Ah, the 1980s. A magical time where we all believed in capitalism with all our might. Arnold told us he'd be back. We inquired about where, indeed, the beef was located. Alf proclaimed, "I kill me." Michael Douglas slithered as Gordon Gekko. We were gagged with spoons. Alexis and Crystal had sequined, shoulder-padded cat fights. People wore some terrible, terrible clothing. Why did you think everyone did all that cocaine and had all that pre-AIDS sex? To get one another out of those horrible fashions.
But dismayingly, inexplicably, and like megalomania, 1980s-style clothing is, indeed, evidently back in fashion. As far as I can tell. Being the elderly, I have to go by the thick glossy magazines that threaten my self-esteem and by what's on the rack at my local stores. But everything I'm seeing right now makes me look like Claire Huxtable. And it's bad, people. BAD. These trends were horrifying enough back then. This is like returning to an abusive relationship. We need an intervention, and I'm glad to provide one. Behold: 80s trends that do not look good on you, or indeed, anyone now or ever:
Flashdance-style loose tunics and belly shirts. You are not Irene Cara (look it up, whippersnappers). And unless you are the taut captain of the high school cheerleading squad, you do not have the belly to pull this off. And then it would still be inappropriate. Trust me. And these tunics are particularly offensive when paired with...
Big obnoxious patterns. A five year old doesn't look good in polka dots. You don't either. Giant stripes, pink animal prints...Your shirt, ideally, should not be audible. Which leads me to...
Neon colors. We had a saying back in the 80s, and it still applies here: friends don't let friends wear neon. I don't care if Oprah's wearing orange pants and Gayle's in bright green. They are misguided. Breathtaking wealth doesn't save you from fashion faux pas. The average American female tuchus is a size fourteen. That's a lot of pants seat. It is ill advised for that seat to be teal.
Spandex leggings or 'jeggings': Have you seen the average American? For the love of all that is holy: most of us look like we are stuffed in sausage casings when we don this abhorrence. And no giant, Demi-Moore-in-About-Last-Night oversized-dress-sweater can or will conceal the crime that are my thighs in Lycra.
Shoulder pads. Unless it's a particularly good sale at Neiman's or you have some other plausible reason to tackle someone, you probably should not resemble a defensive end.
Crimped hair. It was as wrong on Debbie Harry as it is on Rihanna. I want to buy you conditioner.
Leg warmers. This is not Black Swan. These are to be forgiven only in transit to or from an actual ballet lesson.
Leotards. See above. Plus, aren't these just onesies for grown women? It is so wrong for anyone over the age of fourteen months to have their shirt snap at the crotch.
Jelly shoes. Especially in Texas. We've got way too much heat and skin. The smell of people's feet stuffed in plastic is like napalm here. And there's got to be a name for the feet-fat that squishes out, waffle style, from between the straps. Shudder.
Scrunchies. I am not a Heather, but you can consider me the new sheriff in town, of sorts. Just. No.
Bedazzling. There are WAY too many sequins out there right now. I blame Snooki for what I'm calling the Jersification of the nation. It's tacky, y'all. As are press on nails (whether "active" or "glamor length." It's irrelevant).
Headbands. Not the ones that sit on top of your head. The ones across the forehead. A la Peaches Geldof. The wrong is strong with this one.
Jams. The big, flowered, knee-length shorts? GOD FORBID. Can Panama Jack or Coke brand clothing be far behind? WE MUST STOP THE MADNESS. For the good of the children.
Swatch watches. See above re: plastic accessories and sweaty people. And on account of the general hideousness.
Members Only jackets. I forgive this on Paris Jackson alone.
Rat tails. They're called RAT tails. How flattering could they have ever been? And finally:
Bubble skirts. I can say with authority that any garment that "bubbles" anywhere near your hips? Not just a no. But a HELL NO. I cannot reiterate this enough.
So, as usual, you're welcome. Please, consider your fellow man in the selection of your outerwear. I'm allergic to ugly. These are items I have indeed seen in high-end stores lately. We may or may not be doomed. But one thing you can count on: you will not see me out in a turquoise jacket.
Flannel and ripped jeans always did suit me better, after all. Wake me up not when it's time to go-go, please, but when it's time for the 90s styles to make a repeat. Except for the Hammer pants. Natch.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
Turn Your Head and Cough, or: The Joys of Aging
Mick Jagger said it: What a drag it is getting old.
Okay, so I'm not that old yet. But I am old enough where the doctors do that thing where they quit trying to fix you and instead start saying "Well, these things are to be expected at your age," or "Yes, that's common in people over forty. You'll have to ice it."
The first time my pains were poo-pooed, I was a little put out. Why was my doctor refusing to fix me!? My baby-carrying shoulder hurts! But evidently people my age are expected to play through the pain, rub some dirt on it. I'm now the little Dutch boy with my finger stuck in the dyke, holding back a flood of inevitable, age-related physical decline. Good times.
There's no dignity to this middle-aged war against time, either. The good news is that any decorum I had was lost during the birth of my children, anyway. There is no etiquette to a postpartum shower with a nurse you've never met, your stomach stapled shut and taped over with saran wrap, your innards sliding out onto the tile in chunks (sorry, guys, but actual childbirth ain't cute). I was mortified, but to her credit, that nurse made that experience seem as natural as taking my blood pressure. But I digress.
So just when I think there's nothing more embarrassing the medical community can do to me, I am told by my lady-bits doctor it's time for the rite of passage every woman must endure: my first mammogram.
No problem, I thought. I've breastfed three babies. I've whipped out these puppies to do so in front of my father-in-law and hosts of other friends and relations. I've breastfed in exotic locales: the Dallas World Aquarium. At a staff meeting at a counseling agency. On the side of the road in the rural Mississippi delta. In the Collin County, Texas courthouse (making some officials nervous with the sound of my breast pump in the handicapped stall. I might have argued at the time it WAS a weapon, but again, I digress).
How humiliating could a breast exam be? I thought smugly. And with this bravado and not a clue about what to expect, I rolled up my local hospital to present the girls. After being greeted by a couple of women who had me sign more autographs than Justin Bieber at a bat mitzvah, I was then whisked into a dressing room. No deodorant or perfume allowed (who knew?), so I am then treated to an invigorating upper-body wet wipe. Besmocked, I join the other ladies in the waiting room, and we are all resplendent in our matching pink flowered fashions and with our awkward, limited eye contact.
As this is a family publication, I will not go into too much detail about the actual procedure. Let me suffice to say it included small Vietnamese women, kneading, and what I can only describe as boob patties. There really are not words for the experience of seeing a tender, very private part of you flattened like a cheek cell from eighth grade science on a glass slide. Surreal doesn't quite cover it.
The following sonogram to take a closer look was also a tad Kafkaesque. Let's just say I'm glad the cold gel of the pregnant belly is mercifully warmed for your more northern regions. I was also relieved the time I spent alone on the table, draped with a towel, waiting for the doctor to come tell me what he saw, was short. Fortunately for me, the news was good: an all clear. I said a silent prayer for the women who had been on the same table who weren't. And thankfully got the goo off my chest.
So I'm patched together for now, and I'm starting to get convinced if a doctor asked me to strip down and tap dance while singing an aria from Tosca, I'd obediently disrobe and begin vocal warm-up. I know this getting older thing is not for the feint of heart. There are more medical indignities to come. There is the inevitably, of course, of the dreaded colonoscopy to which we all must eventually succumb. But I'm telling y'all: I might need my doctor to buy me dinner and a movie before THAT seems right.
Oh, well. In the end, having your every orifice probed and your fleshy bits squeezed by the docs are acts of self-love. It beats the alternative. So I will not go gently into that good night. I'm living to a hundred, dammit, if for no other reason than to give my children hell as long as humanly possible. You do the same. Turn your head and cough. Take care of yourself despite the un-stateliness of it all. There's no stopping the march of time. I just wish it would stop marching all over my face.
To quote the great David Bowie: time may change me, but I can't change time. There may be more and more upkeep on the temple (cathedral?) as I ripen, sure. I refuse to be in denial. It may take some humbling experiences with gowns in which the dimpled, stark whiteness of my heinie cannot be obscured. I may indeed need to require a level of intimacy with med techs to which I will have to grow accustomed. Accoutrement to stay healthy and young at heart may be necessary.
But hey. At least my bifocals will allow me to read my bar tab accurately.
Okay, so I'm not that old yet. But I am old enough where the doctors do that thing where they quit trying to fix you and instead start saying "Well, these things are to be expected at your age," or "Yes, that's common in people over forty. You'll have to ice it."
The first time my pains were poo-pooed, I was a little put out. Why was my doctor refusing to fix me!? My baby-carrying shoulder hurts! But evidently people my age are expected to play through the pain, rub some dirt on it. I'm now the little Dutch boy with my finger stuck in the dyke, holding back a flood of inevitable, age-related physical decline. Good times.
There's no dignity to this middle-aged war against time, either. The good news is that any decorum I had was lost during the birth of my children, anyway. There is no etiquette to a postpartum shower with a nurse you've never met, your stomach stapled shut and taped over with saran wrap, your innards sliding out onto the tile in chunks (sorry, guys, but actual childbirth ain't cute). I was mortified, but to her credit, that nurse made that experience seem as natural as taking my blood pressure. But I digress.
So just when I think there's nothing more embarrassing the medical community can do to me, I am told by my lady-bits doctor it's time for the rite of passage every woman must endure: my first mammogram.
No problem, I thought. I've breastfed three babies. I've whipped out these puppies to do so in front of my father-in-law and hosts of other friends and relations. I've breastfed in exotic locales: the Dallas World Aquarium. At a staff meeting at a counseling agency. On the side of the road in the rural Mississippi delta. In the Collin County, Texas courthouse (making some officials nervous with the sound of my breast pump in the handicapped stall. I might have argued at the time it WAS a weapon, but again, I digress).
How humiliating could a breast exam be? I thought smugly. And with this bravado and not a clue about what to expect, I rolled up my local hospital to present the girls. After being greeted by a couple of women who had me sign more autographs than Justin Bieber at a bat mitzvah, I was then whisked into a dressing room. No deodorant or perfume allowed (who knew?), so I am then treated to an invigorating upper-body wet wipe. Besmocked, I join the other ladies in the waiting room, and we are all resplendent in our matching pink flowered fashions and with our awkward, limited eye contact.
As this is a family publication, I will not go into too much detail about the actual procedure. Let me suffice to say it included small Vietnamese women, kneading, and what I can only describe as boob patties. There really are not words for the experience of seeing a tender, very private part of you flattened like a cheek cell from eighth grade science on a glass slide. Surreal doesn't quite cover it.
The following sonogram to take a closer look was also a tad Kafkaesque. Let's just say I'm glad the cold gel of the pregnant belly is mercifully warmed for your more northern regions. I was also relieved the time I spent alone on the table, draped with a towel, waiting for the doctor to come tell me what he saw, was short. Fortunately for me, the news was good: an all clear. I said a silent prayer for the women who had been on the same table who weren't. And thankfully got the goo off my chest.
So I'm patched together for now, and I'm starting to get convinced if a doctor asked me to strip down and tap dance while singing an aria from Tosca, I'd obediently disrobe and begin vocal warm-up. I know this getting older thing is not for the feint of heart. There are more medical indignities to come. There is the inevitably, of course, of the dreaded colonoscopy to which we all must eventually succumb. But I'm telling y'all: I might need my doctor to buy me dinner and a movie before THAT seems right.
Oh, well. In the end, having your every orifice probed and your fleshy bits squeezed by the docs are acts of self-love. It beats the alternative. So I will not go gently into that good night. I'm living to a hundred, dammit, if for no other reason than to give my children hell as long as humanly possible. You do the same. Turn your head and cough. Take care of yourself despite the un-stateliness of it all. There's no stopping the march of time. I just wish it would stop marching all over my face.
To quote the great David Bowie: time may change me, but I can't change time. There may be more and more upkeep on the temple (cathedral?) as I ripen, sure. I refuse to be in denial. It may take some humbling experiences with gowns in which the dimpled, stark whiteness of my heinie cannot be obscured. I may indeed need to require a level of intimacy with med techs to which I will have to grow accustomed. Accoutrement to stay healthy and young at heart may be necessary.
But hey. At least my bifocals will allow me to read my bar tab accurately.
Friday, February 24, 2012
The Broccoli Wars
I have become a food Nazi. I don't know how exactly it happened. It's really quite remarkable how much my attitude about food has changed over my life. My childhood, after all, took place in the 70s. It was a decade of Sugar Pops cereal, microwaved hotdogs, and the Kool-Aid man crashing through walls with pitchers full of his sugary bounty. My baloney had a first name, and it was O-S-C-A-R. There were sponsored cartoons by the dairy industry that played between cartoons after school: "I hanker for a hunka...a slice a slab a chunka...I hanker for a hunk of cheese!" Oh, I definitely hankered for a hunk of cheese.
Not to mention I was raised in the deep South, so the memories of glorious mountains of Crisco melting in a deep fryer on almost a daily basis are still with me. Chicken fried steak. Fried chicken. Fried tacos. Homemade french fries. Hell, I believe I even could have eaten a deep-fried doorknob under the right circumstances. There were vegetables, sure. All prepared lovingly with fatback or butter. Every Southern home had a container of leftover bacon grease on the stove top to spoon into dishes. On account of the deliciousness. I kid you not. And I loved it all. Unfortunately, as I matured, my love of this type of cuisine did broaden me through the beam considerably.
So despite my deep and abiding love for craptacular food, I was dragged kicking and screaming into maturity when I decided to try to get pregnant...and discovered my alarming cholesterol levels that were going along with the extra weight I was carrying. The effects of poor food choice were no longer just cosmetic for me.
For the first time, I realized my eating habits and the subsequent effects on my health didn't just impact me. There were people who needed me not to drop dead of a massive coronary event. And somehow, over time, with the help of friends who were awesome cooks, I became a foodie. Refrigerated doughs no longer enticed me. I stepped away from the fried cheese. I embraced, GASP, vegetables. And not cooked with bacon fat or Velveeta, either.
I never enforced my new, more healthy habits on my family, though, even though eventually I narrowed my heinie to a single-digit pants size and corrected my cholesterol problems. I didn't want to go to war with my children over food and make the dinner table a battleground. I feared risking my relationship with them by being too controlling. I wanted them to feel like they had choices. They'll mature, I said. Their tastes will change. I give them vitamins, I told myself. It's all good. And it was...until my husband was diagnosed with liver disease.
As frightening as Hubs' diagnosis was, I was told by his medical team that there was plenty we could do to take care of his lemon of a liver...and most of it was nutritional. He needed mega-doses of certain vitamins, and supplements weren't going to be enough.
He needed to re-haul his diet. And having been told, I was on it. Being the information wonk that I am, I did thorough research on the foods that packed the nutrients he needed as well as ways I could prepare these foods so he might actually eat them. I, in a scant few months, became an excellent and creative organic chef. An honorary PhD in nutrition was born, and the broccoli wars were begun.
But I was loathe to enforce this diet on my children. Hubs is a grown-up, and I was having trouble enough converting HIM. Like their mother, my kids can be a bit...comment se dit?...recalcitrant. Self, I said to myself, don't all children live on chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, and pizza? What's a childhood without Cheetos and cupcakes? None of my children were overweight, I rationalized. They were active. But I made different meals for each one of them daily. I capitulated to what they insisted on eating. And I can own it: it was easier, and I felt overwhelmed. They outnumber me, you see.
But then: I had what we in the counseling and theology circles call a Come To Jesus meeting with a naturopathic doctor in the form of a six hour workshop about the biology of happiness. What I learned from her was astonishing. She gently pointed out that the lack of protein, the chemicals, the sugar my children ingested might...just might...have something to do with why they often act like baboons on crack. She explained the brain chemistry of how vitamins and protein impact mental health...and the role it plays in mood and attention span...and behavior.
Duh, as my eight year old son would say. I realized I had gradually decided to take the path of least resistance to the detriment of my children and despite what I knew as a professional counselor. Yikes. I couldn't wait for THEM to get sick before I radically changed their diet as I had Hubs'. As Sam Cooke sang, a change is gonna come. There's a new sheriff in town at Chez Counce, y'all. Pray for me. But I will embrace the Food Nazi label gladly if it makes my children act any less like hellions. If it helps my dyslexic son succeed in school. If it impacts their happiness and success positively in any way.
You see, I made a common parental mistake: I had confused generosity with duty when it came to my children's diet. It's very generous to give my son Pringles and cupcakes when he wants them. It makes me very popular. I am assured at the time that I am the best mommy ever. Indeed, forcing more nutritious choices on the kids has rendered me, for the moment, momma non gratis.
My daughter is angry with me even as I type this. I won't let her have chocolate Cheerios for lunch. I'm taking a beating. Along with a side of sullenness and tantrums. But I'm determined to remember my duty by them. Not always popular, but the right thing to do. Because I have my children's best interests at heart, I'm now in it to win it...no matter how much aggravation ends up on the menu.
Not to mention I was raised in the deep South, so the memories of glorious mountains of Crisco melting in a deep fryer on almost a daily basis are still with me. Chicken fried steak. Fried chicken. Fried tacos. Homemade french fries. Hell, I believe I even could have eaten a deep-fried doorknob under the right circumstances. There were vegetables, sure. All prepared lovingly with fatback or butter. Every Southern home had a container of leftover bacon grease on the stove top to spoon into dishes. On account of the deliciousness. I kid you not. And I loved it all. Unfortunately, as I matured, my love of this type of cuisine did broaden me through the beam considerably.
