Also known as: When you are anxiously waiting for your friends to write you back, their letter will not arrive until you are completely and safely out of town and unable to tear open the envelope the minute it arrives. But your mom, who stayed home, will text- torture you by letting you know that it's finally there.
Mom: You got a letter from Ohio...
Phoebe: I actually sent letters to two different people in Ohio recently. Does it have a name? (either way, I'm secretly dying inside)
Mom: It's from, and I quote: "The Only Person You Know in Ohio" and it is addressed to, and I quote: "Pheebee Harrhead
Phoebe: Wow. That's really ironic. And YEEEEEEEES!
The ONE day I don't religiously check the mail!
Mom: Well, that's the universe for ya!
Phoebe: Ha ha, yup! Thanks : ) could you put that in a safety deposit box for me?
Mom; Well, I've already got armed guards here. Don't you think the safety deposit box would be a bit overdoing it?
Phoebe: Ha ha! Hmmm...I guess. Are any of the guards cute? Maybe they could help me get over missing Michael.
Mom: I can't tell through their ninja masks, but they do have nice butts.
Phoebe: Done
Mom: Atta girl
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Friday, April 11, 2014
Departure
When I was five I would sometimes wake up before everyone else, so I would do what any kid that age would do in such a situation; I'd turn on the TV and fold the laundry while watching Mr. Rogers. Yes...you read that right...I was folding laundry at age 5.
When I was eight I found out that the lady across the street whom I regularly babysat for was out-of-town at a funeral. Her husband was home with the kids. This elicited immediate sympathy and spurred me into action. So I did what any eight year old would do. I made and brought them dinner, all by myself. That's right...I said 8. (Macaroni and Cheese Rookie-Style...recipe to follow)
From a very young age, if I've been anything, I've been domestic. There is no doubt that this is my calling in life. It's what makes me happy. By the time I was 30, I had been blessed with a husband, five kids and a lifestyle that allowed me to be all kinds of domestic, all day long. But two years ago, that all changed.
One phone call, twelve months and four moving trucks later, I found myself surrendering my cherished title of Homemaker for that of Administrative Assistant instead. Working mother. Desk drone. Adrenaline and duty (and shopping for the most darling professional wardrobe) helped with the transition, but still...I will never forget the first time I ate lunch...at my desk...alone. What?
Let me say that again. I ate lunch. At my desk. Alone. But it's what we working people do, frequently, as I've come to discover. And let me just say...it never feels right (and I hope it never does). I'm not sure what lessons I'm supposed to be learning from this experience because frankly I spend most of my time in survival mode, but here's what I can tell you so far:
1. When you hear of a working mom who comes home at the end of an eight hour work day and makes dinner for her family, that doesn't just fall under the "expected" category or even the "admirable" category...it's freakin' awesome! Maybe you're intimidated by the woman on your street whose homemade pie wins a blue ribbon at the state fair every year or whose preschool age triplets have already performed a violin concerto with the symphony. Forget about it. These women have nothing on the gal who brings home the bacon AND fries it up in a pan. Bravo, lady! Bravo!
2. If you think my comments in #1 are fighting words and you wanna have a throw-down between working moms and stay-at-home moms now, do us all a favor and don't. C'mon...that's a dead horse and we all know it. We are sisters, we are awesome, and we need to rock-it in whatever station in life we find ourselves in. Let's not be stupid; it makes our awesomeness look frumpy.
3. It's really nice out here in the work-a-day world. People are nice. They put forth an effort to make time at the office as pleasant, attractive, and civil as can be. With that being said; how big of a leap is it for the breadwinner at your house to go from that atmosphere to the one waiting for them at home?
I hope however far the distance, that it's at least gradual. That it's free of sweat pants and smeared mascara. That they're given a little time to transition from the 9-5 grind to whomever you need them to be at home. Think Scuba diving decompression chamber, maybe? I know, I can't believe I'm saying this either but now that I have been both the one who is come home to and the one who comes home and I have both playbooks in my possession...I have to say: soften it up girls. You both need those first 15 minutes of his arrival home to be tender and sweet.
