals for the Little Green Classic.
I have written about the South Lincoln Track Club. (See blog post: "Jocks and Candy Bars") It is a fantastic organization that has been around Lincoln for generations, encouraging young people to fall in love with athletics. Great history. Great cause. Tonight was the Field Event finals for the year. Next week are the running events. Tonight was the first test for these young "ath-el-etes." A culmination of several months worth of training. The events consisted of TENNIS BALL THROW or the traditional LONG JUMP. Mia chose to compete in the LONG JUMP.
We got to the event. Water bottle filled with mostly ice. Mia's hair=appropriately cute. (How different, starting my parenting journey with two boys in sports. I had no idea how important having a "cute-yet fully functional hair style" was for sporting events.) I am pinning Mia's number to the back of her uniform, when I find out that Mia is competing in the 5-year old category.
"What?" I say, concerned. "She just turned 5 on Saturday!" I was imagining her competing against Amazonian kindergartners, hopped up on juice boxes and steroids. Mia is small for her age, so you can imagine my concern when I find out that my newly-turned 5-year old will be competing with children that have up to 362 more days experience in their 5-year old bodies than she does. They have spent a whole fifth of their lives acclimating themselves to the way that their bodies work. Mia just turned 5 this past weekend! I was questioning the unjustness of everything in my head, until the coach reminded me that Mia has been competing against these same kids all year. Silly Mommy.
I sit over by the long jump sand pit and wait for Mia's group to compete. They play round after round of Duck, Duck, Goose until it's their turn to jump. The little girls all line up to do their best. Because of the incredible heat index, the director of the organization makes the decision that this is a "one-jump only" contest. Usually, they give the kids a "best-out-of-two" option, but because it is oppressively hot, one jump is enough. The director advises the kids to "give it their all" and wishes them luck.
The girls (all with incredibly cute variations of incredibly cute hair) line up to jump. Mia is in the second heat. She is the second competitor to go. The first girl jumps five feet, five inches. Mia gets ready to run and jump, cheeks flushed, hair adorable (a little bit curlier in this heat), look of intensity on her face. She lands five feet, even. A few of the other girls jump, and they are not even close to the front runners, so I go over to congratulate my baby.
The group of girls waits and waits. The woman in charge of handing out the ribbons is obviously confused as to where the girls who jumped in that heat are sitting. "Over here!" I say loudly. She doesn't hear me. "Over HERE!" I say, trying to get her attention. This woman hands out ribbon, after ribbon, trying to match competitor's numbers with their appropriate standing. She starts handing out ribbons to the girls who competed after Mia, while Mia still hasn't gotten a ribbon.
"Hey, what about number 345?" I say with support from some of the other parents and a coach who was concerned about Mia not getting a ribbon.
"Uh,......here ya go." The lady says and thrusts Mia a green ribbon.
A green ribbon. Well what the heck does that mean? Did she earn that green ribbon? I was listening to the distance monitors and didn't think that Mia had won the green. I wasn't sure, but the lady who was handing out ribbons just handed her the green one, because that was what she had left in her hand.
At this point, I had a decision to make. I never want to be one of "Those Moms" who whine and complain all of the time about the unfair treatment that their child is getting. I want to have faith in my coaches, that they know what they are doing, and I will respect their positions. I think my kids will learn lessons from all of the adults around them, and I don't need to step in to be the "Mom on Wheels" and fix all of the problems.
But it felt like 108 degrees. Actually 95. The sun was blaring and the humidity was so thick you could choke on it. So I complained. A little. "Did Mia earn that green ribbon?" I asked a coach. He did some checking and in fact Mia was second in her heat and indeed earned a red ribbon.
I would not have cared if Mia did earn "just the green," but the point is that we should all be rewarded accordingly for our efforts. Mia would never have known that she didn't receive the honors that she should have received. A ribbon is a ribbon in our house. But when a person gives something their best, they should be rewarded for it. And not some slapped together, half-excused "gimme," but an honest-to-goodness real validation of achievement. In a world where vacuous celebrities seem to have it all, hard work should be valued. We should be able to earn our honors. And celebrate life's victories! Especially when you're competing against 5-year olds.
