The holiday letter

'Tis the season for the holiday letter. This year, due to our move and new contact information, I will be forced to do something I only do when we move: include a holiday letter with our Christmas cards. I hate the holiday letter. I know they are supposed to be an excellent way to keep people that you don't care enough about to actually call/email/communicate with informed of the perfection that is your life, but to me they just end up sounding fake, pompous, and usually contain way too many exclamation points.

This year has been a thrilling ride for the Jones family! Bobby Junior made his usual perfect grades and will be the valedictorian for his kindergarten class! Little Mikey is the president of his preschool class and emerging as a real contender for a violin scholarship to orchestra camp! Bob received yet another promotion for which we all feel very grateful as we know there are many others struggling in the world. We have had to cut back on our vacations and were only able to go on 2 cruises this year. And me, well I am just grateful for the health, wealth, and love of my family as they support my volunteer efforts at saving the environment, teaching the less fortunate how to highlight their hair, and doing my best for the economy by getting my nails done at a different salon each week!

It's enough to make one gag while lighting the paper on fire and using it to light the annual yule log, yes?

I think my holiday letter will be a model of real life:

This year we nearly went under financially. While fearing for Steve's job, we decided to move to Massachusetts thus having to sell our home in the worst real estate market in 30 years. We ended up carrying massive credit card debt which we hoped to reconcile by profiting on the sale of the house. We'll just about break even, but don't expect much in the way of gifts. Our daughter was resentful of the move and has massive tween hormone swings which leave us both exhausted and terrified of her teen years. I am eating my worries and gaining weight at an alarming rate, so any of you that were thinking of buying me clothes better buy up a size or two. We are currently renting a home with a heating system that is both baffling and loud. We believe the house may have been wired by Ben Franklin himself as part of an experiment for electricity. We haven't actually made any friends in Massachusetts so we have a lot of free time that we spend watching a lot of TV and eating (see earlier passage on gift sizes). We hope to be financially solvent in the new year and perhaps get off the couch a little more.

I would like to receive a letter like this. This is real life. This is real information. I mean it tells about our year, gives our goals for the future and even includes gift giving tips.

What more could you want in a holiday letter?

That little voice should be telling you something...

The big scary anvil that has been hanging over our heads since we moved out of the house in Toledo, Ohio and into a rental in Massachusetts has finally been removed. The house in Toledo is sold. We are removed from the ranks of the "sellers" and get to join the ranks of "buyers"-- a place I am told that is much nicer than being a seller.



The move to Massachusetts was a leap of faith, really and truly the kind of faith where you think God may be telling you something and you are pretty sure you should be listening. Once, about 5 years ago we heard that little Voice and chose not to listen. The result was Steve being laid off from his job and a frantic search to find a new job, a new house, a new life when all we wanted to do was curl up and lick our wounds. We learned from that experience to listen to the Voice. And then about 4 years ago the Voice said that the painful muscle spasms in my face weren't just stress. I listened, I got an MRI, and then brain surgery. I'm still here and I credit my existence to listening to the Voice. Finally, just this past summer, the Voice was screaming at Steve "Get out now!" and we just couldn't believe it: leave our home, our daughter's school, our church, our lives? Leave and go where? Massachusetts? We don't know anyone in Massachusetts! I finally got the house painted the way I like it! It's a terrible market to sell a home! Our daughter likes her school! We had many, many reasons to ignore the Voice and only one reason to follow it: experience. We leaped. For awhile it seemed like freefall and there was a lot of doubt: what if it wasn't the Voice at all? What if Massachusetts was the wrong place? Why isn't our house selling? Why is it so hard to make friends? When are we going to find a decent Chinese restaurant? But now as things are starting to slow down and settle in, I am once more confident that we have done the right thing.

And now, now I am ready to listen to that little Voice once again as it guides me to finding the perfect house at the perfect price.

It's fun to be a buyer!

I think I may be married to my cousin

I live in fear that one day very soon the Jerry Springer show will be calling. You see with my father married to a woman with a tattoo, my mother having had some forays into "alternative" lifestyles, my older brother a former Scientologist, my younger brother having sometimes found himself on the wrong side of the law, and my sister hating me I feel that I am prime Jerry Springer material. Oh, and I may be married to my cousin.

It all started 15 years ago...

After having been married for about 3 years, Steve and I were visiting his parents. His mom and I were chatting about family history and she happened to mention Steve's great grandmother being a Wogoman. I stopped cold because my great grandmother was also a Wogoman and what if they were the same woman??? It turns out that they were definitely not the same woman but that enough family names and history have been lost that we can't rule out that they may have been sisters. My great grandmother Wogoman came from a large family and not everyone's names are remembered. Steve's great grandmother Wogoman came from a large family and not everyone's names are remembered. So if our great-grandmothers were sisters then our grandmothers were cousins which means our mothers were second cousins which means Steve and I are third cousins on our mothers' side.

Kissing cousins, I believe we'd be called.