So despite my deep and abiding love for craptacular food, I was dragged kicking and screaming into maturity when I decided to try to get pregnant...and discovered my alarming cholesterol levels that were going along with the extra weight I was carrying. The effects of poor food choice were no longer just cosmetic for me.
For the first time, I realized my eating habits and the subsequent effects on my health didn't just impact me. There were people who needed me not to drop dead of a massive coronary event. And somehow, over time, with the help of friends who were awesome cooks, I became a foodie. Refrigerated doughs no longer enticed me. I stepped away from the fried cheese. I embraced, GASP, vegetables. And not cooked with bacon fat or Velveeta, either.
I never enforced my new, more healthy habits on my family, though, even though eventually I narrowed my heinie to a single-digit pants size and corrected my cholesterol problems. I didn't want to go to war with my children over food and make the dinner table a battleground. I feared risking my relationship with them by being too controlling. I wanted them to feel like they had choices. They'll mature, I said. Their tastes will change. I give them vitamins, I told myself. It's all good. And it was...until my husband was diagnosed with liver disease.
As frightening as Hubs' diagnosis was, I was told by his medical team that there was plenty we could do to take care of his lemon of a liver...and most of it was nutritional. He needed mega-doses of certain vitamins, and supplements weren't going to be enough.
He needed to re-haul his diet. And having been told, I was on it. Being the information wonk that I am, I did thorough research on the foods that packed the nutrients he needed as well as ways I could prepare these foods so he might actually eat them. I, in a scant few months, became an excellent and creative organic chef. An honorary PhD in nutrition was born, and the broccoli wars were begun.
But I was loathe to enforce this diet on my children. Hubs is a grown-up, and I was having trouble enough converting HIM. Like their mother, my kids can be a bit...comment se dit?...recalcitrant. Self, I said to myself, don't all children live on chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, and pizza? What's a childhood without Cheetos and cupcakes? None of my children were overweight, I rationalized. They were active. But I made different meals for each one of them daily. I capitulated to what they insisted on eating. And I can own it: it was easier, and I felt overwhelmed. They outnumber me, you see.
But then: I had what we in the counseling and theology circles call a Come To Jesus meeting with a naturopathic doctor in the form of a six hour workshop about the biology of happiness. What I learned from her was astonishing. She gently pointed out that the lack of protein, the chemicals, the sugar my children ingested might...just might...have something to do with why they often act like baboons on crack. She explained the brain chemistry of how vitamins and protein impact mental health...and the role it plays in mood and attention span...and behavior.
Duh, as my eight year old son would say. I realized I had gradually decided to take the path of least resistance to the detriment of my children and despite what I knew as a professional counselor. Yikes. I couldn't wait for THEM to get sick before I radically changed their diet as I had Hubs'. As Sam Cooke sang, a change is gonna come. There's a new sheriff in town at Chez Counce, y'all. Pray for me. But I will embrace the Food Nazi label gladly if it makes my children act any less like hellions. If it helps my dyslexic son succeed in school. If it impacts their happiness and success positively in any way.
You see, I made a common parental mistake: I had confused generosity with duty when it came to my children's diet. It's very generous to give my son Pringles and cupcakes when he wants them. It makes me very popular. I am assured at the time that I am the best mommy ever. Indeed, forcing more nutritious choices on the kids has rendered me, for the moment, momma non gratis.
My daughter is angry with me even as I type this. I won't let her have chocolate Cheerios for lunch. I'm taking a beating. Along with a side of sullenness and tantrums. But I'm determined to remember my duty by them. Not always popular, but the right thing to do. Because I have my children's best interests at heart, I'm now in it to win it...no matter how much aggravation ends up on the menu.
Friday, February 17, 2012
The Hijacked American Brain
Whitney Houston. Josh Hamilton. The TCU football team. My goodness. Drugs and alcohol and their misuse are front and center in the news lately, as are opinions about those who partake. Speculation is that Houston died as a result of combining drugs and alcohol. Josh Hamilton ends up in a bar despite the fact it will cost him a millionaire's career and maybe his family. Young, privileged kids with their whole lives in front of them inexplicably decide to dabble in a little behind-the-scenes pharmaceutical sales.
And the judgments are flowing. Two LA radio hosts were suspended for calling Houston a "crack ho." The comments and call-ins about Hamilton and the college kids at TCU online and on radio sports shows are blistering. And I'm finding everyone's smug outrage a smidge hypocritical. Because if I've learned anything from years in the mental health counseling biz, it is this: if you're pointing a finger, there's four more pointing back at you.
Be honest: ever had a couple of drinks with dinner and driven afterwards? If not, next time you're out, look around at the other tables and see how many people are. Or does your doctor give you a prescription for "mommy's little helpers" (known in the suburban set as Xanax or Valium)? Or maybe you wait until the kids go to bed before you drink a bottle of wine...just because you can't sleep?
Oh, America's got a problem, all right. And it's what I call a bio-psycho-socio-spiritual problem. How does addiction happen? Experts have isolated the root causes:
Biology. If you have a mother or father who was troubled by drugs and alcohol, you are four times more likely to develop a problem yourself...before you ever even pick up the substance. There's a particular link between men and their sons. Addiction is a family disease. Funny thing, too: substance abuse isn't the problem, folks. Substance abuse is a symptom of the problem. We use substances to solve our problems: something akin to using a shovel to hammer a nail in the wall. Might get the job done, sure, but there's a lot of collateral damage.
Psychology. Depression, anxiety, other mood disorders: if you have a mental health issue, you are at increased risk of developing a dependence or abuse problem. There are personality traits that can precede misuse of drugs and alcohol too. Some people aren't easily stimulated, or they're risk takers. But instead of skydiving or bungee-jumping, however, these individuals say to themselves: let's take ten tabs of acid and see what happens! Undiagnosed mental health problems can play a big role in why people medicate themselves.
Sociology. Nurture plays a big role in who develops an addiction problem as well as nature. Your race, your neighborhood, your socioeconomics all factor in. Were you bullied at school? Suffer physical, sexual, emotional abuse? Were you over-indulged? Neglected? All load the dice in favor of addiction.
Spiritual. In the end, addiction is really a spiritual sickness, a chronic emptiness, the ultimate isolation from God. It's the hope that something outside of yourself, whether that be meth, booze, food, sex, or designer clothes can make you somehow better. People throw a lot of different things in a lot of different holes trying to fill up, never understanding everything they need to calm down and feel whole is already inside.
Have all of the above whammies or a combination thereof, and poor coping mechanisms are hard to avoid using if you've never been taught to self soothe in a healthy way. So, I don't judge anyone who's got a disease. Once you dump copious amounts of mood-altering substances on the brain, it's chemical ability to experience pleasure is completely changed. After you've experienced these powerful but fake highs over and over, a good sandwich or winning a contest just doesn't do it for the addict any more. After some time, it's not about partying. It's about getting out of bed.
And this is disease that is primarily defined by the symptom that people refuse to admit they have it. Addiction is a progressive and deadly condition, and there are only three outcomes to it without intervention: dead. Crazy. Or jailed. These ways are the only ways an substance dependence problem can end without treatment.
If you wonder if you have a problem, you have a problem. Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous are correlated with successful recovery, true, but please: get evaluated by a substance abuse counselor. Treatment and support are two different things, and you need them both. There are no shortcuts. But if you have cancer, you just don't go to a support group and talk about it. Or tell the doctor, "No, I don't think I'll do chemotherapy. It's too hard, and I don't want to lose my hair." If you don't treat your diabetes, it's still there. And it will blind you and take your feet before it kills you.
If you are related to someone who has a problem, there's help for you at Al-Anon. Please go talk to other family and friends of addicts.Turning a blind eye, refusing to speak up enables your loved one to keep killing themselves. But in order to wage war against illicit substance dependence and abuse, we've got to get past the stigma and silence and shame that surrounds addiction. We need to drop the judgement. Because we're in denial. And in recovery, that stands for "Don't Even Know I Am Lying."
And the judgments are flowing. Two LA radio hosts were suspended for calling Houston a "crack ho." The comments and call-ins about Hamilton and the college kids at TCU online and on radio sports shows are blistering. And I'm finding everyone's smug outrage a smidge hypocritical. Because if I've learned anything from years in the mental health counseling biz, it is this: if you're pointing a finger, there's four more pointing back at you.
Be honest: ever had a couple of drinks with dinner and driven afterwards? If not, next time you're out, look around at the other tables and see how many people are. Or does your doctor give you a prescription for "mommy's little helpers" (known in the suburban set as Xanax or Valium)? Or maybe you wait until the kids go to bed before you drink a bottle of wine...just because you can't sleep?
Oh, America's got a problem, all right. And it's what I call a bio-psycho-socio-spiritual problem. How does addiction happen? Experts have isolated the root causes:
Biology. If you have a mother or father who was troubled by drugs and alcohol, you are four times more likely to develop a problem yourself...before you ever even pick up the substance. There's a particular link between men and their sons. Addiction is a family disease. Funny thing, too: substance abuse isn't the problem, folks. Substance abuse is a symptom of the problem. We use substances to solve our problems: something akin to using a shovel to hammer a nail in the wall. Might get the job done, sure, but there's a lot of collateral damage.
Psychology. Depression, anxiety, other mood disorders: if you have a mental health issue, you are at increased risk of developing a dependence or abuse problem. There are personality traits that can precede misuse of drugs and alcohol too. Some people aren't easily stimulated, or they're risk takers. But instead of skydiving or bungee-jumping, however, these individuals say to themselves: let's take ten tabs of acid and see what happens! Undiagnosed mental health problems can play a big role in why people medicate themselves.
Sociology. Nurture plays a big role in who develops an addiction problem as well as nature. Your race, your neighborhood, your socioeconomics all factor in. Were you bullied at school? Suffer physical, sexual, emotional abuse? Were you over-indulged? Neglected? All load the dice in favor of addiction.
Spiritual. In the end, addiction is really a spiritual sickness, a chronic emptiness, the ultimate isolation from God. It's the hope that something outside of yourself, whether that be meth, booze, food, sex, or designer clothes can make you somehow better. People throw a lot of different things in a lot of different holes trying to fill up, never understanding everything they need to calm down and feel whole is already inside.
Have all of the above whammies or a combination thereof, and poor coping mechanisms are hard to avoid using if you've never been taught to self soothe in a healthy way. So, I don't judge anyone who's got a disease. Once you dump copious amounts of mood-altering substances on the brain, it's chemical ability to experience pleasure is completely changed. After you've experienced these powerful but fake highs over and over, a good sandwich or winning a contest just doesn't do it for the addict any more. After some time, it's not about partying. It's about getting out of bed.
And this is disease that is primarily defined by the symptom that people refuse to admit they have it. Addiction is a progressive and deadly condition, and there are only three outcomes to it without intervention: dead. Crazy. Or jailed. These ways are the only ways an substance dependence problem can end without treatment.
If you wonder if you have a problem, you have a problem. Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous are correlated with successful recovery, true, but please: get evaluated by a substance abuse counselor. Treatment and support are two different things, and you need them both. There are no shortcuts. But if you have cancer, you just don't go to a support group and talk about it. Or tell the doctor, "No, I don't think I'll do chemotherapy. It's too hard, and I don't want to lose my hair." If you don't treat your diabetes, it's still there. And it will blind you and take your feet before it kills you.
If you are related to someone who has a problem, there's help for you at Al-Anon. Please go talk to other family and friends of addicts.Turning a blind eye, refusing to speak up enables your loved one to keep killing themselves. But in order to wage war against illicit substance dependence and abuse, we've got to get past the stigma and silence and shame that surrounds addiction. We need to drop the judgement. Because we're in denial. And in recovery, that stands for "Don't Even Know I Am Lying."
Friday, February 10, 2012
Valentine's Day, Or: Not For the Feint of Heart
Ah, Valentine's Day. One of my favorites. Oh, the haters love to say it's a made up holiday, blah blah blah, just designed to get us to consume. As the kids say: Whatevs. Because I love a holiday that's all about love. And now that Hubs and I have been together over fifteen years, the good news is I've trained him well. He knows the routine: card. Chocolate. Roses. Something sparkly. Formulaic, I know, but it works for both of us. As a left-brained engineer, he likes formulas where he can drop in known variables to get the same result every year: a smiling wife.
Oh, yes, I have many warm Valentines memories with Hubs. We met on February 10 (yes, I'm a girl. I remember the exact day. And what I weighed then. But I digress), so Valentine's is kind of an anniversary for us. We would repeat our traditions every year: candle light dinner. Sipping champagne. And watching "Sleepless in Seattle," which he brought over with a heart shaped chocolate chip cookie. The cookie was from his mother to him, but to his credit, he shared it with me. So many sweet, romantic memories.
And then: we had children.
Oh, sure, the romance is still there. But when you have three kids eight and younger, Valentine's Day grows to match its container, not unlike a goldfish in a Koi pond. Valentine's Day has become The Great Valentine's Initiative. In order to pull off Valentine's Day for three children at school, you must possess the strategic planning skills of an Erwin Rommel (look it up). It turns out arranging everything you need for a family Valentine's is not for the feint of heart.
First: you better start early. The locusts come out to feed. Women who are good at this stuff are buying Valentine's supplies in December. Wait until February, and you'll probably won't find the specific cartoon character Valentines your child will melt down without. Do not make a mistake and buy Hello Kitty when your four year old daughter requested Dora. You will pay.
Teachers will then require you to purchase fruit trays or pretzels which must be procured and delivered on the day of the party. Your child must somehow not drop and ruin these foods between your mini-van and his school room. There must be a small but tasteful gift for teachers. Between my children, there are five. There should be a Valentine from each child to each teacher. Each much bear a carefully crafted message of your child's adoration of aforementioned teacher.
And then there's the night before the children's parties at school, at which time you will create an assembly line that puts the largest Toyota factory in Japan to shame. Pencils must be poked through, magnets slipped in, and lollipops taped into valentines. Tiny, cheap heart stickers must be peeled up and applied, and they will never hold the damn things together. You will address no fewer than 130 of these Chinese made valentines (do they even know who Dora the Explorer IS in China?).
And then's there's the morning of the party. Do the children have their valentine garb on? You know, the five dollar t-shirt they pressured you into buying at Old Navy that they will never don again after this day? Do they have their required snacks? The valentines? It is possible to need a sherpa to help schlep the valentine's goodies to school.
Don't forget you must attend the party at school! Never mind everyone's having them at the same time, so like Clooney on Oscar night, you must make the rounds if you have multiple children, triggering a nuclear sibling rivalry meltdown for whomever doesn't get your visit first. Children will be swinging from the ceiling, having been pumped up for weeks about valentine's day and then stuffed full of sugar. The room will be crowded with a ring of weary adults avoiding conversation with one another and checking their watches.
Finally, the haul home. Do the math: three kids, about 25 little scrappy valentines apiece, boxes, bags, or mailboxes, and candy to wrestle away from the kids before dinner. Their sugar rush can and will last for days. Prepare yourself to watch your children act as if they're on crack. It's Valentine's Day, people, and they are READY TO PARTY LIKE CHARLIE SHEEN. Lock up your tiger blood.
Hubs and I are often too tired to stay up to watch "Sleepless in Seattle" now as we are officially Sleepless in McKinney, Texas. If Hubs were to bring me a heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie, it would be crumbs in the pan before I could get to it. A glass of champagne, and I'm snoring like a congested heifer. Needless to say, some of our romantic traditions have been tweaked from the age BC (Before Children).
But despite all of the above, don't get me wrong. Valentine's Day is better than ever after children, because the love has doubled...and in our case, tripled. Oh, it's chaotic. It's demanding. You will work your heinie off to make it happen. But when they grin at you with their mouths ringed with chocolate and say, "I love you, Mommy!" it's all worth it, isn't it?
And all of this because two people fell in love.
Oh, yes, I have many warm Valentines memories with Hubs. We met on February 10 (yes, I'm a girl. I remember the exact day. And what I weighed then. But I digress), so Valentine's is kind of an anniversary for us. We would repeat our traditions every year: candle light dinner. Sipping champagne. And watching "Sleepless in Seattle," which he brought over with a heart shaped chocolate chip cookie. The cookie was from his mother to him, but to his credit, he shared it with me. So many sweet, romantic memories.
And then: we had children.
Oh, sure, the romance is still there. But when you have three kids eight and younger, Valentine's Day grows to match its container, not unlike a goldfish in a Koi pond. Valentine's Day has become The Great Valentine's Initiative. In order to pull off Valentine's Day for three children at school, you must possess the strategic planning skills of an Erwin Rommel (look it up). It turns out arranging everything you need for a family Valentine's is not for the feint of heart.
First: you better start early. The locusts come out to feed. Women who are good at this stuff are buying Valentine's supplies in December. Wait until February, and you'll probably won't find the specific cartoon character Valentines your child will melt down without. Do not make a mistake and buy Hello Kitty when your four year old daughter requested Dora. You will pay.
Teachers will then require you to purchase fruit trays or pretzels which must be procured and delivered on the day of the party. Your child must somehow not drop and ruin these foods between your mini-van and his school room. There must be a small but tasteful gift for teachers. Between my children, there are five. There should be a Valentine from each child to each teacher. Each much bear a carefully crafted message of your child's adoration of aforementioned teacher.
And then there's the night before the children's parties at school, at which time you will create an assembly line that puts the largest Toyota factory in Japan to shame. Pencils must be poked through, magnets slipped in, and lollipops taped into valentines. Tiny, cheap heart stickers must be peeled up and applied, and they will never hold the damn things together. You will address no fewer than 130 of these Chinese made valentines (do they even know who Dora the Explorer IS in China?).