4. See comment #2 if comment #3 makes you mad.
Macaroni and Cheese - Rookie Style
Dump box of noodles into pot of water. Fish the wet cheese packet back out of water. Turn on heat and bring water to boil. Get distracted and leave the pot until most of the water has boiled out. Dump contents of cheese packet into soggy noodle/cloudy water mixture. Stir and serve.
When I was eight I found out that the lady across the street whom I regularly babysat for was out-of-town at a funeral. Her husband was home with the kids. This elicited immediate sympathy and spurred me into action. So I did what any eight year old would do. I made and brought them dinner, all by myself. That's right...I said 8. (Macaroni and Cheese Rookie-Style...recipe to follow)
From a very young age, if I've been anything, I've been domestic. There is no doubt that this is my calling in life. It's what makes me happy. By the time I was 30, I had been blessed with a husband, five kids and a lifestyle that allowed me to be all kinds of domestic, all day long. But two years ago, that all changed.
One phone call, twelve months and four moving trucks later, I found myself surrendering my cherished title of Homemaker for that of Administrative Assistant instead. Working mother. Desk drone. Adrenaline and duty (and shopping for the most darling professional wardrobe) helped with the transition, but still...I will never forget the first time I ate lunch...at my desk...alone. What?
Let me say that again. I ate lunch. At my desk. Alone. But it's what we working people do, frequently, as I've come to discover. And let me just say...it never feels right (and I hope it never does). I'm not sure what lessons I'm supposed to be learning from this experience because frankly I spend most of my time in survival mode, but here's what I can tell you so far:
1. When you hear of a working mom who comes home at the end of an eight hour work day and makes dinner for her family, that doesn't just fall under the "expected" category or even the "admirable" category...it's freakin' awesome! Maybe you're intimidated by the woman on your street whose homemade pie wins a blue ribbon at the state fair every year or whose preschool age triplets have already performed a violin concerto with the symphony. Forget about it. These women have nothing on the gal who brings home the bacon AND fries it up in a pan. Bravo, lady! Bravo!
2. If you think my comments in #1 are fighting words and you wanna have a throw-down between working moms and stay-at-home moms now, do us all a favor and don't. C'mon...that's a dead horse and we all know it. We are sisters, we are awesome, and we need to rock-it in whatever station in life we find ourselves in. Let's not be stupid; it makes our awesomeness look frumpy.
3. It's really nice out here in the work-a-day world. People are nice. They put forth an effort to make time at the office as pleasant, attractive, and civil as can be. With that being said; how big of a leap is it for the breadwinner at your house to go from that atmosphere to the one waiting for them at home?
I hope however far the distance, that it's at least gradual. That it's free of sweat pants and smeared mascara. That they're given a little time to transition from the 9-5 grind to whomever you need them to be at home. Think Scuba diving decompression chamber, maybe? I know, I can't believe I'm saying this either but now that I have been both the one who is come home to and the one who comes home and I have both playbooks in my possession...I have to say: soften it up girls. You both need those first 15 minutes of his arrival home to be tender and sweet.
4. See comment #2 if comment #3 makes you mad.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Saturday Night Fever
Several months ago, I started to think that it was time for a party. At first I imagined it would be something like a house-warming party and that we would have it as soon as we were finished with all the remodeling we were doing at our house. But that idea was hatched at the beginning of the project, back when we had a more romantic idea of what it would be like once everything was complete. Back when it was man vs. house and we were the obvious victors-to-be. But since it ended up being less victor-like and more let's-call-it-a-truce-like, the celebrating element just wasn't there.
But the party bug was. It emerged again, several months later during that week in January where my oncologist sent me through a round of tests, including a nuclear bone scan, because she thought my cancer had metastasized to my bones. This time my party was more like a going away party because I'm pretty sure metastatic cancer in your bones has bon voyage written all over it. Negative. My symptoms were merely a case of Costochondritis.