After the meet, Mia and I went to TCBY and relished in her achievment. Red ribbons and sprinkles on cotton candy frozen yogurt. Victory!
I have written about the South Lincoln Track Club. (See blog post: "Jocks and Candy Bars") It is a fantastic organization that has been around Lincoln for generations, encouraging young people to fall in love with athletics. Great history. Great cause. Tonight was the Field Event finals for the year. Next week are the running events. Tonight was the first test for these young "ath-el-etes." A culmination of several months worth of training. The events consisted of TENNIS BALL THROW or the traditional LONG JUMP. Mia chose to compete in the LONG JUMP.
We got to the event. Water bottle filled with mostly ice. Mia's hair=appropriately cute. (How different, starting my parenting journey with two boys in sports. I had no idea how important having a "cute-yet fully functional hair style" was for sporting events.) I am pinning Mia's number to the back of her uniform, when I find out that Mia is competing in the 5-year old category.
"What?" I say, concerned. "She just turned 5 on Saturday!" I was imagining her competing against Amazonian kindergartners, hopped up on juice boxes and steroids. Mia is small for her age, so you can imagine my concern when I find out that my newly-turned 5-year old will be competing with children that have up to 362 more days experience in their 5-year old bodies than she does. They have spent a whole fifth of their lives acclimating themselves to the way that their bodies work. Mia just turned 5 this past weekend! I was questioning the unjustness of everything in my head, until the coach reminded me that Mia has been competing against these same kids all year. Silly Mommy.
I sit over by the long jump sand pit and wait for Mia's group to compete. They play round after round of Duck, Duck, Goose until it's their turn to jump. The little girls all line up to do their best. Because of the incredible heat index, the director of the organization makes the decision that this is a "one-jump only" contest. Usually, they give the kids a "best-out-of-two" option, but because it is oppressively hot, one jump is enough. The director advises the kids to "give it their all" and wishes them luck.
The girls (all with incredibly cute variations of incredibly cute hair) line up to jump. Mia is in the second heat. She is the second competitor to go. The first girl jumps five feet, five inches. Mia gets ready to run and jump, cheeks flushed, hair adorable (a little bit curlier in this heat), look of intensity on her face. She lands five feet, even. A few of the other girls jump, and they are not even close to the front runners, so I go over to congratulate my baby.
The group of girls waits and waits. The woman in charge of handing out the ribbons is obviously confused as to where the girls who jumped in that heat are sitting. "Over here!" I say loudly. She doesn't hear me. "Over HERE!" I say, trying to get her attention. This woman hands out ribbon, after ribbon, trying to match competitor's numbers with their appropriate standing. She starts handing out ribbons to the girls who competed after Mia, while Mia still hasn't gotten a ribbon.
"Hey, what about number 345?" I say with support from some of the other parents and a coach who was concerned about Mia not getting a ribbon.
"Uh,......here ya go." The lady says and thrusts Mia a green ribbon.
A green ribbon. Well what the heck does that mean? Did she earn that green ribbon? I was listening to the distance monitors and didn't think that Mia had won the green. I wasn't sure, but the lady who was handing out ribbons just handed her the green one, because that was what she had left in her hand.
At this point, I had a decision to make. I never want to be one of "Those Moms" who whine and complain all of the time about the unfair treatment that their child is getting. I want to have faith in my coaches, that they know what they are doing, and I will respect their positions. I think my kids will learn lessons from all of the adults around them, and I don't need to step in to be the "Mom on Wheels" and fix all of the problems.
But it felt like 108 degrees. Actually 95. The sun was blaring and the humidity was so thick you could choke on it. So I complained. A little. "Did Mia earn that green ribbon?" I asked a coach. He did some checking and in fact Mia was second in her heat and indeed earned a red ribbon.