And then's there's the morning of the party. Do the children have their valentine garb on? You know, the five dollar t-shirt they pressured you into buying at Old Navy that they will never don again after this day? Do they have their required snacks? The valentines? It is possible to need a sherpa to help schlep the valentine's goodies to school.
Don't forget you must attend the party at school! Never mind everyone's having them at the same time, so like Clooney on Oscar night, you must make the rounds if you have multiple children, triggering a nuclear sibling rivalry meltdown for whomever doesn't get your visit first. Children will be swinging from the ceiling, having been pumped up for weeks about valentine's day and then stuffed full of sugar. The room will be crowded with a ring of weary adults avoiding conversation with one another and checking their watches.
Finally, the haul home. Do the math: three kids, about 25 little scrappy valentines apiece, boxes, bags, or mailboxes, and candy to wrestle away from the kids before dinner. Their sugar rush can and will last for days. Prepare yourself to watch your children act as if they're on crack. It's Valentine's Day, people, and they are READY TO PARTY LIKE CHARLIE SHEEN. Lock up your tiger blood.
Hubs and I are often too tired to stay up to watch "Sleepless in Seattle" now as we are officially Sleepless in McKinney, Texas. If Hubs were to bring me a heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie, it would be crumbs in the pan before I could get to it. A glass of champagne, and I'm snoring like a congested heifer. Needless to say, some of our romantic traditions have been tweaked from the age BC (Before Children).
But despite all of the above, don't get me wrong. Valentine's Day is better than ever after children, because the love has doubled...and in our case, tripled. Oh, it's chaotic. It's demanding. You will work your heinie off to make it happen. But when they grin at you with their mouths ringed with chocolate and say, "I love you, Mommy!" it's all worth it, isn't it?
And all of this because two people fell in love.
Friday, February 3, 2012
How To Get a Kid To Do Almost Anything. No, Really.
So I'm in one of our local retail establishments recently, shopping blissfully (okay, no one really shops blissfully, per se, but when you're without your children, it's something close), when I hear the screaming. Looking around, I see a young mother who is not as fortunate as I. She has a full cart and two young children in tow. Automatically, she has my sympathy. I'll shop at midnight before I try to haul toddlers through the grocery store. It's brutal.
At any rate, as I'm watching this little family and feeling grateful I'm alone, a familiar drama unfolds between the two toddlers. They start to argue about who's going to help place items in Mommy's cart. And as it often happens with toddlers, violence ensues. Older boy punches younger brother. Younger brother begins to wail. And then, inexplicably, Mom grabs older boy by the shoulder and begins swatting him, punctuating each lick with a word: "You...better...not...ever...hit...your...brother!"
I was agog. This was crazy-making at its finest. Was this mother really hitting her kid to get him to stop hitting? Don't get me wrong. There's been many a time I felt I was completely unarmed to control my toddlers. I've made plenty of mistakes. A lot of us resort to hitting and time-outs because we just don't how else to influence our kids' behavior. But I'm here to let you in on a little secret about how to get your kid to be a lot more amenable, whether that kid is three or seventeen.
Why do any of us do anything we do? For reward, of course. Every decision you have made today, from the choice of clothing to going to work, has a reward of some kind. If you know anything about training dogs, for example, you know to teach him a trick you have to reward him when he gets it right. If you just beat the dog when he doesn't do the trick, he's just going to learn to avoid you, not to roll over or shake. And our kids are the same way.
So what reward do our children want? How do we teach them the proper response to discomfort? Believe it or not, it's not with gifts of Squinkies or trips to Chuck E. Cheese (which is actually a canto of hell, but I digress). Fact: what our children actually crave more than anything is a good relationship with their parents. And if you have a good relationship with your child, it turns out, they indeed will crawl over hot coals to please you.
How does this coaching look in practice? Let me break it down for you using a great example from my own kids. So we're all chilling in floor, chugging some Thomas the Tank Engine cars around some plastic tracks. Everything's copasetic until my daughter, then three years old, decides my seven year old son is crowding her section of track. So she, as many three-year-olds do, decides clocking her brother across the back of the cranium with a toy train car is an excellent way to call his attention to his encroachment.
Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Thomas the Tank Engine, first: good for you. Remain blissfully ignorant if you can. Secondly: those cars are made out of cast iron. At the time, I'm worried my daughter has caved in her brother's head. He howls in pain and then shoves his sister as hard as he can in retaliation.
Now, here's the part where it's tempting to start yelling and putting babies in corners. But what I've learned is there's a better way. First, take a deep breath and resist the urge to crack their skulls together. Once you're calm, then:
Reflect and validate. I indicated that I totally get why my son shoved my daughter. I mean, you're sitting there, minding your own business, and suddenly someone clocks you across the back of the head. If I were taking up too much space at the bar, and some one came up and punched me over it, I'd feel mad and hurt. So did my son. I let my son know I get it that he's mad and hurt and has a right to be.
Empathize. Once I identified and validated my son's feelings about my daughter wailing on him, it was time to give him an example of how I can understand his feelings. I told him a story about a stray dog who decided to come take a chomp out of my calf while I was out walking one day. About how I didn't even know him or bother him, but he decided to hurt me for walking down his street. I could, I told him, totally get how he feels.
Explore alternate behaviors. I told my son I sure felt like kicking that little dog for hurting me for no reason. But I didn't kick him, because I wouldn't feel good about myself and I could get into trouble. I needed to find some things to do that wouldn't hurt anyone or get me trouble. I told him about calling animal control and calling my mommy and crying on the phone (true story) and how those things made me feel much better.
I explored with my son some options about how he could manage his (valid!) feelings and get some relief. We came up with some great alternatives: asking for help, telling her how he feels, getting a stuffed friend or some hugs and kisses for mom. You want more than just one alternative behavior in case his first one doesn't work out for some reason.
How did it all end? With my son hugging me and saying I was a great mom, and him leaving the room feeling heard and empowered. I'm happy to say he resorts to violence a lot less these days. Oh, he's not perfect, but he doesn't want to disappoint me. We have a great relationship.
So I challenge you to give this emotional coaching thing a try. It's so crazy, it just might work. And while we're at it, we might consider how this relationship thing might reward not only the kids, but how you might be able to influence the grown-ups in your life too. Everything boils down to relationships. The use of violence or anger is kind of like holding a gun to someone's head. Pretty effective while you're wielding it, but what happens when you put it down? People run away.
So I challenge you: try it! With your spouse, your boss, the customer. Reflect ("What I hear you saying is..."). Validate ("I can totally see how for YOU that is so.") Empathize ("And I can see how you feel X about that."). Because believe it or not, even though some grown-ups seem to need a time out or a smacked bottom, there's another way to win friends...and most importantly, influence people.
At any rate, as I'm watching this little family and feeling grateful I'm alone, a familiar drama unfolds between the two toddlers. They start to argue about who's going to help place items in Mommy's cart. And as it often happens with toddlers, violence ensues. Older boy punches younger brother. Younger brother begins to wail. And then, inexplicably, Mom grabs older boy by the shoulder and begins swatting him, punctuating each lick with a word: "You...better...not...ever...hit...your...brother!"
I was agog. This was crazy-making at its finest. Was this mother really hitting her kid to get him to stop hitting? Don't get me wrong. There's been many a time I felt I was completely unarmed to control my toddlers. I've made plenty of mistakes. A lot of us resort to hitting and time-outs because we just don't how else to influence our kids' behavior. But I'm here to let you in on a little secret about how to get your kid to be a lot more amenable, whether that kid is three or seventeen.
Why do any of us do anything we do? For reward, of course. Every decision you have made today, from the choice of clothing to going to work, has a reward of some kind. If you know anything about training dogs, for example, you know to teach him a trick you have to reward him when he gets it right. If you just beat the dog when he doesn't do the trick, he's just going to learn to avoid you, not to roll over or shake. And our kids are the same way.
So what reward do our children want? How do we teach them the proper response to discomfort? Believe it or not, it's not with gifts of Squinkies or trips to Chuck E. Cheese (which is actually a canto of hell, but I digress). Fact: what our children actually crave more than anything is a good relationship with their parents. And if you have a good relationship with your child, it turns out, they indeed will crawl over hot coals to please you.
How does this coaching look in practice? Let me break it down for you using a great example from my own kids. So we're all chilling in floor, chugging some Thomas the Tank Engine cars around some plastic tracks. Everything's copasetic until my daughter, then three years old, decides my seven year old son is crowding her section of track. So she, as many three-year-olds do, decides clocking her brother across the back of the cranium with a toy train car is an excellent way to call his attention to his encroachment.
Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Thomas the Tank Engine, first: good for you. Remain blissfully ignorant if you can. Secondly: those cars are made out of cast iron. At the time, I'm worried my daughter has caved in her brother's head. He howls in pain and then shoves his sister as hard as he can in retaliation.
Now, here's the part where it's tempting to start yelling and putting babies in corners. But what I've learned is there's a better way. First, take a deep breath and resist the urge to crack their skulls together. Once you're calm, then:
Reflect and validate. I indicated that I totally get why my son shoved my daughter. I mean, you're sitting there, minding your own business, and suddenly someone clocks you across the back of the head. If I were taking up too much space at the bar, and some one came up and punched me over it, I'd feel mad and hurt. So did my son. I let my son know I get it that he's mad and hurt and has a right to be.
Empathize. Once I identified and validated my son's feelings about my daughter wailing on him, it was time to give him an example of how I can understand his feelings. I told him a story about a stray dog who decided to come take a chomp out of my calf while I was out walking one day. About how I didn't even know him or bother him, but he decided to hurt me for walking down his street. I could, I told him, totally get how he feels.
Explore alternate behaviors. I told my son I sure felt like kicking that little dog for hurting me for no reason. But I didn't kick him, because I wouldn't feel good about myself and I could get into trouble. I needed to find some things to do that wouldn't hurt anyone or get me trouble. I told him about calling animal control and calling my mommy and crying on the phone (true story) and how those things made me feel much better.
I explored with my son some options about how he could manage his (valid!) feelings and get some relief. We came up with some great alternatives: asking for help, telling her how he feels, getting a stuffed friend or some hugs and kisses for mom. You want more than just one alternative behavior in case his first one doesn't work out for some reason.
How did it all end? With my son hugging me and saying I was a great mom, and him leaving the room feeling heard and empowered. I'm happy to say he resorts to violence a lot less these days. Oh, he's not perfect, but he doesn't want to disappoint me. We have a great relationship.
So I challenge you to give this emotional coaching thing a try. It's so crazy, it just might work. And while we're at it, we might consider how this relationship thing might reward not only the kids, but how you might be able to influence the grown-ups in your life too. Everything boils down to relationships. The use of violence or anger is kind of like holding a gun to someone's head. Pretty effective while you're wielding it, but what happens when you put it down? People run away.
So I challenge you: try it! With your spouse, your boss, the customer. Reflect ("What I hear you saying is..."). Validate ("I can totally see how for YOU that is so.") Empathize ("And I can see how you feel X about that."). Because believe it or not, even though some grown-ups seem to need a time out or a smacked bottom, there's another way to win friends...and most importantly, influence people.
Friday, January 27, 2012
It's Called Empathy. Look Into It.
You are so rude.
Okay, so maybe not you specifically. But someone may think you are: did you see the recent reader poll that Travel and Leisure magazine printed naming America's rudest cities? Of course you didn't. Who can afford travel and/or leisure in this economy? But I digress. According to the poll, the Dallas/Forth Worth area is the sixth rudest city in all of these United States. And the rudest Southern city, to which I take particular umbrage.
No surprise to me New York took the top prize. Insulting one another is how New Yorkers show love. If you can make it in New York, evidently you can make it in federal prison. Miami was number two. Does a lack of clothing make you rude? DC was next: quelle surprise. For proof, all you've got to do is watch a little Sunday morning talk where politicians bring rudeness to an art form. Los Angeles was fourth. I can imagine all that Botox, silicone, and bleach can angry up the blood. And fifth? Boston, which evidently often can be mistaken for one large drunken hockey brawl.
And then there's sixth: our Dallas/Fort Worth. At first I thought I'd handle this problem of being named sixth rudest city in America the old fashioned way: blame it on Fort Worth. But then, I thought: No. I have been put on the Earth to be a Wayfinder, a Mender (thank you, Martha Beck). It is my charge, nay, my duty to help clarify for the good citizens of North Texas how and why you are rude. And more importantly: how you can stop it right now.
Cell phone etiquette. I have no desire to hear about the drama between you and your Junior League while I am trapped in line with you in Target. And can we embrace the idea of using our indoor voices? Because I can hear you yelling to your friend about your husband's irritating foibles in the health and beauty section while you're in electronics. And check that puppy one too many times when you're supposed to be eating with me? The back of me hand.
Littering. Fast food restaurants have trash cans. Your mommy is no longer here to pick up after you. No one wants to throw out the empty cup you left in the grocery cart. Stepping on your discarded gum makes me highly stabby. If you smoke, put your butt where it belongs. Don't throw it out your car window. The reasons are twofold: one, my world is not your ashtray. Two: you can set things on fire. Duh, as the kids say. This is Texas. We are entirely flammable.
Verbal abuse. I can't stand someone who goes off verbally on someone who can't respond. Like a supervisor berating an employee. You truly can tell someone's character by how they treat their subordinates. Or worse: a customer going off on a clerk, cashier, or waiter. Terrible karma, dude. Also: swearing loudly in public. Now, I play it blue sometimes. But not in front of kids or other people who may not share my love of four, five, and six letter words. Meh. What can I say? I have a limited vocabulary.
You have a baby. In the bar. If the word "Pub" is in the name of the establishment, it is best to leave the kiddies at home. I hate to cramp your style, but get a sitter or stay at home. News flash: people drink and cuss in bars. Kids have their own restaurants, and they're called McDonald's. They'll grow up soon enough, and you can resume your night life. If you're not too tired then. And please: insist your child not stand and jump in their chairs, run around the restaurant, or trash the place. If they scream, take 'em to the car. Sorry. Such is the life of a parent. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.
Catch flies with honey. Make eye contact. Would it kill you to smile when we do, or at least look like you'd like to kill me a little less? Can we add "thank you" and "please" to your lexicon? Can we, for the love of God, not interrupt? Can we not wear pajama pants or stripper halter tops in public? Can we not drop the door in the face of the person coming in behind us? Could we not turn traffic into a high stakes video game in our Mad Max-like efforts to command the roadways?
I could write a dissertation on ways to improve Dallas' standing in the rudeness category; believe me, I've got more. But I am absolutely sure none of you, dear readers, are guilty of the above social infractions. I know you're right here beside me in the fight to bring back civility. If not, we can only try. But I'm thinking: if we can't get some empathy for all the other people with whom we are sharing the planet pretty soon, we're going to end up with problems a lot bigger than a breach of etiquette.
Okay, so maybe not you specifically. But someone may think you are: did you see the recent reader poll that Travel and Leisure magazine printed naming America's rudest cities? Of course you didn't. Who can afford travel and/or leisure in this economy? But I digress. According to the poll, the Dallas/Forth Worth area is the sixth rudest city in all of these United States. And the rudest Southern city, to which I take particular umbrage.
No surprise to me New York took the top prize. Insulting one another is how New Yorkers show love. If you can make it in New York, evidently you can make it in federal prison. Miami was number two. Does a lack of clothing make you rude? DC was next: quelle surprise. For proof, all you've got to do is watch a little Sunday morning talk where politicians bring rudeness to an art form. Los Angeles was fourth. I can imagine all that Botox, silicone, and bleach can angry up the blood. And fifth? Boston, which evidently often can be mistaken for one large drunken hockey brawl.
And then there's sixth: our Dallas/Fort Worth. At first I thought I'd handle this problem of being named sixth rudest city in America the old fashioned way: blame it on Fort Worth. But then, I thought: No. I have been put on the Earth to be a Wayfinder, a Mender (thank you, Martha Beck). It is my charge, nay, my duty to help clarify for the good citizens of North Texas how and why you are rude. And more importantly: how you can stop it right now.
Cell phone etiquette. I have no desire to hear about the drama between you and your Junior League while I am trapped in line with you in Target. And can we embrace the idea of using our indoor voices? Because I can hear you yelling to your friend about your husband's irritating foibles in the health and beauty section while you're in electronics. And check that puppy one too many times when you're supposed to be eating with me? The back of me hand.
Littering. Fast food restaurants have trash cans. Your mommy is no longer here to pick up after you. No one wants to throw out the empty cup you left in the grocery cart. Stepping on your discarded gum makes me highly stabby. If you smoke, put your butt where it belongs. Don't throw it out your car window. The reasons are twofold: one, my world is not your ashtray. Two: you can set things on fire. Duh, as the kids say. This is Texas. We are entirely flammable.
Verbal abuse. I can't stand someone who goes off verbally on someone who can't respond. Like a supervisor berating an employee. You truly can tell someone's character by how they treat their subordinates. Or worse: a customer going off on a clerk, cashier, or waiter. Terrible karma, dude. Also: swearing loudly in public. Now, I play it blue sometimes. But not in front of kids or other people who may not share my love of four, five, and six letter words. Meh. What can I say? I have a limited vocabulary.
You have a baby. In the bar. If the word "Pub" is in the name of the establishment, it is best to leave the kiddies at home. I hate to cramp your style, but get a sitter or stay at home. News flash: people drink and cuss in bars. Kids have their own restaurants, and they're called McDonald's. They'll grow up soon enough, and you can resume your night life. If you're not too tired then. And please: insist your child not stand and jump in their chairs, run around the restaurant, or trash the place. If they scream, take 'em to the car. Sorry. Such is the life of a parent. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.