Well, the terrible diagnosis went away, but the desire to hang out with all my favorite people didn't. I thought...why should I wait for an excuse to celebrate my wonderful life with all the people who had made it so? The party was on and this time, it was a birthday party!
The Facebook invites went out to 200 friends (give or take), and the hard copy invitations went out to 70 of those same people, the 70 whom I thought were most likely to come. But after they went out, and I mean right after, I experienced the weirdest mix of remorse and dread that I have ever felt. It turned into anxiety and it haunted me for days. I was miserable. Turns out there's a thing called "hospitality induced anxiety" and I had it bad. At one point, five or six hours before the party began, I actually thought "if I got in my car right now and started driving...how far away could I get before anyone noticed I was missing?" If the answer had been "so far that you would drive right into the ocean", I would have been ok with that.
Why wouldn't the idea of having this party go away? Why had actually throwing this party become tantamount to drowning in the ocean? Hosting had never bothered me before. I have come up with a couple of theories, but it really doesn't matter anymore because in the end, the party came, the people came (over 50) and it was so much fun! They even gave me presents...a thing which I hadn't even considered before. But...yay presents! And yay friends and family. Saturday night was great, thanks to you!
But the party bug was. It emerged again, several months later during that week in January where my oncologist sent me through a round of tests, including a nuclear bone scan, because she thought my cancer had metastasized to my bones. This time my party was more like a going away party because I'm pretty sure metastatic cancer in your bones has bon voyage written all over it. Negative. My symptoms were merely a case of Costochondritis.
Well, the terrible diagnosis went away, but the desire to hang out with all my favorite people didn't. I thought...why should I wait for an excuse to celebrate my wonderful life with all the people who had made it so? The party was on and this time, it was a birthday party!
The Facebook invites went out to 200 friends (give or take), and the hard copy invitations went out to 70 of those same people, the 70 whom I thought were most likely to come. But after they went out, and I mean right after, I experienced the weirdest mix of remorse and dread that I have ever felt. It turned into anxiety and it haunted me for days. I was miserable. Turns out there's a thing called "hospitality induced anxiety" and I had it bad. At one point, five or six hours before the party began, I actually thought "if I got in my car right now and started driving...how far away could I get before anyone noticed I was missing?" If the answer had been "so far that you would drive right into the ocean", I would have been ok with that.
Why wouldn't the idea of having this party go away? Why had actually throwing this party become tantamount to drowning in the ocean? Hosting had never bothered me before. I have come up with a couple of theories, but it really doesn't matter anymore because in the end, the party came, the people came (over 50) and it was so much fun! They even gave me presents...a thing which I hadn't even considered before. But...yay presents! And yay friends and family. Saturday night was great, thanks to you!
Monday, February 3, 2014
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Completing Christmas
With a newborn, a one year old, AND a two year old...my mother did not have a lot of spare time. This was before microwaves, disposable diapers, Disney DVDs, the Internet or any other kind of electronic babysitter that we enjoy today. Yet she still managed to find time to make us all homemade Christmas stockings that year.
While working on this project one day, her one year old daughter began vying for her attention. She toddled up to mother and tried to pull herself up onto her lap. Mother moved the child aside and continued to sew. Again, the child approached mother, whining and yapping for some attention and again, mother gently turned the child around and urged her to play elsewhere. When the toddler approached the third time, mother simply stuck out her leg and held the infant at bay with her foot while she continued her work. "I'm doing this for you" she heard herself say in exasperation.
Her own words, mixed with her daughters tears, made her realize that something was wrong with this picture. She stopped sewing, pinned the remaining pieces in place and picked up her daughter.
She never finished the stocking. She hung it that year just as it was and every year after that. For me, the little girl in the story, that stocking would hold all the goodies Santa would bring for years to come. For my mother, it would hold a far greater treasure.