My mother assures me that this is simply not the case, that she remembers meeting many of her second cousins and my husband's mother wasn't among them. I believe her and since our daughter was born without crossed eyes and a tail, I suppose it's nothing to worry about anyway. Still, in the dark of the night, I do sometimes wonder if I've inadvertently married my cousin. Steve finds the idea exciting and a little racy which I suppose is good for our marriage but a little gross too.

But who am I to judge because after all, I may have given birth to my own fourth cousin...

I want to look like me, only better

I wear my hair essentially the same way every day. Sure some days it's a little fluffier, other days a little curlier, and sometimes just plain woebegone, but the basic shape is the same every day. I am not trained to style hair. I don't have anything fancy going on with the cut or color. I don't use any styling products except a little gel, when I remember it. I don't use any styling tools except a round brush and blow dryer.

So why, am I the only one able to recreate this look?

I have searched for years to find a stylist who can make my hair look just like it did when I walked into the salon, except shorter and better, of course. Yet each stylist seems stymied to create what I am able to do every day, practically one handed, in a poorly lit bathroom while fighting for space at the mirror. Oh sure, they zip around me, brushes going one way, blow dryers the other way, gels, creams, and unguents of all types being applied to my hair - all to create a look that doesn't look nearly as flattering as the hairstyle I walked in with! Why? How is this possible? These are trained professionals, yes? I either end up with bangs to rival Cousin It's, hair blown back like a member of the band A Flock of Seagulls, hair pasted flat to my head like Squiggy from LaVerne & Shirley, or some version of the "messy" look that can really only be effectively pulled off by Meg Ryan.

For years I thought this was happening because the way I styled my hair wasn't as flattering as the way THEY did it. This theory was proven wrong again and again because people only ever complemented me on my hair when I had done it myself, never after having come from the salon.

I was so excited to search for stylists in Massachusetts: here, I thought, in this metropolitan area, surrounded by art, culture, and big money, HERE I WILL FIND MY STYLIST. Well, so far not so good.

First attempt: stylist is bald. Not female-pattern-bald but head-shaved-I'm-making-a-statement bald. I am trying not to judge on appearances, but let's face it: this woman has given up on her hair completely yet she wants to give me advice on mine? Okay, I take the plunge, after all with all her tattoos, piercings, and black lipstick she is obviously way cooler than me. Things start to go wrong with the hair washing. She wrapped her be-ringed fingers around my hair, dug her black-tipped-nails into my scalp and proceeded to wrench my neck from side to side intermittently scalding me and pulling my hair. When she was done I was so grateful to have survived the hair washing that I figured the worst had to be behind me. In a way, it was because the haircut was uneventful (read: painless) and seemed to look flattering while still wet. The blow drying was a little painful, but doable and the end result was quite frankly pretty good. Unfortunately my hair was so short in back that my tendency toward a hairy neck (too much information?) was readily apparent and when I tried to style my hair for the first time it became apparent that the left side was shorter than the right. Next!

Second attempt: again, the stylist's hair leaves a little to be desired: plain pony tail. I see the pony tail as the sweatpants of hairstyles, sure it may be comfortable and something you can throw on in a moment's notice, but would you really consider it a style? This time I badly needed color so I asked for lowlights because if my hair had anymore highlights it would be glaring. The stylist asked me to look at a People Magazine (?) to find a celebrity whose hair color most matched what I was looking for. Okay, I chose Racquel Welch a woman with whom I share absolutely no other qualities except that we both have brown hair. The hair washing was much more comfortable this time, though probably no one will equal the bliss I felt in Toledo when Bill's strong hands massaged my head...ahh...but I digress... and the color looks good, the haircut was uneventful and still looked good upon returning home. However, the styling...oh dear! I have never had so much time spent on making my hair look so completely...lifeless. The top was flat, the sides were poofy and the back looked woebegone. I went home and fixed it but it was not one of my stylist's finer moments. I will go back in 7 weeks, not excited, but not scared either.

So here I am, looking like me as only I can make myself look. Perhaps I do such a good job on my own hair that even professionals cannot rival my style? Perhaps my last stylist was so overwhelmed by the task of making me look like Racquel Welch that her hands were shaking too much to be able to style my hair? Perhaps I should be paying more for a haircut...

Poking the Green-eyed Monster with a Stick

Over the summer my sister came to live with us for about 2 months. Her husband was deployed in Iraq and she was alone, caring for a 17-month-old daughter, and feeling overwhelmed and lonely. My sister is significantly younger than me and we hadn't resided together in the same house for almost 25 years. It is safe to say I really had no idea what I was getting into, but I jumped in all the same. I enthusiastically decorated the baby's room: finally I was able to create a pink paradise for a baby while not actually having to feed, clothe, change, and entertain a baby! It was so much fun creating a warm, inviting, child-like, and feminine room for my niece and I couldn't wait for them to come. Next I moved on to my sister's room. With equal love I moved the furniture around, purchased new bedding, a reading lamp, a vase for fresh flowers. I envisioned a summer filled with long walks with the baby in the stroller, my daughter riding her bike up ahead, and my sister and I bonding in ways we were never able to do when we were younger.

It didn't turn out quite that way.