Catch flies with honey. Make eye contact. Would it kill you to smile when we do, or at least look like you'd like to kill me a little less? Can we add "thank you" and "please" to your lexicon? Can we, for the love of God, not interrupt? Can we not wear pajama pants or stripper halter tops in public? Can we not drop the door in the face of the person coming in behind us? Could we not turn traffic into a high stakes video game in our Mad Max-like efforts to command the roadways?
I could write a dissertation on ways to improve Dallas' standing in the rudeness category; believe me, I've got more. But I am absolutely sure none of you, dear readers, are guilty of the above social infractions. I know you're right here beside me in the fight to bring back civility. If not, we can only try. But I'm thinking: if we can't get some empathy for all the other people with whom we are sharing the planet pretty soon, we're going to end up with problems a lot bigger than a breach of etiquette.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
How You Do Anything, Or: How You Do Everything
I live in construction hell. No, really. Grand scale highway expansion. My local folks will know of what I speak: my Collin County, Texas, roads have been torn up literally for years. Both of the main arteries I take to get south to Dallas, a state highway and an interstate, have been transformed into what I lovingly call the Concrete Chutes of Death. I'll explain.
On the interstate, there are barriers on both sides of two lanes and no shoulders, meaning the almost daily, exhilarating experience of hurtling seventy miles an hour down the road with inches separating my car from an eighteen wheeler and the concrete. The state highway is worse. It's one lane, no shoulders, concrete barriers on either side. It's like an Atari game, I kid you not. An accidental flick of the wrist, or God forbid a sneeze, and bad, bad things can happen to you.
So, when your everyday thoroughfare includes either an exciting game of Stay-In-Your-Lane-For-The-Love-of-God or the unexpected surprise of a lane closure, resulting in a half hour delay (you never know! The road changes every day! Exits move!), it can make a commuter a tad...shall we say cranky? Let's just say I've noticed more than one of our local citizens wearing his heinie as a hat while behind the wheel in our lovely construction (did I mention it has been going on for years and is slated to continue to go on for years more? But I digress).
Drivers behaving badly got me to thinking. Having noticed that how someone does something is usually how they do anything, I started to think about a metaphor (that's something old English majors just kind of do) where car=you and the drive=life's journey. Hear me out. It seems apt.
If you are impatient in traffic, racing around people, tailgating, always in a huff about being late, that's how you approach problems in your life: interested in furthering your own gains without the concern for the safety of others, worked up, far from peaceful. You gun the engine, wear out the brakes, don't get your car serviced; parts wear out and accidents happen. Chances are you treat your body and life the same way.
Are you afraid to drive? Afraid of traffic? Seized up and panicky in the car? Worried you'll get lost, be late, get hurt? Are you thinking about yesterday or tomorrow, driving distracted? Do you, and I have to say this trick makes me mental, come to a complete halt on the highway exceleration ramp because you're too afraid to excelerate and join the faster pace, endangering the people behind you? Do you force yourself into traffic, making others stop or move over before you will or before someone gets hurt?
Are you always looking in your rear view mirror or around you instead of watching the road? Are your hands on the wheel or do you sometimes steer with one knee? Are you doing something else when you're supposed to be driving: eating? Putting on makeup? Texting? Do your self-righteously judge other drivers? Do you vary your speed to please others, maybe go a little faster than you want to because someone behind you is pressuring you? Or do you trust in your own driving and pay attention to what YOU think is safe? For the love of all that is holy are you aware your left blinker has been on for the past five miles??
Do enjoy the drive or resent having to make it to get to where you're going? What is your attitude toward delay? Do you curse your luck and pound the dashboard? Or do you know your anger or stress will not open up another lane of traffic and turn on some music and try to relax, do some thinking? Do you ever give thanks for your car that is in fine repair when others walk or ride without heating or cooling or sometimes even parts they need? Oh my god please tell me you do not cut corners through gas stations to turn right. I might cut you.
How we do anything is how we do everything. How you approach the car and the drive is how you approach yourself and your life. Sometimes when improvements are being made, it does look kind of like a hellscape. Like no progress is being made. Like harm is eminent (and I'm looking at YOU, intersection of Highways 380 and 75). How will you guide yourself through? What's your GPS?
Because in this metaphor, folks, life is a highway. And we are, indeed, fated to drive it together all night long. For me, I'm going to go the speed limit, signal, proceed with caution and not worry if someone's tailgating me or change my speed for them. I'm waving at folks on my county road, and I'm the one that will let you merge in traffic. If you're signaling nicely, of course.
So I hope my little car and driving metaphor sparked some insight for some of y'all. Because from where I'm sitting, some of you don't care if your drive ends soon and violently or if you take someone with you. I'm thinking: if folks don't like the way I'm driving, they can go around; I have a tendency to stick to the right lane myself anyway. I'm going to keep an eye on my gauges, do maintenance when needed. But alas: I fear my interior will always smell of drive-through chicken nuggets.
On the interstate, there are barriers on both sides of two lanes and no shoulders, meaning the almost daily, exhilarating experience of hurtling seventy miles an hour down the road with inches separating my car from an eighteen wheeler and the concrete. The state highway is worse. It's one lane, no shoulders, concrete barriers on either side. It's like an Atari game, I kid you not. An accidental flick of the wrist, or God forbid a sneeze, and bad, bad things can happen to you.
So, when your everyday thoroughfare includes either an exciting game of Stay-In-Your-Lane-For-The-Love-of-God or the unexpected surprise of a lane closure, resulting in a half hour delay (you never know! The road changes every day! Exits move!), it can make a commuter a tad...shall we say cranky? Let's just say I've noticed more than one of our local citizens wearing his heinie as a hat while behind the wheel in our lovely construction (did I mention it has been going on for years and is slated to continue to go on for years more? But I digress).
Drivers behaving badly got me to thinking. Having noticed that how someone does something is usually how they do anything, I started to think about a metaphor (that's something old English majors just kind of do) where car=you and the drive=life's journey. Hear me out. It seems apt.
If you are impatient in traffic, racing around people, tailgating, always in a huff about being late, that's how you approach problems in your life: interested in furthering your own gains without the concern for the safety of others, worked up, far from peaceful. You gun the engine, wear out the brakes, don't get your car serviced; parts wear out and accidents happen. Chances are you treat your body and life the same way.
Are you afraid to drive? Afraid of traffic? Seized up and panicky in the car? Worried you'll get lost, be late, get hurt? Are you thinking about yesterday or tomorrow, driving distracted? Do you, and I have to say this trick makes me mental, come to a complete halt on the highway exceleration ramp because you're too afraid to excelerate and join the faster pace, endangering the people behind you? Do you force yourself into traffic, making others stop or move over before you will or before someone gets hurt?
Are you always looking in your rear view mirror or around you instead of watching the road? Are your hands on the wheel or do you sometimes steer with one knee? Are you doing something else when you're supposed to be driving: eating? Putting on makeup? Texting? Do your self-righteously judge other drivers? Do you vary your speed to please others, maybe go a little faster than you want to because someone behind you is pressuring you? Or do you trust in your own driving and pay attention to what YOU think is safe? For the love of all that is holy are you aware your left blinker has been on for the past five miles??
Do enjoy the drive or resent having to make it to get to where you're going? What is your attitude toward delay? Do you curse your luck and pound the dashboard? Or do you know your anger or stress will not open up another lane of traffic and turn on some music and try to relax, do some thinking? Do you ever give thanks for your car that is in fine repair when others walk or ride without heating or cooling or sometimes even parts they need? Oh my god please tell me you do not cut corners through gas stations to turn right. I might cut you.
How we do anything is how we do everything. How you approach the car and the drive is how you approach yourself and your life. Sometimes when improvements are being made, it does look kind of like a hellscape. Like no progress is being made. Like harm is eminent (and I'm looking at YOU, intersection of Highways 380 and 75). How will you guide yourself through? What's your GPS?
Because in this metaphor, folks, life is a highway. And we are, indeed, fated to drive it together all night long. For me, I'm going to go the speed limit, signal, proceed with caution and not worry if someone's tailgating me or change my speed for them. I'm waving at folks on my county road, and I'm the one that will let you merge in traffic. If you're signaling nicely, of course.
So I hope my little car and driving metaphor sparked some insight for some of y'all. Because from where I'm sitting, some of you don't care if your drive ends soon and violently or if you take someone with you. I'm thinking: if folks don't like the way I'm driving, they can go around; I have a tendency to stick to the right lane myself anyway. I'm going to keep an eye on my gauges, do maintenance when needed. But alas: I fear my interior will always smell of drive-through chicken nuggets.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Celebrities Are Just Like Us. No, Really.
Hi. My name is Eliska, and I am an addict. That's right. I try to cut down, but I can't. My drug of choice? Pop culture, and a twelve-step program couldn't keep me clean. Television, movies, media of any kind...and my beloved, adored trashy magazines. SIGH. Confession: I have two master's degrees, and yet my favorite entertainment choices include soap operas and the Twilight Saga. I know: you're judging me. I'm comfortable with that.
I suppose it's my flair for the dramatic that ignites my love of celebrities and the entertainment business, but I also like to think it's an aesthetic thing: celebrities can be so beautiful...and their belongings so shiny. I won't even mention my struggle between hating consumerism and my lust for shoes. The flesh is willing, people. But I get a little dizzy when I see platform Manolo Blahniks. I think it's on one of my chromosomes or something.
I know I'm an addict because I minimize my use, too. I used to have addicts I saw for group therapy who said, "WELL. I may be an alcoholic, but at least I don't do drugs," or, "WELL, it's just pot, it's not like it's crack," or "I only do powder. I would never do crack," while the heroin addict is all, "WELL, at least I only snort the stuff, I would never shoot it." The things we say while in denial. Me? I like to say, "WELL. I may like Sons of Anarchy and People magazine, but at least I don't stoop to watching the Kardashians." I am at least dimly self-aware, hopefully.
A lot of people say it's fun to watch celebrities and their drama unfold in public, that we little people enjoy watching the rich and beautiful suffer. May be true for others, but I have to say for myself I've seen plenty of drama and suffering unfold in my counseling office, enough to satiate me for sure. Trust me, everybody's got drama going on. I actually enjoy watching celebrities to catch them acting like regular people...even when they think they aren't regular.
For example: the recent blow-up of the marriage of 47-year-old Demi Moore. Who knew her hot 33-year-old husband would cheat on her? Well, me, but I digress. I've never been particularly attached to Demi, but when the story broke, I felt some empathy. It must have stung for an aging beauty that her husband went to a taut 20-something for some outside action. Embarrassing. This aging beauty felt for her. I can't imagine how difficult to have to address such personal matters in such a public way. How would you address such a public humiliation?
I mean, think about it. How glad are you there aren't photographers in your yard wanting to get a shot of you in your jammies? Or a comment from you about your husband shtupping a teenager? Or making up a really good story about you if there isn't one? Ugh. Fame doesn't really sound all that rewarding to me. I'm imagining TMZ's story on the number of wine bottles in my recycling bin even as I write this. And I shudder to think about the Access Hollywood report on my weight and wardrobe. I'm not pregnant, I swear! I just ate a big lunch.
But Demi impressed me, and she reminded me again why I am fascinated by celebrities. Speaking out, Moore said; “What scares me is that I’m going to ultimately find out at the end of my life that I’m really not lovable, that I’m not worthy of being loved. That there’s something fundamentally wrong with me … and that I wasn’t wanted here in the first place.”
Did you ever think money or beauty would make you completely secure? Demi has both, but just like every other soul, in the end, she worries she will not be loved. Hell, even Halle Berry got cheated on. For everyone, celebrity or criminal, it all comes down to: love. Every story I ever heard in my counseling office was boiled down to a story about love and power: or a lack of them. Everyone, everyone, fears deep down, they will not be loved. Even if it seems they don't really have a deep down.
Moore added that freedom and power for her meant, “Letting go of the outcome. Truly being in the moment. Not reflecting on the past. Not projecting into the future. That’s freedom. Not caring more about what other people think than what you think. That’s freedom. To not be defined by your wounds. Somebody wrote something to me that said, ‘Don’t let your wounds make you become someone you’re not.’ That’s really powerful. And not taking life too seriously."
Love and power. In the end, for the plowman and the playwright, the artist and the ditch digger, every human problem is rooted in these. Counseling Katrina evacuees in the Dallas Convention Center in August of 2005, talk was not so much of lost possessions or buildings, but of the loss of personal power and the agonizing grief associated with the loss of love.
So, it turns out US magazine is right (and there's a sentence I never though I would type!). Celebrities really ARE just like us. Because despite how some behave, and I know this is a shocker, but they are humans, of a woman born, flawed with feet of clay as we all are. When they do wear pants, they put them on one leg at a time just like you.
Power and love. Good for Demi. She knows where her power is, and she knows whose love it is most important to have, and this is true whether you have a smush name with your partner or not (TomKat? Brangelina? We would be Eloug or Doliska. Yikes). Hint: Moore's power didn't lie in Ashton's "commitment" to her or in her impressive bank account. Money isn't power, because it, too, can disappear: Just ask Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick, who were Madoff investors and lost millions they thought safe.
No, no matter who you are, you hold the key to power and love in your heart. You are not your wounds. You are not what they say you are. You are not your story. You are not your Jimmy Choos, your BMW, your 3000 square foot house. As Dr. Seuess said: You are you. This is true. There is no one out there more you-er than you. Love you and empower yourself.
I suppose it's my flair for the dramatic that ignites my love of celebrities and the entertainment business, but I also like to think it's an aesthetic thing: celebrities can be so beautiful...and their belongings so shiny. I won't even mention my struggle between hating consumerism and my lust for shoes. The flesh is willing, people. But I get a little dizzy when I see platform Manolo Blahniks. I think it's on one of my chromosomes or something.
I know I'm an addict because I minimize my use, too. I used to have addicts I saw for group therapy who said, "WELL. I may be an alcoholic, but at least I don't do drugs," or, "WELL, it's just pot, it's not like it's crack," or "I only do powder. I would never do crack," while the heroin addict is all, "WELL, at least I only snort the stuff, I would never shoot it." The things we say while in denial. Me? I like to say, "WELL. I may like Sons of Anarchy and People magazine, but at least I don't stoop to watching the Kardashians." I am at least dimly self-aware, hopefully.
A lot of people say it's fun to watch celebrities and their drama unfold in public, that we little people enjoy watching the rich and beautiful suffer. May be true for others, but I have to say for myself I've seen plenty of drama and suffering unfold in my counseling office, enough to satiate me for sure. Trust me, everybody's got drama going on. I actually enjoy watching celebrities to catch them acting like regular people...even when they think they aren't regular.
For example: the recent blow-up of the marriage of 47-year-old Demi Moore. Who knew her hot 33-year-old husband would cheat on her? Well, me, but I digress. I've never been particularly attached to Demi, but when the story broke, I felt some empathy. It must have stung for an aging beauty that her husband went to a taut 20-something for some outside action. Embarrassing. This aging beauty felt for her. I can't imagine how difficult to have to address such personal matters in such a public way. How would you address such a public humiliation?
I mean, think about it. How glad are you there aren't photographers in your yard wanting to get a shot of you in your jammies? Or a comment from you about your husband shtupping a teenager? Or making up a really good story about you if there isn't one? Ugh. Fame doesn't really sound all that rewarding to me. I'm imagining TMZ's story on the number of wine bottles in my recycling bin even as I write this. And I shudder to think about the Access Hollywood report on my weight and wardrobe. I'm not pregnant, I swear! I just ate a big lunch.
But Demi impressed me, and she reminded me again why I am fascinated by celebrities. Speaking out, Moore said; “What scares me is that I’m going to ultimately find out at the end of my life that I’m really not lovable, that I’m not worthy of being loved. That there’s something fundamentally wrong with me … and that I wasn’t wanted here in the first place.”
Did you ever think money or beauty would make you completely secure? Demi has both, but just like every other soul, in the end, she worries she will not be loved. Hell, even Halle Berry got cheated on. For everyone, celebrity or criminal, it all comes down to: love. Every story I ever heard in my counseling office was boiled down to a story about love and power: or a lack of them. Everyone, everyone, fears deep down, they will not be loved. Even if it seems they don't really have a deep down.
Moore added that freedom and power for her meant, “Letting go of the outcome. Truly being in the moment. Not reflecting on the past. Not projecting into the future. That’s freedom. Not caring more about what other people think than what you think. That’s freedom. To not be defined by your wounds. Somebody wrote something to me that said, ‘Don’t let your wounds make you become someone you’re not.’ That’s really powerful. And not taking life too seriously."
Love and power. In the end, for the plowman and the playwright, the artist and the ditch digger, every human problem is rooted in these. Counseling Katrina evacuees in the Dallas Convention Center in August of 2005, talk was not so much of lost possessions or buildings, but of the loss of personal power and the agonizing grief associated with the loss of love.
So, it turns out US magazine is right (and there's a sentence I never though I would type!). Celebrities really ARE just like us. Because despite how some behave, and I know this is a shocker, but they are humans, of a woman born, flawed with feet of clay as we all are. When they do wear pants, they put them on one leg at a time just like you.
Power and love. Good for Demi. She knows where her power is, and she knows whose love it is most important to have, and this is true whether you have a smush name with your partner or not (TomKat? Brangelina? We would be Eloug or Doliska. Yikes). Hint: Moore's power didn't lie in Ashton's "commitment" to her or in her impressive bank account. Money isn't power, because it, too, can disappear: Just ask Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick, who were Madoff investors and lost millions they thought safe.