What was that treasure? Was it knowing that she had saved me from a life of sadness and tragedy? Would have making me wait another 10 minutes have ruined my psyche beyond repair? No. Mother could have finished the stocking and her baby girl would have been just fine.
But it was not finishing the stocking that makes it so special. By not finishing the stocking, she got to know what it is like for all those who "lose their life for the Lord's sake and find it." She got to know what it is to hold the kingdom of God on her lap. "Suffer the little children to come unto me, for such is the kingdom of God."
If a Christmas stocking ever was or will be about Christ...this one will and is.
It represents one small battlefield...that between the natural woman and the Christ-like woman, and she won that battle.
But even though this stocking was never finished, it could not be more complete. Much as the Lord, the Author and Finisher of our faith, completes us when we choose to put aside our personal ambitions and agendas and choose to love His children instead.
While working on this project one day, her one year old daughter began vying for her attention. She toddled up to mother and tried to pull herself up onto her lap. Mother moved the child aside and continued to sew. Again, the child approached mother, whining and yapping for some attention and again, mother gently turned the child around and urged her to play elsewhere. When the toddler approached the third time, mother simply stuck out her leg and held the infant at bay with her foot while she continued her work. "I'm doing this for you" she heard herself say in exasperation.
Her own words, mixed with her daughters tears, made her realize that something was wrong with this picture. She stopped sewing, pinned the remaining pieces in place and picked up her daughter.
She never finished the stocking. She hung it that year just as it was and every year after that. For me, the little girl in the story, that stocking would hold all the goodies Santa would bring for years to come. For my mother, it would hold a far greater treasure.
What was that treasure? Was it knowing that she had saved me from a life of sadness and tragedy? Would have making me wait another 10 minutes have ruined my psyche beyond repair? No. Mother could have finished the stocking and her baby girl would have been just fine.
If a Christmas stocking ever was or will be about Christ...this one will and is.
It represents one small battlefield...that between the natural woman and the Christ-like woman, and she won that battle.
But even though this stocking was never finished, it could not be more complete. Much as the Lord, the Author and Finisher of our faith, completes us when we choose to put aside our personal ambitions and agendas and choose to love His children instead.
Monday, November 4, 2013
LJCooper
This morning at 9 am I walked across a parking lot and traveled back through time. By the time I opened the front door to the LJCooper Wealth Advisors office, it was 2010 all over again. Which is good, 'cause I liked my life back in 2010 and I liked working at LJCooper. Two years have passed since I left. Some things came right back to me; others left me at a complete loss, but all-in-all it felt like home. Some people say "you can never go home again"...but I guess that depends on where home is and who you left behind.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Post # 161
At least he tried to make it sound like it wasn't my fault.
At least it took him weeks to actually pull the trigger.
And the severance was thoughtful.
If only I knew that they'd miss me.
That they'd hate to see my empty desk when they walked by.
That at least once, someone would say "Well, this sucks," because I was gone.
Worst fear...that it won't even matter to them
While I'm sitting here, obviously struggling
More than I should be
If only I hated my job
And they were smelly tyrants
With no sense of humor
It was just a job
It was only 42 weeks
And I made my share of mistakes
But the biggest one...
Needing something
That would cease to exist
Too soon.
At least it took him weeks to actually pull the trigger.
And the severance was thoughtful.
If only I knew that they'd miss me.
That they'd hate to see my empty desk when they walked by.
That at least once, someone would say "Well, this sucks," because I was gone.
Worst fear...that it won't even matter to them
While I'm sitting here, obviously struggling
More than I should be
If only I hated my job
And they were smelly tyrants
With no sense of humor
It was just a job
It was only 42 weeks
And I made my share of mistakes
But the biggest one...
Needing something
That would cease to exist
Too soon.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Friday, September 27, 2013
Who Do You Love and Who Do You Bug?