I would not have cared if Mia did earn "just the green," but the point is that we should all be rewarded accordingly for our efforts. Mia would never have known that she didn't receive the honors that she should have received. A ribbon is a ribbon in our house. But when a person gives something their best, they should be rewarded for it. And not some slapped together, half-excused "gimme," but an honest-to-goodness real validation of achievement. In a world where vacuous celebrities seem to have it all, hard work should be valued. We should be able to earn our honors. And celebrate life's victories! Especially when you're competing against 5-year olds.
After the meet, Mia and I went to TCBY and relished in her achievment. Red ribbons and sprinkles on cotton candy frozen yogurt. Victory!
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Mr. Bruns
So I just found out that one of my English teachers from high school is on Facebook. Not just any English teacher...Mr. Bruns, the toughest English teacher of any public high school in Illinois, maybe the entire Midwest. Mr. Bruns would require us to diagram every sentence in every paper that we would submit for his class. Every single sentence. (And yes, I know that that was not a complete sentence. I fracture sentences in this blog for emphasis, not grammatical correctness.) And I can't remember exactly, but I want to say that he would fail us if we misspelled two words. I think he gave us one as a "gimme."
Tough guy. But I think that twenty years later, we could use some more tough guys. Not that I don't think my children have fantastic teachers, they do. But there was something so severe, so scarring about making a mistake in Mr. Bruns' class, that you just did not want to mess up. You would want so badly to impress him, to show him that you were not an idiot. There were a bunch of us "smarties" in his class. We tended to be at the top of our classes and were able to coast in a lot of the classes we had in high school. When you're considered academically advanced, a lot of teachers don't really mess with you. They give you the curriculum and are pleased as punch that you follow it. Mr. Bruns challenged us.
I don't think that I have ever tried so hard to impress a teacher before Mr. Bruns and certainly not after. College professors, after having Mr. Bruns for English in high school, were like a bunch of pot-smoking, corduroy-jacket wearing, wimpy feel-gooders who were looking for content and emotion instead of good ol' fashioned grammar. The only thing I learned from those teachers was the Art of B.S. (which I am sure you have realized by now, I am pretty darn good at....or is it "at which now, you realize that I am pretty darn good.")
In any case, the whole point to this little blog is to encourage all of us to do our best for our own "Mr. Bruns-es." (Again, not sure if I've got that one right.) We should try to do the very best we can do. Everyone can do mediocrity. Everyone can get by and get people to like them and laugh at their silly jokes. (Run-on sentence...I know! Again, for emphasis.) But not everyone can get an "A" with Mr. Bruns.
Tough guy. But I think that twenty years later, we could use some more tough guys. Not that I don't think my children have fantastic teachers, they do. But there was something so severe, so scarring about making a mistake in Mr. Bruns' class, that you just did not want to mess up. You would want so badly to impress him, to show him that you were not an idiot. There were a bunch of us "smarties" in his class. We tended to be at the top of our classes and were able to coast in a lot of the classes we had in high school. When you're considered academically advanced, a lot of teachers don't really mess with you. They give you the curriculum and are pleased as punch that you follow it. Mr. Bruns challenged us.
I don't think that I have ever tried so hard to impress a teacher before Mr. Bruns and certainly not after. College professors, after having Mr. Bruns for English in high school, were like a bunch of pot-smoking, corduroy-jacket wearing, wimpy feel-gooders who were looking for content and emotion instead of good ol' fashioned grammar. The only thing I learned from those teachers was the Art of B.S. (which I am sure you have realized by now, I am pretty darn good at....or is it "at which now, you realize that I am pretty darn good.")
In any case, the whole point to this little blog is to encourage all of us to do our best for our own "Mr. Bruns-es." (Again, not sure if I've got that one right.) We should try to do the very best we can do. Everyone can do mediocrity. Everyone can get by and get people to like them and laugh at their silly jokes. (Run-on sentence...I know! Again, for emphasis.) But not everyone can get an "A" with Mr. Bruns.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Big Ten?
So the news broke yesterday, the University of Nebraska will be joining the Big Ten athletic conference. It is with mixed emotions that I receive this news, for I am a graduate of the University of Illinois, also in the Big 10.