No, no matter who you are, you hold the key to power and love in your heart. You are not your wounds. You are not what they say you are. You are not your story. You are not your Jimmy Choos, your BMW, your 3000 square foot house. As Dr. Seuess said: You are you. This is true. There is no one out there more you-er than you. Love you and empower yourself.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
The Ph.D of Parenting, or: Just a Mom
I AM NOT BORING. Yet, I've found that people assume that most domestic engineers (I refuse to call myself a stay-at-home-mom; I'm in the mini-van way too much) are judged to be dull as dishwater, capable only of discussing poop texture and the best way to get apple juice stains out of the carpet, or perhaps give a dissertation on the subtle differences between the Sesame Street muppets (can YOU tell Zoe from Rosita? But I digress).
In a world where "What do you do?" is the second most asked question after "What's your name?" it's hard out there for us moms. Even our partners can wonder what we do all day. I actually had a man at a party start looking over my shoulder for someone else to talk to after I told him I was largely a child-rearing specialist at the moment. WTH, as they say on the interwebs? I'm interesting, dammit!
And pretty sharp, too, don't doubt it. I haven't lost any IQ points since I hung up (albeit temporarily) my Licensed Professional hat. Because home and family management, my dears, requires a lot of brains and general wiliness. Here's just a sampling of the liberal education required of a parent whose primary job is on the domestic front:
Math. Helping with homework will require you dust off that part of your brain that once knew long division, how to "borrow" in subtraction, and how to use the metric system. Brush up on fractions (helpful not only in homework but also in the exact division of food between siblings to avoid bloodshed. Ever cut a sandwich in half and then cut the other kid's sandwich into quarters only to have the first kid scream Hey he's got more sandwich than me!!!?). Your math skills will also come in handy as you calculate how to feed five people for a week armed only with a twenty dollar bill and a fistful of coupons.
Chemistry. You will need to know the science of cleaning solutions, the many applications of bleach, and what products will clean or destroy marble, ceramics, wood, porcelain, and glass. You will learn the subtle differences between detergents, fabric softeners, color catchers, and dryer sheets. You will be an expert on medicine: fever reducers, stool softeners, mucus reducers, vitamins, and available allergy meds both prescribed and over the counter. You will need the precision of a pediatric nurse in dispensing these meds. You will require an honorary degree in nutrition.
Language arts. Spending the majority of your time with young people will require the debate skills of a criminal defense attorney. You will be called upon to spell and define any word in the English language off the top of your head. You will use persuasive skills you never knew you had in the pursuit of convincing your children that clothes are, indeed, an excellent gift, brushing your teeth daily is not optional, and that no, shooting bottle rockets at the dog is ill-advised at best.
Art. You will: paint with fingers, brushes, and sponges. You will crayon, mark, chalk, sticker, glue, fold, assemble. You will stamp, inexplicably, with not only rubber stamps but fruits and vegetables. You will make mosaics, mold. And you will spend more time cleaning up after art than your charges will spend making the art. You must possess the story-telling prowess of a Brother Grimm.
Kinesthetics. Otherwise known as physical education. You will run, chase, and do more squatting than an Occupy rally. You will do 45-pound toddler curls when your kid goes all Gandhi on you and you've got to take him limp and screaming out of a retail establishment or restaurant. You will take punches to the head and privates frequently and become adroit at avoiding head butts. You will wrestle children in and out of clothes and the bathtub. You oughta see my guns.
Theology and philosophy. You will be required to answer questions scholars have debated since the dawn of time, including but not limited to who, what, and where God is; details about Heaven's exact location and whether or not your child's stuffed animals will go there; and why so many different people will give him different answers to these questions. You will need to be ready to explain why bad things happen, why other kids can be mean, what "dead" means, and why little boys can't marry their mother.
I could go on. My point? I do have one: the next time you dismiss someone (or yourself) as "just a mom," or "just staying home," remember: life it about finding your values and a way to use these values to have an impact on the world. I may still be wearing maternity panties when my oldest is four, sure, but don't mistake my yoga pants or yogurt stains for stupid or lazy. Pat yourself on the back: parenting may be boring, dirty, and exhausting...but always know if you're doing it well, you are in the service industry for the world. Not too shabby for just a mom.
In a world where "What do you do?" is the second most asked question after "What's your name?" it's hard out there for us moms. Even our partners can wonder what we do all day. I actually had a man at a party start looking over my shoulder for someone else to talk to after I told him I was largely a child-rearing specialist at the moment. WTH, as they say on the interwebs? I'm interesting, dammit!
And pretty sharp, too, don't doubt it. I haven't lost any IQ points since I hung up (albeit temporarily) my Licensed Professional hat. Because home and family management, my dears, requires a lot of brains and general wiliness. Here's just a sampling of the liberal education required of a parent whose primary job is on the domestic front:
Math. Helping with homework will require you dust off that part of your brain that once knew long division, how to "borrow" in subtraction, and how to use the metric system. Brush up on fractions (helpful not only in homework but also in the exact division of food between siblings to avoid bloodshed. Ever cut a sandwich in half and then cut the other kid's sandwich into quarters only to have the first kid scream Hey he's got more sandwich than me!!!?). Your math skills will also come in handy as you calculate how to feed five people for a week armed only with a twenty dollar bill and a fistful of coupons.
Chemistry. You will need to know the science of cleaning solutions, the many applications of bleach, and what products will clean or destroy marble, ceramics, wood, porcelain, and glass. You will learn the subtle differences between detergents, fabric softeners, color catchers, and dryer sheets. You will be an expert on medicine: fever reducers, stool softeners, mucus reducers, vitamins, and available allergy meds both prescribed and over the counter. You will need the precision of a pediatric nurse in dispensing these meds. You will require an honorary degree in nutrition.
Language arts. Spending the majority of your time with young people will require the debate skills of a criminal defense attorney. You will be called upon to spell and define any word in the English language off the top of your head. You will use persuasive skills you never knew you had in the pursuit of convincing your children that clothes are, indeed, an excellent gift, brushing your teeth daily is not optional, and that no, shooting bottle rockets at the dog is ill-advised at best.
Art. You will: paint with fingers, brushes, and sponges. You will crayon, mark, chalk, sticker, glue, fold, assemble. You will stamp, inexplicably, with not only rubber stamps but fruits and vegetables. You will make mosaics, mold. And you will spend more time cleaning up after art than your charges will spend making the art. You must possess the story-telling prowess of a Brother Grimm.
Kinesthetics. Otherwise known as physical education. You will run, chase, and do more squatting than an Occupy rally. You will do 45-pound toddler curls when your kid goes all Gandhi on you and you've got to take him limp and screaming out of a retail establishment or restaurant. You will take punches to the head and privates frequently and become adroit at avoiding head butts. You will wrestle children in and out of clothes and the bathtub. You oughta see my guns.
Theology and philosophy. You will be required to answer questions scholars have debated since the dawn of time, including but not limited to who, what, and where God is; details about Heaven's exact location and whether or not your child's stuffed animals will go there; and why so many different people will give him different answers to these questions. You will need to be ready to explain why bad things happen, why other kids can be mean, what "dead" means, and why little boys can't marry their mother.
I could go on. My point? I do have one: the next time you dismiss someone (or yourself) as "just a mom," or "just staying home," remember: life it about finding your values and a way to use these values to have an impact on the world. I may still be wearing maternity panties when my oldest is four, sure, but don't mistake my yoga pants or yogurt stains for stupid or lazy. Pat yourself on the back: parenting may be boring, dirty, and exhausting...but always know if you're doing it well, you are in the service industry for the world. Not too shabby for just a mom.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Resolved!
Well, folks, it's that time of year again: New Year's Eve is upon us. Every other commercial on television is for Weight Watchers, Reeboks, or Chantix. I am preparing for the January-to-Valentine's-Day crowd to surge in at the gym, resplendent in their shiny fresh spandex and blindingly white, brand new running shoes, asking me how to set the bicep curl machine.
Yep, it's that time, alright: time to make a list of ways I didn't become a better person this year. Oh, I kid. But once more and despite the fact I'm pretty flawless already (erhem), it is the time to talk New Year's resolutions. It's so much easier to make resolutions for other people, right? If only.
I'm of two minds, really, when it comes to New Year's resolutions. On one hand, it seems kind of silly and arbitrary to designate a random day as one to make changes in lifestyle. And usually if you're waiting for some external cue to prompt you to improve, that means a meaningful, long term change is probably not going to happen. Unless you are prompted internally by your heart, change will be temporary...and you'll be two-fisting cheeseburgers by January 3. And if you set your sights unrealistically, when you inevitably break the "rules," you're going to feel even worse, like you failed. To the shame spiral!
On the other hand, though, no one is a bigger fan of clean slates, new leaves, goal setting, and a desire to improve than moi, even if New Year's resolutions seem a bit canned. As a professional counselor, I am totally into second chances, and I know that change is actually unavoidable anyway.
So in the spirit of the season, I started thinking of some resolutions that might actually be attainable for me, just small changes I can make to make being Eliska just a little bit better (not to mention more pleasant to encounter) this year. But I think I'm going to make them winter resolutions. I'm not sure I have stamina for the whole of 2012. What's that old saying about if you don't have expectations, you can't be disappointed? I like the option of a spring revision.
So here's some examples of some low risk resolutions that I might be willing to consider for the likes of me at least until March:
1. I will make a genuine effort to make Baptists fear and loathe me less. I can't promise anything.
2. I will not call other drivers names in front of my children. Related: I will also refuse to tell them what "troglodyte" means.
3. I will rise above my love for trashy magazines. After I find out what's really happening between Russell Brand and Katy Perry. Or if R-Pattz and K-Stew will be getting married.
4. My four year old daughter will not own more shoes than I do.
5. I will call off the war on my cuticles.
6. I will never, ever utter the words "I know! Right?" EVER. AGAIN. Related: I will not throat punch you if you say them to me. Despite how desperately my fist might itch.
7. I will not call a Starbucks latte or last night's take-out leftovers "breakfast."
8. I will not call Hubs "Daddy" when there are no children around.
9. I will overcome the shame of pulling my mini-van into the Harley Davidson store. Perhaps I will paint flames down the side of it and re-christen it "The Blazebago."
10. I will reach some internal zen regarding sharing Dallas with Glenn Beck, George Bush, AND the Kardashians.
See? Keep them specific and reasonable, and you too can make New Year's or Winter Solstice resolutions that are not only helpful but perhaps even achievable. Except for that last one, I should be all right. I hope so, because Kardashians have a tendency to break me out in sarcasm and eye rolls. Happy New Year, darlings! Whether you think 2012 is the beginning of End Times or the beginning of the Age of Aquarius, may you achieve everything you want for yourself during it. See you there!
Yep, it's that time, alright: time to make a list of ways I didn't become a better person this year. Oh, I kid. But once more and despite the fact I'm pretty flawless already (erhem), it is the time to talk New Year's resolutions. It's so much easier to make resolutions for other people, right? If only.
I'm of two minds, really, when it comes to New Year's resolutions. On one hand, it seems kind of silly and arbitrary to designate a random day as one to make changes in lifestyle. And usually if you're waiting for some external cue to prompt you to improve, that means a meaningful, long term change is probably not going to happen. Unless you are prompted internally by your heart, change will be temporary...and you'll be two-fisting cheeseburgers by January 3. And if you set your sights unrealistically, when you inevitably break the "rules," you're going to feel even worse, like you failed. To the shame spiral!
On the other hand, though, no one is a bigger fan of clean slates, new leaves, goal setting, and a desire to improve than moi, even if New Year's resolutions seem a bit canned. As a professional counselor, I am totally into second chances, and I know that change is actually unavoidable anyway.
So in the spirit of the season, I started thinking of some resolutions that might actually be attainable for me, just small changes I can make to make being Eliska just a little bit better (not to mention more pleasant to encounter) this year. But I think I'm going to make them winter resolutions. I'm not sure I have stamina for the whole of 2012. What's that old saying about if you don't have expectations, you can't be disappointed? I like the option of a spring revision.
So here's some examples of some low risk resolutions that I might be willing to consider for the likes of me at least until March:
1. I will make a genuine effort to make Baptists fear and loathe me less. I can't promise anything.
2. I will not call other drivers names in front of my children. Related: I will also refuse to tell them what "troglodyte" means.
3. I will rise above my love for trashy magazines. After I find out what's really happening between Russell Brand and Katy Perry. Or if R-Pattz and K-Stew will be getting married.
4. My four year old daughter will not own more shoes than I do.
5. I will call off the war on my cuticles.
6. I will never, ever utter the words "I know! Right?" EVER. AGAIN. Related: I will not throat punch you if you say them to me. Despite how desperately my fist might itch.
7. I will not call a Starbucks latte or last night's take-out leftovers "breakfast."
8. I will not call Hubs "Daddy" when there are no children around.
9. I will overcome the shame of pulling my mini-van into the Harley Davidson store. Perhaps I will paint flames down the side of it and re-christen it "The Blazebago."
10. I will reach some internal zen regarding sharing Dallas with Glenn Beck, George Bush, AND the Kardashians.
See? Keep them specific and reasonable, and you too can make New Year's or Winter Solstice resolutions that are not only helpful but perhaps even achievable. Except for that last one, I should be all right. I hope so, because Kardashians have a tendency to break me out in sarcasm and eye rolls. Happy New Year, darlings! Whether you think 2012 is the beginning of End Times or the beginning of the Age of Aquarius, may you achieve everything you want for yourself during it. See you there!
Monday, December 19, 2011
Christmas at Castle Greyskull
I was asked about my peak Christmas experiences recently and to expound upon the topic. It left me musing, a bit. I have to say: I don't really have too many Christmas experiences that differentiate themselves as particularly hilarious. There was the year Santa wrote "Love, SC" on my Etch-A-Sketch he left on my living room couch. That was pretty heady stuff for a seven year old, getting a note from the fat man himself.
The first Christmas Hubs and I had as a couple is a good one, too. Recent college grads, we were preparing for our move out of our school apartment we had shared. Not much money, not many decorations, and I don't remember exactly what gifts were exchanged. But we cut down a tree together that the cats wouldn't cease scaling, and I made us stockings with our names spelled out in glitter glue pen. Sigh. Romantic times. Since, he's given me a couple of breathtaking Christmas gifts, and those times my gift was sparkly, I can't deny, were pretty darn awesome.
But when I started thinking about it, one of my most satisfying holiday experiences, with all due respect to Dr. Seuess, came without boxes or bags. Because this is a memory more of a feeling, a feeling of warmth and security, laughter and relaxation adults can find difficult to experience. A time when all roads stretch in front of you presenting an infinity of possibilities, when you experience the security of knowing someone was always on the way to pick you up. A time before the world of adult responsibilities and realities. A time before a child looks to you to provide that same safety.
I was fourteen. It was an unusually cold Christmas Eve in Mississippi. Fifteen degrees was abnormal for the land of the perpetual green Christmas. But the chill added to the cozy feeling of being tucked in my warm home, fire cheerfully blazing next to the tree strung with the same fat, colored lights my parents still put up to this day.
It was late. Our parents were headed out to midnight Mass. In exchange for springing us from Mass, my thirteen year old brother and I were put in charge of making sure our four year old brother stayed in bed and didn't pull a Cindy Lou Who. Plus, the teens were being given elven duty: we were to put out the youngest's Santa haul. This felt like a weighty responsibility, but my brother and I were up for it.
With The Nutcracker playing in the background and Tchaikovsky as our soundtrack, my brother and I laid out the youngest's toys on the couch just as they had been laid out for us when we were four. Now, as this was the 80s, my brother, as did many 80s tykes, loved the cartoon He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. And Santa had brought every action figure in the cast. Best of all, Santa had included Castle Greyskull, a massive, grey, plastic mountain-castle, for them all to fight over.
My brother and I decided to assemble Castle Greyskull. Then, giggling so uncontrollably we feared waking our brother, we removed He-Man, Teela, Battle Cat, Skeletor, and Man-At-Arms from their packaging and staged them. Their battle scene was epic. It was the first time I saw Christmas not so much about looking forward to getting presents. This year, I saw how fun it was to give fun to someone you love: especially when it's anonymous. We couldn't wait to see our brother's face when he came into the living room.
So, Christmas at Castle Greyskull was one of the best Christmas experiences I can recall. The looking forward to giving instead of receiving. Combined with the warmth and security I felt as a child, the feeling of fun, laughter, relaxation and the excitement of the possibility of thrilling a child with a gift was truly beautiful. This is the feeling I hope everyone who reads this piece, no matter what you believe or how you celebrate, enjoy. May peace be with you.
The first Christmas Hubs and I had as a couple is a good one, too. Recent college grads, we were preparing for our move out of our school apartment we had shared. Not much money, not many decorations, and I don't remember exactly what gifts were exchanged. But we cut down a tree together that the cats wouldn't cease scaling, and I made us stockings with our names spelled out in glitter glue pen. Sigh. Romantic times. Since, he's given me a couple of breathtaking Christmas gifts, and those times my gift was sparkly, I can't deny, were pretty darn awesome.
But when I started thinking about it, one of my most satisfying holiday experiences, with all due respect to Dr. Seuess, came without boxes or bags. Because this is a memory more of a feeling, a feeling of warmth and security, laughter and relaxation adults can find difficult to experience. A time when all roads stretch in front of you presenting an infinity of possibilities, when you experience the security of knowing someone was always on the way to pick you up. A time before the world of adult responsibilities and realities. A time before a child looks to you to provide that same safety.
I was fourteen. It was an unusually cold Christmas Eve in Mississippi. Fifteen degrees was abnormal for the land of the perpetual green Christmas. But the chill added to the cozy feeling of being tucked in my warm home, fire cheerfully blazing next to the tree strung with the same fat, colored lights my parents still put up to this day.