Lacking any kind of muse in my life right now, I find myself in a word drought. It's so true what they say about all work and no play. It's all about words for me, reading them and writing them. I don't arabesque, I conjugate. I can't sing, but I can split infinitives. I'm not even able to go running anymore, so I punctuate instead. But all I've got right now are a few thoughts that have evolved into a theory. Finding the right words to share this theory has been like breaking through concrete! This is an important theory, so I will persist and try something different...pictures.
This image would give the impression that pet peeves are better than wild peeves. But anyone who has pets of any kind knows that they demand time, money and a lot of tolerance. They change your lifestyle. Four reasons why I am not a pet person. Sure, there's probably a study out there somewhere that says something about people with puppies living longer; but I'm OK with that. I'd rather live 78 years NOT cleaning up excrement than 100 years picking up the poo.
And as long as we're giving this picture validity, you will notice that in the wild, the peeves are only dangerous to each other. Why would you bring that into your home where they become dangerous to you? And there's the problem right there. You know it and I know it. Pet peeves are usually rooted in the behaviors of the people we are supposed to be loving the most. Wikipedia knows it too: Pet peeves often involve specific behaviors of someone close, such as a spouse or significant other.
But people can be irritating when you live with them! They don't put things where they are supposed to go, they make annoying noises, and the list could go on and on! If you can live with these irritants and just ignore them, that would be great. But most of us can't. So we nag, leave notes around the house, mumble under our breathe, sigh over our breathe and ever so slowly, over time, create tension and distance in our relationships. This is bad.
This is where my theory was born.
Whenever I adopted a pet peeve, I was basically saying this: "Something is wrong in the world and I want you to fix it for me!" Someone left the toilet paper empty, someone left their shoes in the wrong place, someone stacked the dishes wrong! Fix it, fix it, fix it!
Then I realized that I could remedy the situation by simply performing an act of service. By changing my thoughts I could say instead: "Something is wrong in the world and I want to fix it for you!" I will replace the toilet paper so the next person has their needs met, I will put these shoes where they belong so their owner will find them more easily, I will restack the dishes so the next person does not have to fumble around to find what they need.
If you have a pet peeve, turn it into a chance for service. If you don't want that many service opportunities in your life, then you may want to eliminate some of your pet peeves.
Since I began turning my pet peeves into service opportunities, whenever I find myself thinking peevish thoughts I can actually hear myself say: "Congratulations! You just gave yourself another chore!" If it's really important, then I follow through with my new opportunity. But just as often I will find myself dropping the irritant altogether; if it means making more work for myself, suddenly it doesn't seem like that big of a deal. Whereas before I didn't even think twice about making more work for someone else. In case you think I am being unrealistic, there are exceptions. As a family we identified situations when someone's behavior will actually need to be modified to accommodate living with others; times when it's not just a nit-picky personal preference but a real concern. These exceptions include anything that isn't safe, sanitary, or economical. If it might hurt someone, make someone sick or cost us money, then someone needs to slow down and reevaluate how their habits are affecting the people around him or her and make some changes.
If you're into quiet, personal victories...give this a try. By liberating the captive peeves back into the wild, you will be liberating yourself.
-Postlude-
Granted, when I read this list it occurred to me that there is a very fine line between pet peeves and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Take these two examples:
"When it's raining and you turn your car off before you turn the wipers off, and they stop in the middle of the windshield, so you turn the car back on, the wipers off, and then the car off."
"When people don't clear the microwave numbers."
Definitely OCD.
As I read through the list I noticed a couple of peeves on there that I was guilty of perpetrating. I had no idea they were annoying. So I made a mental note not to do those things anymore. But as the list went on and on and on, I began to realize that it was pointless because almost anything you do could be considered irritating to someone else. Examples:
"The way people walk in flip flops."
"People say "carmel" instead of "caramel".
Friday, June 14, 2013
Two Sides to Every Coin; A Rebuttal
"Enjoy them while they're young...they grow up so fast". This thought often crosses my mind when I see a young parent out with their kids. "They'll be gone before you know it" is yet another adaptation of the same sentiment. Phrases like these are the common expressions of older parents whom, regardless of how long it's been since their children left home, are still bewildered and amazed at how quickly it all ended. Primarily because most of the time, while in the thick of raising those little ones...it felt like it never would.