I have lived here in Nebraska for almost 10 years. I gave birth to my children here. I worked extensively in the community here. I bought a house here. I wear red every Saturday and most Fridays. I crave Runza's weekly. I can differentiate the smell of a Fairbury hotdog sizzling on the grill from a run-of-the-mill dog. I even think that Herbie Husker is pretty hot. (Sorry Lil' Red. You are a great mascot, but you don't have the muscles. Or the chin.) I know Bo. I have watched every Husker game on tv. (No, I don't listen on the radio. Sports on the radio are stupid. You have to watch. People WATCH sports and then LISTEN to people talk about it later. It's okay.) I love the Big Red.
But I bleed orange and blue. I spent the formative years of my life in Champaign, Illinois. And by formative years, I mean the years where I learned how to be me. I fell in love in Champaign. I fell out of love in Champaign. I figured out what I was feeling "wasn't really love anyway" in Champaign. I met some of my best friends in Champaign. (And thank you Facebook for bringing them back.) I learned some hard lessons in Champaign. I partied, I rocked, and I learned a heck of a lot in Champaign. But I did not watch football.
I do think I went to a couple of games. I know I didn't pay attention. I was more of a tailgater. At the radio station I worked at down there, we had one heck of a tailgating operation. Big huge tent. Killer tunes. Brats. And Leinenkugle beer. Mmmmmm....Leinies. As part of the promotions team, it was our job to set up the tent and run it for all of our listeners. And I always wound up being part of the clean-up team. The duties for that included sitting around and talking rock music, and making sure that that Leinenkugle keg was lighter for the guy taking it back to the distributor. I am such a giver.
Champaign was where I fell in love with radio. The music and the excitement and the creativity. We had a room at the back of the radio station called "Studio D." It had smelly faux leather couches and obnoxious shag green carpeting. Sometimes people would study there. Sometimes people would crash there. The best ideas in the world came out of that little room. Not that any of us can remember those fabulous ideas. You just have to trust us.
That was then. This is now. I moved to Lincoln almost 10 years ago. I am a mom now. I drive a mini-van. One of my main responsiblities to to feed, clothe and discipline three adorable monsters. I pay taxes. I go out once a month instead of 5 nights a week. I carry a purse. (Big no-no in college. If you wore a purse at U of I, you were a major prissy dork.) I don't eat ramen. I drink wine. And I watch football. Big Red football.
I wonder if there's some kind of cosmic twist to all of this. The end of my radio career coinciding with the Cornhuskers joining the Big Ten. The death of one phase of my life, but yet the spark of my past is kindling. UNL will host the Illini. I will have college friends come to visit me and relive the old days. Illinois will host the Big Red. Chris and I can roadtrip to Champaign and visit all of my old haunting grounds. (I wonder if Willie's is still there?) Death and rebirth. Or something like that. I am sure I am overthinking this whole thing, but then again, I am not in Studio D.
I do know this...I bet a Fairbury hotdog would taste fantastic with a Leinie's.
I have lived here in Nebraska for almost 10 years. I gave birth to my children here. I worked extensively in the community here. I bought a house here. I wear red every Saturday and most Fridays. I crave Runza's weekly. I can differentiate the smell of a Fairbury hotdog sizzling on the grill from a run-of-the-mill dog. I even think that Herbie Husker is pretty hot. (Sorry Lil' Red. You are a great mascot, but you don't have the muscles. Or the chin.) I know Bo. I have watched every Husker game on tv. (No, I don't listen on the radio. Sports on the radio are stupid. You have to watch. People WATCH sports and then LISTEN to people talk about it later. It's okay.) I love the Big Red.
But I bleed orange and blue. I spent the formative years of my life in Champaign, Illinois. And by formative years, I mean the years where I learned how to be me. I fell in love in Champaign. I fell out of love in Champaign. I figured out what I was feeling "wasn't really love anyway" in Champaign. I met some of my best friends in Champaign. (And thank you Facebook for bringing them back.) I learned some hard lessons in Champaign. I partied, I rocked, and I learned a heck of a lot in Champaign. But I did not watch football.