It was late. Our parents were headed out to midnight Mass. In exchange for springing us from Mass, my thirteen year old brother and I were put in charge of making sure our four year old brother stayed in bed and didn't pull a Cindy Lou Who. Plus, the teens were being given elven duty: we were to put out the youngest's Santa haul. This felt like a weighty responsibility, but my brother and I were up for it.
With The Nutcracker playing in the background and Tchaikovsky as our soundtrack, my brother and I laid out the youngest's toys on the couch just as they had been laid out for us when we were four. Now, as this was the 80s, my brother, as did many 80s tykes, loved the cartoon He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. And Santa had brought every action figure in the cast. Best of all, Santa had included Castle Greyskull, a massive, grey, plastic mountain-castle, for them all to fight over.
My brother and I decided to assemble Castle Greyskull. Then, giggling so uncontrollably we feared waking our brother, we removed He-Man, Teela, Battle Cat, Skeletor, and Man-At-Arms from their packaging and staged them. Their battle scene was epic. It was the first time I saw Christmas not so much about looking forward to getting presents. This year, I saw how fun it was to give fun to someone you love: especially when it's anonymous. We couldn't wait to see our brother's face when he came into the living room.
So, Christmas at Castle Greyskull was one of the best Christmas experiences I can recall. The looking forward to giving instead of receiving. Combined with the warmth and security I felt as a child, the feeling of fun, laughter, relaxation and the excitement of the possibility of thrilling a child with a gift was truly beautiful. This is the feeling I hope everyone who reads this piece, no matter what you believe or how you celebrate, enjoy. May peace be with you.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Dear Teen Me
This weekend, I had the pleasure of hosting a family Hubs and I have known since our move to North Texas fifteen years ago. They knew us in the Age BC: Before Children. And we've watched their children grow from toddlers and infants to teenagers. So it's always fun to get together and have our annual Christmas dinner together and reminisce.
But as we all sat around the dinner table after the food was tucked away, the talk turned to the challenges of being a teenager. I found myself reassuring the young 'uns that it does, indeed, get better after high school. Oh, sure, sometimes life feels like high school just with more money, but for most of us, life gets easier the older you become.
It all got me to thinking: what would I say to my own teenaged self now, if I could? If I could write her/me, it might look something like this:
Dear Teen Me,
First of all, stop being so emo. Yes, I know it's 1986, and "emo" isn't a term yet, but you are that and you should stop it. You get summers off, long breaks from school, and you like learning. Good things are happening. You are intelligent, kind, and talented. Focus on how school can make your dreams come true, not if a boy can. The world is in front of you, and this window of options will narrow before you realize it.
Oh, yeah, school. I know you're feeling like you are uglier and fatter than any other female at the school. But guess what: so are they. When you're forty, you're going to look at a picture of yourself at seventeen and wonder why you thought you were so unattractive and wish you had enjoyed your un-lined face and firm, if temporarily plump, derriere. Not to mention the opportunity to dress like Madonna circa 1986. Grunge is coming. Enjoy while you can.
Don't hang around boys that make you cry. They aren't worth it. There's going to be such a higher caliber of men at college, anyway. Those backward-baseball-cap wearing boys from this tiny town are so...backward. Even if they are on the football team. Don't do anything that doesn't feel moral, ethical, or threatens how you feel about yourself for ANYONE'S approval.
Be yourself. Sing too loudly, dress too flashy, dance by yourself. But think carefully before you speak or act. Some things can't be taken back.
Discover your purpose. Notice that gift of gab you have? That's going to help a lot later when you become a writer and educator. The pain you're going though? You're going to get a lot of satisfaction helping people as a result of having experienced it. Hang in. Talk to your friends about it. Find an adult you can trust. You must find an adult you admire, someone who has a life like you'd want, someone who will help you focus on yourself and your goals after high school.
Oh, and don't have sex until you're at least thirty. No, seriously. Okay, at least not before twenty-one. And only have it with someone you love, because women aren't designed emotionally, physically, or spiritually to have casual sex and be happy and safe too.
Focus on the future. A lot of these kids you wish you were? Guess what: they're peaking in high school. This is as good as it gets for them. After graduation, they get fat, stay right there in your small town, have a dozen children, and long for their glory days. This state championship is officially their zenith. It's downhill from here for most of those yokels. This will not be you.
Lastly, when you're feeling down and sick of yourself, find a way to help someone else. You'll learn over time it's one of the only cures for depression. And on that note, your brain is still developing. So hold off the drinking. Good call on avoiding drugs. There's a time and a place for everything, and it's called college.
Hang in there, Teen Me! You're having it rough. But you aren't helpless. Get a prize, and get your eyes on it. You have everything you need inside to grow into what you're supposed to be...as long as you don't get distracted. And maybe even if you do.
Love, Middle-Aged Me.
PS: By the way? You can relax. No worries. It all works out GREAT.
But as we all sat around the dinner table after the food was tucked away, the talk turned to the challenges of being a teenager. I found myself reassuring the young 'uns that it does, indeed, get better after high school. Oh, sure, sometimes life feels like high school just with more money, but for most of us, life gets easier the older you become.
It all got me to thinking: what would I say to my own teenaged self now, if I could? If I could write her/me, it might look something like this:
Dear Teen Me,
First of all, stop being so emo. Yes, I know it's 1986, and "emo" isn't a term yet, but you are that and you should stop it. You get summers off, long breaks from school, and you like learning. Good things are happening. You are intelligent, kind, and talented. Focus on how school can make your dreams come true, not if a boy can. The world is in front of you, and this window of options will narrow before you realize it.
Oh, yeah, school. I know you're feeling like you are uglier and fatter than any other female at the school. But guess what: so are they. When you're forty, you're going to look at a picture of yourself at seventeen and wonder why you thought you were so unattractive and wish you had enjoyed your un-lined face and firm, if temporarily plump, derriere. Not to mention the opportunity to dress like Madonna circa 1986. Grunge is coming. Enjoy while you can.
Don't hang around boys that make you cry. They aren't worth it. There's going to be such a higher caliber of men at college, anyway. Those backward-baseball-cap wearing boys from this tiny town are so...backward. Even if they are on the football team. Don't do anything that doesn't feel moral, ethical, or threatens how you feel about yourself for ANYONE'S approval.
Be yourself. Sing too loudly, dress too flashy, dance by yourself. But think carefully before you speak or act. Some things can't be taken back.
Discover your purpose. Notice that gift of gab you have? That's going to help a lot later when you become a writer and educator. The pain you're going though? You're going to get a lot of satisfaction helping people as a result of having experienced it. Hang in. Talk to your friends about it. Find an adult you can trust. You must find an adult you admire, someone who has a life like you'd want, someone who will help you focus on yourself and your goals after high school.
Oh, and don't have sex until you're at least thirty. No, seriously. Okay, at least not before twenty-one. And only have it with someone you love, because women aren't designed emotionally, physically, or spiritually to have casual sex and be happy and safe too.
Focus on the future. A lot of these kids you wish you were? Guess what: they're peaking in high school. This is as good as it gets for them. After graduation, they get fat, stay right there in your small town, have a dozen children, and long for their glory days. This state championship is officially their zenith. It's downhill from here for most of those yokels. This will not be you.
Lastly, when you're feeling down and sick of yourself, find a way to help someone else. You'll learn over time it's one of the only cures for depression. And on that note, your brain is still developing. So hold off the drinking. Good call on avoiding drugs. There's a time and a place for everything, and it's called college.
Hang in there, Teen Me! You're having it rough. But you aren't helpless. Get a prize, and get your eyes on it. You have everything you need inside to grow into what you're supposed to be...as long as you don't get distracted. And maybe even if you do.
Love, Middle-Aged Me.
PS: By the way? You can relax. No worries. It all works out GREAT.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
A Bad Case of Acute Affluenza
So, I'm thumbing through my Dallas Morning News on Sunday. And yes, clearly I'm 140 years old. I still like a paper I can fold and on that doesn't require electricity, I know. But I digress. Nonetheless, I'm enjoying my coffee and having my Lionel-Ritchie-Easy-Like-Sunday morning moment, and as I'm perusing the local metro section, I see an article entitled: "Unlocking Their Style: Area mothers spawn decorating craze across US for tween lockers."
Now, y'all know me. I am not judgemental. No, wait. I'm actually totally judgemental. So at the risk of irking my fellow "area mothers," I feel drawn, no, compelled to comment on this "decorating craze." Because evidently there's a new reason for the terrorists to hate us, and it involves tween girls, narcissism, and money. All of which we seem to have in spades here in the lovely suburbs of Dallas.
Here's what's happening according to the Dallas Morning News: "The hallways of Prestonwood Christian Academy showcase one of the country's latest reminders of tween marketing power and gendered self-expression." Know what that means in over-privileged speak? Our schools are now the place for ten year old girls to learn how to spend osentatiously on largely disposable crap they don't need that junks up our planet while simultaneously sets back females thirty years.
I mean, really, people: motion-sensitive chandeliers? Leopard print wallpaper? Fluffy shag carpets? For a ten year old's locker? When I looked at the photos the paper provided, all I could think of was how an African village of sixty people could live on the money it took to decorate even ONE of those lockers for a month. Wallpaper is twenty bucks. Chandeliers are thirty dollars. "Jeweled Flower Magnets" are a bargain at only eight dollars a pop.
The paper quotes one of these charming tots and perhaps future reality show star: "It [the locker decorations] is important because it shows who you really are." Wow, yeah? That you can become a vapid consumer before you're old enough to menstruate? She continues: "It's totally fine if you don't have one, but it would be really cute if you did." Oh, I love it when the wealthy give me permission to have less than them and assure me they give me their blessing to do so. This will be the future pageant contestant who says, "I was friends with ALL the different groups in school." Suuuure you were.
Yeah, it would be totally cute if your family didn't need that fifty bucks spent on luxuries like, say, food and shelter. We're seeing on the news that being able to buy things other people can't might just instill a hierarchy and even a little anger from those of us who can't afford to be so "cute," though, aren't we? My electric bill right now is SO NOT CUTE.
Really? So we're going to reinforce in our daughters that appearance is who you are? Not, say, the choices you make and how you behave? Where is your mother? Oh, yeah, probably out getting Botox and a weave. It's the adults who are passing down this idea that stuff and looks are who you are.
I will take some heat from this opinion, y'all, but this locker decorating nonsense is not only ridiculous but possibly poisonous. Tweens, considered ages 8-12 by marketers, are credited for 43 BILLION in annual spending power? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE WHEN THEY DON'T WORK? And we have a healthcare crisis in this nation?
So here's my modest proposal: when your daughter asks for a light-up chandelier for her locker, take her on a tour of the county's non-profit organizations. Don't purchase plastic crap you don't need that's manufactured in other countries. Use less. Waste less. Less money, less food, less water. Instead of fifty dollars on locker carpeting and flower magnets, why don't you anonymously pay for some of the groceries of that family behind you in line at Wal-Mart? You know, the family that has four kids and two of them have coats. And certainly no school locker chandeliers.
Talk to your daughter about girls who can't afford to go to the doctor, much less wear Miss Me jeans and pay for private school. Let her see the Samaritan Inn, where a fifty dollar donation can feed a family without a home to call their own for a week. Most importantly, reflect: what values are you teaching your daughter? How much emphasis are you putting on her looks? Is it something external that makes women special?
I'm here to tell you: personal creativity, value, and worth doesn't involve the acquisition of animal print wallpaper or locker chandeliers. My daughter will be missing out on a lot of what the Dallas suburbs seem to tell females they need to have in order to be. There will be no mani/pedis until she can pay for one. Birthday parties may just need to be cake and rousing game of Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey at the house. There will be no MTV styled sixteenth birthday bash, and the first car will be handed down.
Because Collin county Texas has a very bad case of Affluenza, y'all. We're breaking out in senseless consumerism, and we're teaching our daughters to do the same. But you can be sure I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure no one around my house catches it.
Now, y'all know me. I am not judgemental. No, wait. I'm actually totally judgemental. So at the risk of irking my fellow "area mothers," I feel drawn, no, compelled to comment on this "decorating craze." Because evidently there's a new reason for the terrorists to hate us, and it involves tween girls, narcissism, and money. All of which we seem to have in spades here in the lovely suburbs of Dallas.
Here's what's happening according to the Dallas Morning News: "The hallways of Prestonwood Christian Academy showcase one of the country's latest reminders of tween marketing power and gendered self-expression." Know what that means in over-privileged speak? Our schools are now the place for ten year old girls to learn how to spend osentatiously on largely disposable crap they don't need that junks up our planet while simultaneously sets back females thirty years.
I mean, really, people: motion-sensitive chandeliers? Leopard print wallpaper? Fluffy shag carpets? For a ten year old's locker? When I looked at the photos the paper provided, all I could think of was how an African village of sixty people could live on the money it took to decorate even ONE of those lockers for a month. Wallpaper is twenty bucks. Chandeliers are thirty dollars. "Jeweled Flower Magnets" are a bargain at only eight dollars a pop.
The paper quotes one of these charming tots and perhaps future reality show star: "It [the locker decorations] is important because it shows who you really are." Wow, yeah? That you can become a vapid consumer before you're old enough to menstruate? She continues: "It's totally fine if you don't have one, but it would be really cute if you did." Oh, I love it when the wealthy give me permission to have less than them and assure me they give me their blessing to do so. This will be the future pageant contestant who says, "I was friends with ALL the different groups in school." Suuuure you were.
Yeah, it would be totally cute if your family didn't need that fifty bucks spent on luxuries like, say, food and shelter. We're seeing on the news that being able to buy things other people can't might just instill a hierarchy and even a little anger from those of us who can't afford to be so "cute," though, aren't we? My electric bill right now is SO NOT CUTE.
Really? So we're going to reinforce in our daughters that appearance is who you are? Not, say, the choices you make and how you behave? Where is your mother? Oh, yeah, probably out getting Botox and a weave. It's the adults who are passing down this idea that stuff and looks are who you are.
I will take some heat from this opinion, y'all, but this locker decorating nonsense is not only ridiculous but possibly poisonous. Tweens, considered ages 8-12 by marketers, are credited for 43 BILLION in annual spending power? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE WHEN THEY DON'T WORK? And we have a healthcare crisis in this nation?
So here's my modest proposal: when your daughter asks for a light-up chandelier for her locker, take her on a tour of the county's non-profit organizations. Don't purchase plastic crap you don't need that's manufactured in other countries. Use less. Waste less. Less money, less food, less water. Instead of fifty dollars on locker carpeting and flower magnets, why don't you anonymously pay for some of the groceries of that family behind you in line at Wal-Mart? You know, the family that has four kids and two of them have coats. And certainly no school locker chandeliers.
Talk to your daughter about girls who can't afford to go to the doctor, much less wear Miss Me jeans and pay for private school. Let her see the Samaritan Inn, where a fifty dollar donation can feed a family without a home to call their own for a week. Most importantly, reflect: what values are you teaching your daughter? How much emphasis are you putting on her looks? Is it something external that makes women special?
I'm here to tell you: personal creativity, value, and worth doesn't involve the acquisition of animal print wallpaper or locker chandeliers. My daughter will be missing out on a lot of what the Dallas suburbs seem to tell females they need to have in order to be. There will be no mani/pedis until she can pay for one. Birthday parties may just need to be cake and rousing game of Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey at the house. There will be no MTV styled sixteenth birthday bash, and the first car will be handed down.
Because Collin county Texas has a very bad case of Affluenza, y'all. We're breaking out in senseless consumerism, and we're teaching our daughters to do the same. But you can be sure I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure no one around my house catches it.
Friday, December 2, 2011
A Very Parental Christmas
It's Christmas time! And I am the proud parent of three small children. So you automatically can know a few facts about me. A) I'm so broke, I can't pay attention. My Visa card is visibly smoking. B) I'm busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger. And C)? To quote Clark Griswold, I am determined to make this holiday season the hap-hap-happiest day since Bing Crosby danced with Danny #%$@in' Kay.
But seriously. Y'all ever do a Christmas season with small children? It's not for the feint of heart, I assure you. We're talking about a slow build from Halloween to New Year's Day to a frothing holiday frenzy. If you don't have small children, if you're thinking about having children, or if your child doesn't walk or talk right now, here's a glimpse into your future:
You will enter the stores on November 1 to discover the North Pole has vomited all over them. Think the early Christmas decorations are annoying now? Your child will think these decorations are AMAZING. And that Christmas is pretty much tomorrow. Let the pleading begin! Time to enjoy a searing case of the Gimmes. You will not enter a retail establishment with your children safely again until 2012.
You can also look forward to more Christmas movies and shows than you thought existed. Oh, you have warm, fuzzy memories about all the wonderful specials like the Charlie Brown Christmas cartoon and from Rudolph and Frosty from when you were small? Your love for these will be crushed like a bug after the first fifty viewings.
But enjoy the quality shows, because with small children, there is no avoiding the odiferous dreck. Kids are not Roger Ebert. They don't care. You will watch the loathsome Jim Carrey bastardize your beloved childhood memories of the Grinch. You will watch talking golden retrievers dressed as Santa. You will watch Ahnold JINGLE ALL ZE WAY. And you will not be able to curse out loud.
If you have small children at Christmas, another certainty is YOU WILL CRAFT. And craft some more. Before December first, you will have already made forty gingerbread foam ornaments, created twenty two wooden holiday door hangers (colored with markers), and have written approximately eighty different drafts of letters to Santa. Not to mention the creation of a Crayola picture gallery in your home devoted to the love of all things Kringle.
Speaking of Saint Nick, you will also spend a great deal of time threatening to text him about your children's behavior only to end up having your children point out "He sees me when I'm sleeping and knows when I'm awake ALREADY." You will have to corral these small children for hours as you wait in line for unconvincing Santas and surly, picture-taking elves. You will wonder: does Santa's beard smell faintly of booze? And is that a cigarette burn on his red suit?