Lately, however, such sentiments have become politically incorrect, especially when they are directed towards parents struggling with their kids. According to recent online rants, people who utter those words or words like unto it, are labeled as inconsiderate and ignorant and are somehow now candidates for water-boarding. Really? Yes, at least according to the "Actual Pastor" post of March 12, 2013 which states; I secretly want to hold those people under water.
Come this September, I will have somehow successfully survived raising three of my five children to leave-home-hood and will be down to my last two. And whereas I honestly can't remember if I've ever actually uttered those words to anyone, I know I've thought them countless times. Please believe me...there is something behind those words, that prompts their utterance. Something significant that you need to realize. These are not just empty sentiments. This is what you need to realize...I've been where you are! But on the other hand, you have yet to be where I am. I could stop right there. That fact alone is enough to make my advice tolerable. In other words, I understand first hand why you don't want to hear those words, but I also know why they need to be said. Let me explain:
First: As a parent of young children, the frustration of the moment or fatigue of the day that is freshest on your mind when you hear "those" words and subsequently want to explode, will someday be forgotten. Whatever it is that has driven you to the edge will in the very least, someday be funny if not completely wiped from your memory altogether. The regrets, however, of missed opportunities, harsh words uttered in frustration, or bad role model behavior ...you will never forget. At least as far as I can tell. They will haunt you at the very worst; constantly humble you otherwise.
What we are really saying then, is: it was hard for me too. I couldn't handle it all the time either. I wish I could go back.
Second: We're all on the same team here, just executing different plays on different days. You're not being judged, at least not by me. I'm too busy wishing you'd ask me for my help. After all, I am a grandma in training. Gimme your worst.
Finally, and perhaps most painfully, please remember... you are usually the one freaking out when a well-meaning wrinkled one speaks those words. We are usually the sane ones in the situation. That alone should probably give you pause.
So, keep up the good work. It'll be over before you know it.
Lately, however, such sentiments have become politically incorrect, especially when they are directed towards parents struggling with their kids. According to recent online rants, people who utter those words or words like unto it, are labeled as inconsiderate and ignorant and are somehow now candidates for water-boarding. Really? Yes, at least according to the "Actual Pastor" post of March 12, 2013 which states; I secretly want to hold those people under water.
Come this September, I will have somehow successfully survived raising three of my five children to leave-home-hood and will be down to my last two. And whereas I honestly can't remember if I've ever actually uttered those words to anyone, I know I've thought them countless times. Please believe me...there is something behind those words, that prompts their utterance. Something significant that you need to realize. These are not just empty sentiments. This is what you need to realize...I've been where you are! But on the other hand, you have yet to be where I am. I could stop right there. That fact alone is enough to make my advice tolerable. In other words, I understand first hand why you don't want to hear those words, but I also know why they need to be said. Let me explain:
First: As a parent of young children, the frustration of the moment or fatigue of the day that is freshest on your mind when you hear "those" words and subsequently want to explode, will someday be forgotten. Whatever it is that has driven you to the edge will in the very least, someday be funny if not completely wiped from your memory altogether. The regrets, however, of missed opportunities, harsh words uttered in frustration, or bad role model behavior ...you will never forget. At least as far as I can tell. They will haunt you at the very worst; constantly humble you otherwise.
What we are really saying then, is: it was hard for me too. I couldn't handle it all the time either. I wish I could go back.
Second: We're all on the same team here, just executing different plays on different days. You're not being judged, at least not by me. I'm too busy wishing you'd ask me for my help. After all, I am a grandma in training. Gimme your worst.
Finally, and perhaps most painfully, please remember... you are usually the one freaking out when a well-meaning wrinkled one speaks those words. We are usually the sane ones in the situation. That alone should probably give you pause.
So, keep up the good work. It'll be over before you know it.
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