I do think I went to a couple of games. I know I didn't pay attention. I was more of a tailgater. At the radio station I worked at down there, we had one heck of a tailgating operation. Big huge tent. Killer tunes. Brats. And Leinenkugle beer. Mmmmmm....Leinies. As part of the promotions team, it was our job to set up the tent and run it for all of our listeners. And I always wound up being part of the clean-up team. The duties for that included sitting around and talking rock music, and making sure that that Leinenkugle keg was lighter for the guy taking it back to the distributor. I am such a giver.
Champaign was where I fell in love with radio. The music and the excitement and the creativity. We had a room at the back of the radio station called "Studio D." It had smelly faux leather couches and obnoxious shag green carpeting. Sometimes people would study there. Sometimes people would crash there. The best ideas in the world came out of that little room. Not that any of us can remember those fabulous ideas. You just have to trust us.
That was then. This is now. I moved to Lincoln almost 10 years ago. I am a mom now. I drive a mini-van. One of my main responsiblities to to feed, clothe and discipline three adorable monsters. I pay taxes. I go out once a month instead of 5 nights a week. I carry a purse. (Big no-no in college. If you wore a purse at U of I, you were a major prissy dork.) I don't eat ramen. I drink wine. And I watch football. Big Red football.
I wonder if there's some kind of cosmic twist to all of this. The end of my radio career coinciding with the Cornhuskers joining the Big Ten. The death of one phase of my life, but yet the spark of my past is kindling. UNL will host the Illini. I will have college friends come to visit me and relive the old days. Illinois will host the Big Red. Chris and I can roadtrip to Champaign and visit all of my old haunting grounds. (I wonder if Willie's is still there?) Death and rebirth. Or something like that. I am sure I am overthinking this whole thing, but then again, I am not in Studio D.
I do know this...I bet a Fairbury hotdog would taste fantastic with a Leinie's.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Endings and Dirt Digging
Spencer has been crying for the last half hour. I've sat and snuggled with him, but he can't be consoled. Today was the last day of school and he is very, very sad. His first kindergarten teacher Mrs. Bauer had to leave midway through the year, and now his most recent kindergarten teacher Miss Hendersen is changing schools and won't be around next year.
It is his first ending. Or at least his first awareness of an ending. Last year he wasn't quite in-tune with the ending of pre-school. But this time he knows that he will probably never see Miss Hendersen again. When you are in kindergarten, there is no Facebook.
He's also upset that he won't be seeing any of his friends over the summer either. Of course that is not true. He is playing t-ball. He sees some of his friends at the neighborhood pool. And then he will see all of them next year. He is just feeling a little sensitive right now. Kindergarten is over.
Endings are hard. New chapters are hard. When you don't know what the future holds, the present can be hard to enjoy. How can I enjoy myself now when I need to be worried about what is on the horizon? Things won't be the same and I don't like that. What if things are worse?
Miss Hendersen was thinking though. She had the kids make memory books and she even made a cute little movie with pictures of the kids doing fun kindergarten-y things: painting, exploring, learning the alphabet, digging in the dirt. A good idea for all of us, especially when we don't know when those endings are going to come. Sometimes endings can take us by surprise. It's a good idea to keep a memory book. Or make a little movie. Or write a blog. Something to remind us that when we do reach that next chapter, when things are even better than they were, we had a great time in kindergarten.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Sleep Fairy Update
An update:
While The Sleep Fairy has not confirmed her identity, The Early Morning Quarter Bandit has asked to be her assistant. He was asking the other night exactly how she does it. "Does she lift my head up first and then the pillow?" "Does she do it all at the same time?" "Does she just slide the treat under?"
Then last night he really thought he outsmarted her. He slept with no pillow. All of his pillows were on the floor.
And this morning he awoke with his head on his pillow and 3 pennies underneath. It's a Sleep Fairy miracle!
While The Sleep Fairy has not confirmed her identity, The Early Morning Quarter Bandit has asked to be her assistant. He was asking the other night exactly how she does it. "Does she lift my head up first and then the pillow?" "Does she do it all at the same time?" "Does she just slide the treat under?"