You don't think you will, but you will be willing to arm wrestle other parents for the last Neck Tat Elmo or Stripper Pole Barbie. You will resist the urge to drive your Toys R Us buggy into other shopping parents like Leather Tuscadero at a demolition derby.
If you have small children,you will sing Christmas carols until July 2012.
If you have small children, you will bake. You will bake gingerbread men who will end up looking like they were decorated by a band of drunken monkeys. You may, indeed, make a gingerbread house with sloping walls held together by a bucket of icing. There will be cookies of every stripe.You will schlep these baked goods to teachers, friends, the letter carrier, and indeed, any person your child has had contact with EVER.
If you have small children, you will wrap presents while shut in your walk in closet. You will learn the subterfuge of a Jason Bourne in your purchase and hiding of these gifts. You will position the Elf on the Shelf every night. DON'T FORGET TO MOVE THE ELF. You will stay up until 2 a.m. on Christmas Eve assembling toys and bicycles in the sub-freezing temperatures in the garage in order to avoid being heard and busted. You will use four, five, and six letter words because you had no idea you needed a Phillips head screwdriver. YOU WILL SPEND YOUR 401K ON BATTERIES.
Yes, parents, you will do all of this and more. And you will like it and be thankful for the opportunity to spoil your children beyond repair. Because like Kim Jong Il, they may be short, sometimes delusional and demanding dictators, but it doesn't change the fact that Christmas is for them: our kids. Making wonderful Christmas memories for the brief time our children are small and believe in magic? That, dear reader, is truly a gift.
But seriously. Y'all ever do a Christmas season with small children? It's not for the feint of heart, I assure you. We're talking about a slow build from Halloween to New Year's Day to a frothing holiday frenzy. If you don't have small children, if you're thinking about having children, or if your child doesn't walk or talk right now, here's a glimpse into your future:
You will enter the stores on November 1 to discover the North Pole has vomited all over them. Think the early Christmas decorations are annoying now? Your child will think these decorations are AMAZING. And that Christmas is pretty much tomorrow. Let the pleading begin! Time to enjoy a searing case of the Gimmes. You will not enter a retail establishment with your children safely again until 2012.
You can also look forward to more Christmas movies and shows than you thought existed. Oh, you have warm, fuzzy memories about all the wonderful specials like the Charlie Brown Christmas cartoon and from Rudolph and Frosty from when you were small? Your love for these will be crushed like a bug after the first fifty viewings.
But enjoy the quality shows, because with small children, there is no avoiding the odiferous dreck. Kids are not Roger Ebert. They don't care. You will watch the loathsome Jim Carrey bastardize your beloved childhood memories of the Grinch. You will watch talking golden retrievers dressed as Santa. You will watch Ahnold JINGLE ALL ZE WAY. And you will not be able to curse out loud.
If you have small children at Christmas, another certainty is YOU WILL CRAFT. And craft some more. Before December first, you will have already made forty gingerbread foam ornaments, created twenty two wooden holiday door hangers (colored with markers), and have written approximately eighty different drafts of letters to Santa. Not to mention the creation of a Crayola picture gallery in your home devoted to the love of all things Kringle.
Speaking of Saint Nick, you will also spend a great deal of time threatening to text him about your children's behavior only to end up having your children point out "He sees me when I'm sleeping and knows when I'm awake ALREADY." You will have to corral these small children for hours as you wait in line for unconvincing Santas and surly, picture-taking elves. You will wonder: does Santa's beard smell faintly of booze? And is that a cigarette burn on his red suit?
You don't think you will, but you will be willing to arm wrestle other parents for the last Neck Tat Elmo or Stripper Pole Barbie. You will resist the urge to drive your Toys R Us buggy into other shopping parents like Leather Tuscadero at a demolition derby.
If you have small children,you will sing Christmas carols until July 2012.
If you have small children, you will bake. You will bake gingerbread men who will end up looking like they were decorated by a band of drunken monkeys. You may, indeed, make a gingerbread house with sloping walls held together by a bucket of icing. There will be cookies of every stripe.You will schlep these baked goods to teachers, friends, the letter carrier, and indeed, any person your child has had contact with EVER.
If you have small children, you will wrap presents while shut in your walk in closet. You will learn the subterfuge of a Jason Bourne in your purchase and hiding of these gifts. You will position the Elf on the Shelf every night. DON'T FORGET TO MOVE THE ELF. You will stay up until 2 a.m. on Christmas Eve assembling toys and bicycles in the sub-freezing temperatures in the garage in order to avoid being heard and busted. You will use four, five, and six letter words because you had no idea you needed a Phillips head screwdriver. YOU WILL SPEND YOUR 401K ON BATTERIES.
Yes, parents, you will do all of this and more. And you will like it and be thankful for the opportunity to spoil your children beyond repair. Because like Kim Jong Il, they may be short, sometimes delusional and demanding dictators, but it doesn't change the fact that Christmas is for them: our kids. Making wonderful Christmas memories for the brief time our children are small and believe in magic? That, dear reader, is truly a gift.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Saving Christmas
How was your Thanksgiving? I have to say, somewhat to my concern for the opposite, the family gathering went pretty well. Historically, the challenge of hosting the meal and dealing with extended family dynamics has become, ahem, overwhelming. We're talking three structured trips to the grocery store and putting on your Paula Deen and/or your best Martha Stewart, folks, and it's not for the disorganized or feint of heart.
So how did it go for you? Was the holiday relaxing and fun for you? Or did you spend it drunk and angry? Did you work yourself in the kitchen and hosting until you were too tired and maybe resentful to enjoy yourself? If you did, fear not. I get it. I've alluded in the past to the fact that I have not always been known for being unflappable. So I'm pleased to say this year, for a delightful change, I emerged from Thanksgiving unscathed.
I did it! It wasn't "perfect." I allowed myself to forgo, for example, the use of crystal or china that requires hand washing. The centerpiece was a flock of pine cone turkeys made by my small children. The turkey was deep fried by someone else, and my pies were furnished by my chef, Albert Sons. I, for once, wrestled my perfectionism to the ground and good sense prevailed.
But if for whatever reason your Thanksgiving with the family wasn't everything you wanted it to be, don't give up on Christmas family gatherings yet! I'm here to share a few pearls you might utilize to make your Christmas family gathering one you won't dread. These little maneuvers saved my holiday bacon:
Shut your pie hole. It's always hilarious to watch your liberal cousin argue with your conservative uncle until their faces are purple, right? You're not going to convince someone to change their views over the egg nog, folks. It's not the time. Just be quiet for the holidays. You can fist fight at the next funeral or birthday party. It won't kill you to take a minute off from being right for Christmas. Good guideline: if it's about sex, religion, or politics? JUST DON'T.
Change the subject. It takes two to tango. You do not have to participate in the madness. "Why aren't you married yet?" can become "My GOODNESS the Cowboys are so terrible this year" so easily. Ask something about them or their outfit. Chances are, they're like me and would rather really talk about themselves anyway.
Lay off the egg nog. Alcohol does NOT relieve stress, especially. It is a depressant. It will not make anything more tolerable. Save it for the happy hour with your friends to describe the debacle your holiday was, when you can take a cab and escape.
Get a break. Take a walk, have your own car if you can, get a hotel if you can, stay with a friend instead of contentious relatives. Retire to your bedroom area early to read or meditate. Take an extra long shower. But there are clever ways to get some breathing room. When the topic turns somewhere that makes you queasy, take that bathroom break. My family thinks I have a bladder the size of a pea.
So I hope your Thanksgiving was all you wanted it to be and you were relaxed and at ease. But if it looked a little more Griswold-esque, I'm hoping the above wisdom helps salvage your Christmas or other holiday family gathering. Because as I always say, beware: the definition of a "dysfunctional family" is a family with more than one member in it.
So how did it go for you? Was the holiday relaxing and fun for you? Or did you spend it drunk and angry? Did you work yourself in the kitchen and hosting until you were too tired and maybe resentful to enjoy yourself? If you did, fear not. I get it. I've alluded in the past to the fact that I have not always been known for being unflappable. So I'm pleased to say this year, for a delightful change, I emerged from Thanksgiving unscathed.
I did it! It wasn't "perfect." I allowed myself to forgo, for example, the use of crystal or china that requires hand washing. The centerpiece was a flock of pine cone turkeys made by my small children. The turkey was deep fried by someone else, and my pies were furnished by my chef, Albert Sons. I, for once, wrestled my perfectionism to the ground and good sense prevailed.
But if for whatever reason your Thanksgiving with the family wasn't everything you wanted it to be, don't give up on Christmas family gatherings yet! I'm here to share a few pearls you might utilize to make your Christmas family gathering one you won't dread. These little maneuvers saved my holiday bacon:
Shut your pie hole. It's always hilarious to watch your liberal cousin argue with your conservative uncle until their faces are purple, right? You're not going to convince someone to change their views over the egg nog, folks. It's not the time. Just be quiet for the holidays. You can fist fight at the next funeral or birthday party. It won't kill you to take a minute off from being right for Christmas. Good guideline: if it's about sex, religion, or politics? JUST DON'T.
Change the subject. It takes two to tango. You do not have to participate in the madness. "Why aren't you married yet?" can become "My GOODNESS the Cowboys are so terrible this year" so easily. Ask something about them or their outfit. Chances are, they're like me and would rather really talk about themselves anyway.
Lay off the egg nog. Alcohol does NOT relieve stress, especially. It is a depressant. It will not make anything more tolerable. Save it for the happy hour with your friends to describe the debacle your holiday was, when you can take a cab and escape.
Get a break. Take a walk, have your own car if you can, get a hotel if you can, stay with a friend instead of contentious relatives. Retire to your bedroom area early to read or meditate. Take an extra long shower. But there are clever ways to get some breathing room. When the topic turns somewhere that makes you queasy, take that bathroom break. My family thinks I have a bladder the size of a pea.
So I hope your Thanksgiving was all you wanted it to be and you were relaxed and at ease. But if it looked a little more Griswold-esque, I'm hoping the above wisdom helps salvage your Christmas or other holiday family gathering. Because as I always say, beware: the definition of a "dysfunctional family" is a family with more than one member in it.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Doing the Holiday Flap
I was doing okay until the turkey cake fell on its face. It was such a cute cake, store-bought, naturally (you are all familiar with my being domestically challenged). But as it was a two layer cake cut in half and frosted standing on its side to resemble a turkey, once it hit the Texas heat outside the store, the face layer was too heavy with frosting. So, to my chagrin, the turkey did a face plant just sitting on my counter.
I was going to be mother of the year with that stupid cake at my eight year old son's school Thanksgiving feast, dammit. And my life is scheduled to the nanosecond. I have every remaining moment of 2011 planned for. Anything less than clockwork precision must result in chaos. I had NO time to go get another turkey-themed dessert. Could I swap shower time for another trip to the bakery? The feast was the next day. Second graders required cake. And thus hyperventilating began. It was starting...
I was doing what I like to call the Holiday Flap. And no, it's not a dance I learned from Yo Gabba Gabba or The Wiggles, although that might be a reasonable inference. Instead, the Holiday Flap is an unfortunate family tradition, a snit I have a tendency to get into this time of year if I'm not careful as I am an official recovering perfectionist. And it ain't pretty, folks.
Oh, admit it. No matter how organized you are, how many of you hop on the Panic Attack Express chugging out of Angst Station when it comes to this time of year? Planning and executing a Thanksgiving of epic proportions for dozens of family members? Figuring out how to make a beer budget pay for the champagne wishes of your children and other loved ones? Unable to produce a Christmas card photo without anyone crying in it? Will you get these cards mailed before Valentine's Day this year? Are you navigating crowded, overheated stores, traffic, and disgruntled retail employees?
It can strike fear into the most sturdy of souls, the Triumvirate of Holidays: Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's Eve. If the above description reminds you of yourself, gets your heart rate up a little bit, then you, too, my friend, can get to dancing the Holiday Flap if you aren't careful. Because depending on your expectations, it's possible, nay, far too easy work yourself into a lather trying to produce your "ideal" holiday season.
But I'm here to say, not unlike Prince, there's something else. It's not too late to get a grip whatever your budget or time limitations. Believe it or not, it's actually possible to relax and actually enjoy this time of year. No, no, no; I haven't been drinking. Really. Here's some of what I do to avoid dancing the Holiday Flap:
Modify expectations. People can have some pretty rigid ideas about what MUST happen for the holidays. My house MUST be decorated as if Clark Griswold was involved. We MUST have a gigantic holiday meal exactly recreated from Gramma's or Mom's menu. By scratch, of course. I MUST have a professionally produced photo of my children dressed as elves, pink cheeked and smiling, for my professionally printed Christmas cards. Every gift given MUST be thoughtful, appropriate, and wrapped as if by Martha Stewart. You get my drift. Y'all. Please. In counseling, we call this "musterbation." Unwanted emotions can only follow.
Make instead your goal that people can enjoy YOU, relaxed and at peace. They won't remember the dinner menu, but they'll remember your hysteria over it. Take out just some decorations, or none if it means you maintain your good mood. Feel good about budgeting appropriately. People don't care if you give them homemade goods; in fact, it feels awesome to be so important that you are thinking of them even in the face of less than satisfactory financial situations.
When it comes to food, it's okay to get help. I may never cook a turkey again. I've been emotionally scarred. I'm totally okay with catering the whole meal or asking family members to bring their favorite dish. I'm also WAY okay with eating off the every day plates (related: Getting married? Never sign up for the china with the gold band around the outside of the plate. You have to hand wash them. But I digress). I even give you permission to use*GASP* paper ones.
Don't "should" all over yourself. The only thing you HAVE to do this holiday season, my dears, is stay the color you are and die. The rest is choice. "Must" and "should" can ruin your holidays. Because I take all my moral lessons from cartoons, I will borrow from the Grinch: Christmas Day is in our grasp as long as we have hands to clasp. Loved ones are all we need to be merry.
Avoid doing the Holiday Flap. Once I started slowing down, breathing, and identifying the musts and shoulds I associated with my now-prone turkey cake (just a few well placed toothpicks and the disaster could have been avoided!), I could tell myself: keep cool, baby. I'll have time to pick something else up...or I won't. But I'll be giving me and my loved ones the best gift of all: a relaxed and fun-loving me. Oh, and upside-down turkey cake for dessert.
I was going to be mother of the year with that stupid cake at my eight year old son's school Thanksgiving feast, dammit. And my life is scheduled to the nanosecond. I have every remaining moment of 2011 planned for. Anything less than clockwork precision must result in chaos. I had NO time to go get another turkey-themed dessert. Could I swap shower time for another trip to the bakery? The feast was the next day. Second graders required cake. And thus hyperventilating began. It was starting...
I was doing what I like to call the Holiday Flap. And no, it's not a dance I learned from Yo Gabba Gabba or The Wiggles, although that might be a reasonable inference. Instead, the Holiday Flap is an unfortunate family tradition, a snit I have a tendency to get into this time of year if I'm not careful as I am an official recovering perfectionist. And it ain't pretty, folks.
Oh, admit it. No matter how organized you are, how many of you hop on the Panic Attack Express chugging out of Angst Station when it comes to this time of year? Planning and executing a Thanksgiving of epic proportions for dozens of family members? Figuring out how to make a beer budget pay for the champagne wishes of your children and other loved ones? Unable to produce a Christmas card photo without anyone crying in it? Will you get these cards mailed before Valentine's Day this year? Are you navigating crowded, overheated stores, traffic, and disgruntled retail employees?
It can strike fear into the most sturdy of souls, the Triumvirate of Holidays: Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's Eve. If the above description reminds you of yourself, gets your heart rate up a little bit, then you, too, my friend, can get to dancing the Holiday Flap if you aren't careful. Because depending on your expectations, it's possible, nay, far too easy work yourself into a lather trying to produce your "ideal" holiday season.
But I'm here to say, not unlike Prince, there's something else. It's not too late to get a grip whatever your budget or time limitations. Believe it or not, it's actually possible to relax and actually enjoy this time of year. No, no, no; I haven't been drinking. Really. Here's some of what I do to avoid dancing the Holiday Flap:
Modify expectations. People can have some pretty rigid ideas about what MUST happen for the holidays. My house MUST be decorated as if Clark Griswold was involved. We MUST have a gigantic holiday meal exactly recreated from Gramma's or Mom's menu. By scratch, of course. I MUST have a professionally produced photo of my children dressed as elves, pink cheeked and smiling, for my professionally printed Christmas cards. Every gift given MUST be thoughtful, appropriate, and wrapped as if by Martha Stewart. You get my drift. Y'all. Please. In counseling, we call this "musterbation." Unwanted emotions can only follow.
Make instead your goal that people can enjoy YOU, relaxed and at peace. They won't remember the dinner menu, but they'll remember your hysteria over it. Take out just some decorations, or none if it means you maintain your good mood. Feel good about budgeting appropriately. People don't care if you give them homemade goods; in fact, it feels awesome to be so important that you are thinking of them even in the face of less than satisfactory financial situations.
When it comes to food, it's okay to get help. I may never cook a turkey again. I've been emotionally scarred. I'm totally okay with catering the whole meal or asking family members to bring their favorite dish. I'm also WAY okay with eating off the every day plates (related: Getting married? Never sign up for the china with the gold band around the outside of the plate. You have to hand wash them. But I digress). I even give you permission to use*GASP* paper ones.
Don't "should" all over yourself. The only thing you HAVE to do this holiday season, my dears, is stay the color you are and die. The rest is choice. "Must" and "should" can ruin your holidays. Because I take all my moral lessons from cartoons, I will borrow from the Grinch: Christmas Day is in our grasp as long as we have hands to clasp. Loved ones are all we need to be merry.