Then last night he really thought he outsmarted her. He slept with no pillow. All of his pillows were on the floor.
And this morning he awoke with his head on his pillow and 3 pennies underneath. It's a Sleep Fairy miracle!
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Mooning The Sleep Fairy
Okay, so today I have two stories to tell you about and instead of writing two blogs, I am going to tell both in this one and see if I can wrap up the two with some witty tie-in.
Our kids have been super naughty lately. I mean really naughty. "Yelling, screaming, temper-tantruming, getting banned from organizational sports" naughty. I don't know if its too many video games, too much sugar or not enough sleep. They have been the worst at bedtime. Up for 2-3 hours after I put them to bed. So, after doing some research and consulting with their doctor, I decided to call The Sleep Fairy.
The Sleep Fairy will only come if you are perfectly well-behaved at bedtime. You have to put on your pajamas when you are told. The first time, not 5 or 6 times with your mom having to scream at you to "put your jammies on NOW"! You have to brush your teeth when you are told. Again, the first time. You have to do all of this without punching your brother or sister. You can't call them stupid or idiots or butts. You have to sit quietly for book time. You have to lay quietly in your bed, without getting out to steal cereal to snack on in the middle of the night. You cannot complain to your mother that you didn't have any fun today and "why don't we have cable?" and "can we have the hallway light on?" If you can accomplish these things, again without punching your brother and sister (I know. That is the hard part.), The Sleep Fairy will leave you something special under your pillow.
The first night goes great. All three kids sound asleep 15 minutes after being put to bed. Grant my oldest is an early riser. He's the first one up and is so excited that he got a quarter from The Sleep Fairy. Mia wakes up. There is no quarter under her pillow. Spencer wakes up. There is no quarter under her pillow. The Sleep Fairy is sure that she left a quarter under each of their pillows, but there is no money to be found. I have to give each of the kids a quarter from my purse, because I assure them that The Sleep Fairy did give them a quarter, and she thinks the The Early Morning Quarter Bandit must have taken them.
The same thing happened the next night. All three kids were fantastic and went to bed without a problem. Grant found a quarter under his pillow. Spencer and Mia found nothing. Looks like The Early Morning Quarter Bandit struck again. Grant tells me he thinks he knows the identity of The Sleep Fairy. The Sleep Fairy tells him that she knows the identity of The Early Morning Quarter Bandit.
So basically, I've traded one misbehavior for another. I've turned a sleep-deprived, rambunctious child to a thieving, manipulative, well-rested child. I suppose that is progress.
Now here's the other story. The kindergarteners at Spencer's school must really be into butts right now. Using the word "butt." Spanking each other. Some kid even got into trouble for kissing someone's backside. (Adults hear the phrase "kissing someone's butt" and it means something completely different. Kids are pretty literal.).
So Miss Henderson (her first semester teaching-God bless her) decided to teach the kids that "butt" is just another body part like any other, that "butt" isn't any funnier than "elbow," "knee" or "leg." Spencer says to Miss Henderson, "But "butts" are a private part, and private parts are funny." So true child. However, butts are the funniest private part.
Butts are always funny. Always. Its a basic rule of comedy. If you want a laugh, go with a butt joke or a fart joke and you will always score. Sometimes comedians will use other parts and can get a laugh, but sometimes even those jokes can go to far. Other private parts can be funny, but sometimes they can just be gross or just make people uncomfortable. Butts are always funny.
Plumber cracks. Mooning. Falling on it. Depants-ing. Wedgies. Whoopie cushions (butts + farts = comedy gold!!!). They even call it being the "butt of someone's joke." I am sorry, Miss Henderson. Butts are funny.
So remember, when you are getting ready for bed tonight, brush your teeth, get your jammies on, and instead of punching your brother or sister, tell them a good butt joke. And you may, just may get a quarter from The Sleep Fairy. Unless The Early Morning Quarter Bandit gets there first.
(I told you I'd try to tie them together. And if somebody doesn't like it, I suppose you know what they can kiss.)
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Dice and Dips
This is how we roll.......
I got invited to something pretty cool Friday night. My friend Keri (subject of earlier blog "New Friends") is doing a 3-Day Walk for the Cure for Susan G. Komen and put together a Bunco for Boobs fundraiser. She just got done with her chemotherapy and is looking fantastic! Her hair is growing back. Her color has come back to her cheeks, and I have to applaud her for taking on such an unbelievable challenge.
She has spent the last half of a year with her body being beaten down by a disease that is supposed to be a killer. The treatment for that disease can leave the body weakened and sore and whithered. It can leave the spirit the same. But Keri has decided that she is in charge of her body. She decides what her body is going to be doing, what her body can handle, not some stupid disease or the treatment to stop her stupid disease. Cancer may have slowed her down temporarily, but she is the one in control. She has signed-up to walk for 3-days, 60 miles to help raise money to find a cure for the disease that knocked her down. She is training now. Just this weekend she walked a total of 16 miles in training. Her strength and sheer tenacity inspire me.
To raise money for her walk, she organized this Bunco for Boobs night. 20 women attended and we raised $200. Bunco is a dice game that women have been playing since the turn of the century. The last century. There is absolutely no skill involved whatsoever. You roll 3 dice and try to roll the target number. If you do, you keep going, if you don't, play goes to the next player. The women sit at tables in groups of four. I only knew 2 people at this party, so I was excited to get to know 17 other fantastic women. After each round, if you win, you move to a different table. Unless, you are at the head table, in which case, if you lose, you go to the "Bounce" Table.
My friend Lana brought the "Bounce" table. This was a rickety old avacado green card table that someone in her family must have gotten in the late/mid 60's to play their bridge or pitch games on. I could only imagine how many ash trays were full of butts, how many cups of coffee were drank, how many cocktail weenies and sweedish meatballs were eaten around this table. Friday night, by the rules that we were playing by (which by the way in Bunco, I have a feeling that a lot of the rules are kind of made up), if you rolled the dice and didn't roll one of the "target" numbers, you got to pound the table with your fist in order to make the dice jump and "re-roll" themselves. Kind of like a do-over. I loved the "Bounce" table.
In Bunco, when you get 3-of-a-kind it is called a "Binky." (At least that is what this group called it. It could be called something different where you come from.) The winner of the "Binky" gets the honor of holding a special "trophy," and at the end of the night the person holding this special "trophy" wins a prize. Our "trophy" was a pair of furry stuffed breasts strung together by a string. Kind of like fuzzy dice, but with boobs. Now for a run-of-the-mill guys Texas Hold 'Em night, that might sound kind of tacky but this was a fundraiser for breast cancer research after all. When someone would roll 3-of-a-kind, they would yell out, "Binky!" and someone would throw the furry "boobs-on-a-string" their way. Can you imagine the fun of 20 women, rolling dice, drinking cocktails, eating unbelievable dips and hurling a pair of fuzzy boobs through the air?
Oh, and the dips. One of my favorite things about being a woman (that most men I'm sure don't think of) is that women get together they like to out-dip each other. Not in a cut-throat, witchy Desperate Housewives way, but we do like to impress each other with our dips. You don't hear of men who get invited to those poker parties bragging and complimenting each other on their dips. "Ooooh, Larry, what is in this 7-layer bean dip?" But I tell you what, bring 20 women together and there is some gooooood eatin'. There was an unbeliveable jalepeno popper dip, a delicious spinach dip and a really yummy queso. I think that Bunco is just as much about the dips as it is about the dice.
I had a great night. I made a lot of great friends. Had the "Binky" thrown to me a few times. But what I really loved was how I felt connected to womanhood in general. Decades and decades of women have been getting together to play this silly little game. To drink, to socialize and to forget about their diets for the night. To not have to worry about the stresses of their jobs, to not have to worry about the challenges of their children, to not have to worry about the struggles in their marriages or lack there of. Bunco night is just a night to be with the girls. To laugh and eat and drink and throw boobs at each other. And maybe, just maybe, make a little difference in the world. Good luck Keri! I'm cheering you on!