Avoid doing the Holiday Flap. Once I started slowing down, breathing, and identifying the musts and shoulds I associated with my now-prone turkey cake (just a few well placed toothpicks and the disaster could have been avoided!), I could tell myself: keep cool, baby. I'll have time to pick something else up...or I won't. But I'll be giving me and my loved ones the best gift of all: a relaxed and fun-loving me. Oh, and upside-down turkey cake for dessert.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
A Very Racist Thanksgiving
So someone asked me to write about my most memorable Thanksgiving.
A Thanksgiving memory that stands out for me? Now, y'all know me. You know it's not going to be Norman Rockwell. But it was something.
Sixteen years ago, I got engaged to Hubs. I was so happy and thrilled to have him share a Thanksgiving dinner with me and my extended family. As eccentric (and I'm using the word "eccentric" here in order to be generous) as this older generation can be, it was the first time for Hubs to meet my grandparents and aunts and uncles, and I could show off my cute engineer. Nothing could mar the day for me. Right? Oh, just wait.
Soon-to-be-Hubs and arrive early in the morning to my parents' house. A little exposition: for some reason, my father had a "tradition" where the males go into the front yard and rake leaves every Thanksgiving morning. My brothers always hated that little tradition, and I have to say my heart soared when now-Hubs looked at my father like he had a third eye when Dad suggested he grab a rake. "No thanks," said my mild-mannered Hubs, leaving Dad speechless. Hubs then proceeded to settle in the kitchen where the women were cooking, choosing to hang with the females and all the butter. I loved him so for this.
But the good times really started when the meal was all over. Hubs and I, chilling over empty pie plates and full bellies, silent as we often are around our Mississippi elders, listening to them talk about topics we're not willing to wade in to with them. Because old people from Mississippi can be startlingly...well, shall we say "not in step" with oh, well, this century. But we love them and try to just smile and nod and let them repeat Fox News talking points.
So I'm a little hazy from the carb coma when the topic of race comes up among my family. Now, my grandmother grew up in the Mississippi Delta in the Depression era, the daughter of a sharecropper. And let's just say I come by being opinionated honestly. So I'm kind of paying attention as all my family is talking about race while feeling more and more self-conscious. The opinions being bandied about...let's just say...are not mainstream. And it's getting more and more uncomfortable. And then....well, for my now-Hubs first meeting with my grandmother, he hears her defending her use of...well, a very delicate word. That white people really have NO RIGHT EVER UTTERING.
And I'm wanting to crawl under the table.
But here's the memorable part: Hubs, being Hubs, laughed off my concern and embarrassment and assured me he knew he wasn't marrying a crazy person from crazy people. Evidently, growing up in Mississippi, he had actually been exposed to racism before. Who knew? But I was so relieved he wasn't worked up about it, didn't project it on to me, and continued to be polite, loving, and non-judgmental when no one would expect him to be.
My grandmother has since passed, but I still think my husband's first time meeting her was my most memorable Thanksgiving...and despite the overtones, made me realize how thankful I was then and am now that my Hubs is who he is. And that he's mine.
A Thanksgiving memory that stands out for me? Now, y'all know me. You know it's not going to be Norman Rockwell. But it was something.
Sixteen years ago, I got engaged to Hubs. I was so happy and thrilled to have him share a Thanksgiving dinner with me and my extended family. As eccentric (and I'm using the word "eccentric" here in order to be generous) as this older generation can be, it was the first time for Hubs to meet my grandparents and aunts and uncles, and I could show off my cute engineer. Nothing could mar the day for me. Right? Oh, just wait.
Soon-to-be-Hubs and arrive early in the morning to my parents' house. A little exposition: for some reason, my father had a "tradition" where the males go into the front yard and rake leaves every Thanksgiving morning. My brothers always hated that little tradition, and I have to say my heart soared when now-Hubs looked at my father like he had a third eye when Dad suggested he grab a rake. "No thanks," said my mild-mannered Hubs, leaving Dad speechless. Hubs then proceeded to settle in the kitchen where the women were cooking, choosing to hang with the females and all the butter. I loved him so for this.
But the good times really started when the meal was all over. Hubs and I, chilling over empty pie plates and full bellies, silent as we often are around our Mississippi elders, listening to them talk about topics we're not willing to wade in to with them. Because old people from Mississippi can be startlingly...well, shall we say "not in step" with oh, well, this century. But we love them and try to just smile and nod and let them repeat Fox News talking points.
So I'm a little hazy from the carb coma when the topic of race comes up among my family. Now, my grandmother grew up in the Mississippi Delta in the Depression era, the daughter of a sharecropper. And let's just say I come by being opinionated honestly. So I'm kind of paying attention as all my family is talking about race while feeling more and more self-conscious. The opinions being bandied about...let's just say...are not mainstream. And it's getting more and more uncomfortable. And then....well, for my now-Hubs first meeting with my grandmother, he hears her defending her use of...well, a very delicate word. That white people really have NO RIGHT EVER UTTERING.
And I'm wanting to crawl under the table.
But here's the memorable part: Hubs, being Hubs, laughed off my concern and embarrassment and assured me he knew he wasn't marrying a crazy person from crazy people. Evidently, growing up in Mississippi, he had actually been exposed to racism before. Who knew? But I was so relieved he wasn't worked up about it, didn't project it on to me, and continued to be polite, loving, and non-judgmental when no one would expect him to be.
My grandmother has since passed, but I still think my husband's first time meeting her was my most memorable Thanksgiving...and despite the overtones, made me realize how thankful I was then and am now that my Hubs is who he is. And that he's mine.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Penn State: Never Again
Well, I'm usually all about bringing the funny, but I have to admit, the topic crowding my mind this week isn't funny at all. You see, I have an eight year old son. And I love college football more than a fat kid loves ice cream. So the news coming out of Penn State the last couple of days? Let's just say as usual, I am opinionated.
Yes, I love college football. But I don't care how many wins you rack up, championships you win, or records you break if you achieved those things while you're covering up for your buddy's diddling little boys.
Even my hometown was rocked this week by allegations a well-known and trusted doctor in our area abused teenaged girls under his care. I know of a woman who went to a Collin County preacher who called himself a counselor for her prior sexual abuse...only to be abused by the counselor.
But enough about the darkness. I've decided, in my usual indomitable-spirit fashion, to focus on the positives about the situation at Penn State.
First: can anyone understand what it must take for eight young men to break the secret of sexual abuse? Human beings are so cool how they gravitate to heal, but to bring the actions of such powerful men into light? That took some nerve. Good for them. They will help other children who are being abused know: it doesn't matter who it is or how beloved abusers are. And even though teenagers don't think they're children? They are. If someone over 21 is having sex with a teenager? That person is a criminal. There is no such thing as a Lolita.
The Penn State response by officials, too, was spot on. Heads are rolling. Hopefully more criminal charges will be coming. The college was right not to allow Joe Paterno to leave on his own terms.
I'm also glad the topic of sexual abuse is front and center. We're all talking about it. We're talking about how to stop it, how to spot it, how to protect children. We're talking about how no one is above scrutiny: not clergy, not coaches, not anyone.
I know that some of you reading have been sexually abused as children. Statistics say numbers may be as high as 3 in 5. I hope the Penn State scandal will give you cause to consider breaking your silence. Because that's the most powerful and wonderful thing that has happened: those young men were courageous enough to break the silence. Now their healing can begin. Can you talk to someone about what happened to you? Because it wasn't your fault.
Penn State is also calling attention to the fact that sexual abuse does NOT usually happen with someone the child doesn't know. Most assaults are from family or close friends to the family. As a result, victims have mixed feelings about their experience and their assailant. Usually a predator takes his (usually his, sometimes her) time to groom the child and their family to trust and care for them. Sexual advances are slowly led up to, and a child is torn about both their responsibility in what happened and shame for caring about someone who would hurt them so. Make the assailant a parent, and a child just can't cope.
Lastly, and this is so key: as a parent, have a close relationship with your child. Make them know you believe them. Talk with them about what's going on. And as excruciating as it might be for you, talk to them about their physical boundaries. Insist they will never get into trouble for "telling" on another adult. Have an emotionally intimate relationship with your opposite-sex kid. Daughters need their fathers to talk to about men, and sons need their mothers to talk to about girls. Teach them: some people are friendly. Some are not. And some are dangerous.
So I apologize for the lack of hilarity this week. But to highlight the positive aspects of what is otherwise a horrible tragedy seemed the way to continue to raise awareness of the prevalence of child sexual abuse.
Again: break the silence. If something like this has happened to you in the past, break the silence. If not with a pro, with someone you love who loves you. Tell it.
Because we're only sick as our secrets.
Yes, I love college football. But I don't care how many wins you rack up, championships you win, or records you break if you achieved those things while you're covering up for your buddy's diddling little boys.
Even my hometown was rocked this week by allegations a well-known and trusted doctor in our area abused teenaged girls under his care. I know of a woman who went to a Collin County preacher who called himself a counselor for her prior sexual abuse...only to be abused by the counselor.
But enough about the darkness. I've decided, in my usual indomitable-spirit fashion, to focus on the positives about the situation at Penn State.
First: can anyone understand what it must take for eight young men to break the secret of sexual abuse? Human beings are so cool how they gravitate to heal, but to bring the actions of such powerful men into light? That took some nerve. Good for them. They will help other children who are being abused know: it doesn't matter who it is or how beloved abusers are. And even though teenagers don't think they're children? They are. If someone over 21 is having sex with a teenager? That person is a criminal. There is no such thing as a Lolita.
The Penn State response by officials, too, was spot on. Heads are rolling. Hopefully more criminal charges will be coming. The college was right not to allow Joe Paterno to leave on his own terms.
I'm also glad the topic of sexual abuse is front and center. We're all talking about it. We're talking about how to stop it, how to spot it, how to protect children. We're talking about how no one is above scrutiny: not clergy, not coaches, not anyone.
I know that some of you reading have been sexually abused as children. Statistics say numbers may be as high as 3 in 5. I hope the Penn State scandal will give you cause to consider breaking your silence. Because that's the most powerful and wonderful thing that has happened: those young men were courageous enough to break the silence. Now their healing can begin. Can you talk to someone about what happened to you? Because it wasn't your fault.
Penn State is also calling attention to the fact that sexual abuse does NOT usually happen with someone the child doesn't know. Most assaults are from family or close friends to the family. As a result, victims have mixed feelings about their experience and their assailant. Usually a predator takes his (usually his, sometimes her) time to groom the child and their family to trust and care for them. Sexual advances are slowly led up to, and a child is torn about both their responsibility in what happened and shame for caring about someone who would hurt them so. Make the assailant a parent, and a child just can't cope.
Lastly, and this is so key: as a parent, have a close relationship with your child. Make them know you believe them. Talk with them about what's going on. And as excruciating as it might be for you, talk to them about their physical boundaries. Insist they will never get into trouble for "telling" on another adult. Have an emotionally intimate relationship with your opposite-sex kid. Daughters need their fathers to talk to about men, and sons need their mothers to talk to about girls. Teach them: some people are friendly. Some are not. And some are dangerous.
So I apologize for the lack of hilarity this week. But to highlight the positive aspects of what is otherwise a horrible tragedy seemed the way to continue to raise awareness of the prevalence of child sexual abuse.
Again: break the silence. If something like this has happened to you in the past, break the silence. If not with a pro, with someone you love who loves you. Tell it.
Because we're only sick as our secrets.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
How to Fail Spectacularly
Mistakes were made. Poor judgement was enlisted. Hasty decisions were made, and all of these factors resulted in a huge waste of financial resources and time. People were greatly inconvenienced, emotions were inflamed, innocents were negatively affected. Sturm und drang ensued.
Am I talking about Kim Kardashian's wedding? NO! Well, yes and no. Actually I am the one who pulled a giant boner this week. I did what all humans do eventually: make a mistake. This mistake happened to be on a pretty impressive scale given my age, general intelligence and training, but nonetheless, it occurred. Because, as I heard Ernie sing on Sesame Street when I was a child, "Everyone makes mistakes oh yes they do." Despite rumors to the contrary, I am not perfect. Who knew, right?
But I could be talking about Kim Kardashian. I could be talking about you, I imagine. I'm sure you can conjure up a memory, no matter how recent, of making a cringe-worthy mistake you sincerely regretted then and still do now. Mean words you wanted back in your mouth the minute they were out. Doing something cruel or petty or careless.
So what do you and Kim and I need to do to handle life's eventual screw-ups? Luckily, there's a way to fail spectacularly. First:
Own it. This may be the hardest part of turning failures into growth. You have to have the ego strength to look at yourself and take responsibility for your actions. Yup. That was a stupid thing to do. Sometimes it's bound to happen. What's important to remember is it's just what you did; it's NOT WHO YOU ARE. Everyone makes mistakes both by accident and premeditation sometimes.
Feel it. Explore. Feel down, embarrassed, dumb. Feeling guilty? Guilt can be a great motivator for change. Guilt says, "Wow, shouldn't have done that. Won't be doing that again!" I for one think Kim and I are not going to repeat some of the actions that got us into our particular messes. Now shame is different. Shame says, "There is something wrong with ME." Talk to a pro, please, if you feel shame. Because I'm betting that feeling isn't all about what's happening right now, now, is it?
Limit the pity party. Have a bad day, week over the mistake if you need. By all means, talk to people who can support you and remind you of your worth. But put a time restraint on how long you're going to wear that hair shirt. Self-flagellation is counter-productive and won't help you move on to make meaning of your mistake and fail spectacularly, which I'm meaning in a positive context here.
Let others have their feelings. My mistake cost others. Others have a right to be angry if your actions impact them. Ask for forgiveness, apologize. Tell them you must move on in order to make meaning of the situation but that you understand they are on their own time table. Asking what can be done to make amends goes a long way too.
Make meaning. I, for one, have changed as a result of making my spectacular fail. Let's just say, for the epic proportions of THIS particular fail, I got off easy. Unfortunately, others suffered who had nothing to do with my poor decisions. I am determined not to be as selfish in the future. I am determined be a much more responsible human. I even think I influenced a friend to make fewer mistakes by sharing my story with her.
So Kim, if you're reading this (and Kim Kardashian obviously awaits my counsel with the bated breath of Oprah for Dr. Phil), I, for one, am not judging you. You are human and need to be loved (with apologies to Morrissey here). You made some mistakes in that pursuit. I mean, this guy over Reggie Bush? But I digress. Kim, just own your part in it, get support through the divorce blues, realize you are the expert on you and no one else, and then donate all that money to healthcare for the homeless.
Because then, Kim darling, you and I will have failed spectacularly.
Am I talking about Kim Kardashian's wedding? NO! Well, yes and no. Actually I am the one who pulled a giant boner this week. I did what all humans do eventually: make a mistake. This mistake happened to be on a pretty impressive scale given my age, general intelligence and training, but nonetheless, it occurred. Because, as I heard Ernie sing on Sesame Street when I was a child, "Everyone makes mistakes oh yes they do." Despite rumors to the contrary, I am not perfect. Who knew, right?
But I could be talking about Kim Kardashian. I could be talking about you, I imagine. I'm sure you can conjure up a memory, no matter how recent, of making a cringe-worthy mistake you sincerely regretted then and still do now. Mean words you wanted back in your mouth the minute they were out. Doing something cruel or petty or careless.
So what do you and Kim and I need to do to handle life's eventual screw-ups? Luckily, there's a way to fail spectacularly. First:
Own it. This may be the hardest part of turning failures into growth. You have to have the ego strength to look at yourself and take responsibility for your actions. Yup. That was a stupid thing to do. Sometimes it's bound to happen. What's important to remember is it's just what you did; it's NOT WHO YOU ARE. Everyone makes mistakes both by accident and premeditation sometimes.
Feel it. Explore. Feel down, embarrassed, dumb. Feeling guilty? Guilt can be a great motivator for change. Guilt says, "Wow, shouldn't have done that. Won't be doing that again!" I for one think Kim and I are not going to repeat some of the actions that got us into our particular messes. Now shame is different. Shame says, "There is something wrong with ME." Talk to a pro, please, if you feel shame. Because I'm betting that feeling isn't all about what's happening right now, now, is it?
Limit the pity party. Have a bad day, week over the mistake if you need. By all means, talk to people who can support you and remind you of your worth. But put a time restraint on how long you're going to wear that hair shirt. Self-flagellation is counter-productive and won't help you move on to make meaning of your mistake and fail spectacularly, which I'm meaning in a positive context here.
Let others have their feelings. My mistake cost others. Others have a right to be angry if your actions impact them. Ask for forgiveness, apologize. Tell them you must move on in order to make meaning of the situation but that you understand they are on their own time table. Asking what can be done to make amends goes a long way too.
Make meaning. I, for one, have changed as a result of making my spectacular fail. Let's just say, for the epic proportions of THIS particular fail, I got off easy. Unfortunately, others suffered who had nothing to do with my poor decisions. I am determined not to be as selfish in the future. I am determined be a much more responsible human. I even think I influenced a friend to make fewer mistakes by sharing my story with her.
So Kim, if you're reading this (and Kim Kardashian obviously awaits my counsel with the bated breath of Oprah for Dr. Phil), I, for one, am not judging you. You are human and need to be loved (with apologies to Morrissey here). You made some mistakes in that pursuit. I mean, this guy over Reggie Bush? But I digress. Kim, just own your part in it, get support through the divorce blues, realize you are the expert on you and no one else, and then donate all that money to healthcare for the homeless.
Because then, Kim darling, you and I will have failed spectacularly.
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