I got invited to something pretty cool Friday night. My friend Keri (subject of earlier blog "New Friends") is doing a 3-Day Walk for the Cure for Susan G. Komen and put together a Bunco for Boobs fundraiser. She just got done with her chemotherapy and is looking fantastic! Her hair is growing back. Her color has come back to her cheeks, and I have to applaud her for taking on such an unbelievable challenge.
She has spent the last half of a year with her body being beaten down by a disease that is supposed to be a killer. The treatment for that disease can leave the body weakened and sore and whithered. It can leave the spirit the same. But Keri has decided that she is in charge of her body. She decides what her body is going to be doing, what her body can handle, not some stupid disease or the treatment to stop her stupid disease. Cancer may have slowed her down temporarily, but she is the one in control. She has signed-up to walk for 3-days, 60 miles to help raise money to find a cure for the disease that knocked her down. She is training now. Just this weekend she walked a total of 16 miles in training. Her strength and sheer tenacity inspire me.
To raise money for her walk, she organized this Bunco for Boobs night. 20 women attended and we raised $200. Bunco is a dice game that women have been playing since the turn of the century. The last century. There is absolutely no skill involved whatsoever. You roll 3 dice and try to roll the target number. If you do, you keep going, if you don't, play goes to the next player. The women sit at tables in groups of four. I only knew 2 people at this party, so I was excited to get to know 17 other fantastic women. After each round, if you win, you move to a different table. Unless, you are at the head table, in which case, if you lose, you go to the "Bounce" Table.
My friend Lana brought the "Bounce" table. This was a rickety old avacado green card table that someone in her family must have gotten in the late/mid 60's to play their bridge or pitch games on. I could only imagine how many ash trays were full of butts, how many cups of coffee were drank, how many cocktail weenies and sweedish meatballs were eaten around this table. Friday night, by the rules that we were playing by (which by the way in Bunco, I have a feeling that a lot of the rules are kind of made up), if you rolled the dice and didn't roll one of the "target" numbers, you got to pound the table with your fist in order to make the dice jump and "re-roll" themselves. Kind of like a do-over. I loved the "Bounce" table.
In Bunco, when you get 3-of-a-kind it is called a "Binky." (At least that is what this group called it. It could be called something different where you come from.) The winner of the "Binky" gets the honor of holding a special "trophy," and at the end of the night the person holding this special "trophy" wins a prize. Our "trophy" was a pair of furry stuffed breasts strung together by a string. Kind of like fuzzy dice, but with boobs. Now for a run-of-the-mill guys Texas Hold 'Em night, that might sound kind of tacky but this was a fundraiser for breast cancer research after all. When someone would roll 3-of-a-kind, they would yell out, "Binky!" and someone would throw the furry "boobs-on-a-string" their way. Can you imagine the fun of 20 women, rolling dice, drinking cocktails, eating unbelievable dips and hurling a pair of fuzzy boobs through the air?
Oh, and the dips. One of my favorite things about being a woman (that most men I'm sure don't think of) is that women get together they like to out-dip each other. Not in a cut-throat, witchy Desperate Housewives way, but we do like to impress each other with our dips. You don't hear of men who get invited to those poker parties bragging and complimenting each other on their dips. "Ooooh, Larry, what is in this 7-layer bean dip?" But I tell you what, bring 20 women together and there is some gooooood eatin'. There was an unbeliveable jalepeno popper dip, a delicious spinach dip and a really yummy queso. I think that Bunco is just as much about the dips as it is about the dice.
I had a great night. I made a lot of great friends. Had the "Binky" thrown to me a few times. But what I really loved was how I felt connected to womanhood in general. Decades and decades of women have been getting together to play this silly little game. To drink, to socialize and to forget about their diets for the night. To not have to worry about the stresses of their jobs, to not have to worry about the challenges of their children, to not have to worry about the struggles in their marriages or lack there of. Bunco night is just a night to be with the girls. To laugh and eat and drink and throw boobs at each other. And maybe, just maybe, make a little difference in the world. Good luck Keri! I'm cheering you on!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
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