We did actually take one walk together, the baby in the stroller, my daughter riding her bike up ahead, but the bonding talk was more of a monologue by my sister of how much she hated the Marine Corps and specifically President Bush for taking her husband away from her. I wasn't surprised by the topic of the conversation: I had been hearing this same talk since she arrived and even well before her arrival when we would chat on the phone. It's not that I don't understand my sister's pain, I simply don't understand how she thought things would turn out marrying, and then having a child with, a man who was in the marines. It's his job and he's going to work. She knew that before the first date, the first kiss, certainly before the wedding.

My sister was not happy at my house. I attributed this unhappiness to the fact that her husband was at war and she was worried and sleep deprived. Probably all those reasons are contributing factors, but I now think the reason my sister wasn't happy at my house is because she was mad at me: mad because my husband was home every evening at 6, mad because my child slept through the night, mad because my child could feed herself, clothe herself, and entertain herself, mad because of all the free time I had, mad because of all the space I had in my house, mad because I wasn't worried and anxious for my husband's safety.

Some people would say all that "mad" is really jealousy.

I didn't recognize my sister's jealousy for what it was at the time. Blithely I regaled her with tales of how much I like my life, my marriage, the age my daughter is at, the free time I have. I have searched my heart again and again to try to learn if maybe I really did sense she was jealous and was rubbing her face in it...I wasn't. I don't begrudge her an ounce of happiness and it really didn't occur to me that she would begrudge me anything. After all, we all make our own choices, right?

The visit ended rather abruptly when my sister and husband engaged in their first, last, and only discussion about politics. To say that my sister is passionate about politics is a huge understatement. She is obsessive about her candidates, still young enough to believe that she can change someone's mind by arguing with them, and when you combine that with the slow burn she had been doing while living with us all summer you have a recipe for combustion that put the 4th of July fireworks to shame.

The fight, from my perspective, went something like this: My sister tried to convince Steve that her candidate was better than his. Steve said he really didn't have a candidate, he didn't like any of the people running. My sister took offense at his laissez-faire attitude toward something about which she is passionate and figured if he didn't like anyone anyway he might as well vote for her guy. Steve, seeing how upset my sister was getting, began enjoying pushing her buttons and became more adamant that he would never like her candidate. My sister began to get personal, insulting my husband for serving in the army only during peacetime (?) and proclaiming her desire that he should get drafted so her husband could come home. Steve took offense about the besmirchment of his service record and suggested that she hadn't served her country at all and was just sitting home safe and comfy while others did all the dirty work. She freaked. She gathered the baby. She gathered her things. She packed her car. She left.

So much for bonding.

My sister and I have had several stilted, polite conversations since that fateful day, but things are definitely not the same. I am being punished by not having pictures of my niece sent to me and by her ignoring my daughter. I am punishing her by not calling and putting all this behind us. I know I have to be the one to make the first move, and possibly the second, third, fourth, and fifth. I have tried, in a lukewarm fashion, to bring up the subject with her so we can resolve things before the holidays arrive and we are forced together in the pressure cooker called my mom's kitchen. She isn't making anything easy for me and I don't think I am really committed yet to conceding anything because in my heart of hearts I still think of it as her fault. But assigning blame won't get me any access to my niece, won't mend the relationship, won't make the holidays go more smoothly, and won't bring my sister back to me. I'm going to have to apologize.

After all, I'm older and I should know better.

Hypochondriacs 'R' Us

About 10 years ago I finally admitted to a sad diagnosis: I am a hypochondriac. This condition afflicts untold numbers of men and women, can strike at anytime, is rarely fatal, has no known cure, but may significantly affect quality of life.

I am not a severe hypochondriac. In fact, I rarely go to the doctor aside from annual routine checkups. I am the worry-in-the-middle-of-the-night and search-the-internet-for-answers-to-my-worries kind of hypochondriac. I have self-diagnosed-and-then-discarded diabetes, blindness, rabies (yes, rabies), cancer, a stroke, a heart attack, skin cancer, arthritis, strep throat, bladder infections, colitis, and food poisoning. I did not actually go to the doctor for any of these because they all occurred between 11p.m. and 6a.m., were cured by the light of day or my husband’s calming rationalization, and didn’t crop up again, at least not until I had another sleepless night.

Okay, maybe I am a severe hypochondriac, I just don’t seek treatment for my disease. If I sleep through the night I am miraculously healthy. One middle of the night waking can yield some terrible conditions, most life-threatening, all seriously uncomfortable. Why do I do this to myself? What makes me climb into that middle-of-the-night torture chamber again and again? I know if I sought medical help I would probably be given some prescription to keep me from having “obsessive thoughts” but doesn’t taking medication to prevent hypochondria seem a little ironic? Besides, I don’t have obsessive thoughts during the day, this is my own personal version of being afraid of the dark.

Admittedly I have had some weird medical conditions which certainly contribute to my sense of “if it’s weird and life threatening, it will happen to me.” When I was 5 I had scarlet fever, something I thought only happened to people in the 1800s. When I was 7 I had a life-threatening reaction to penicillin and lost consciousness. When I was 34 I had an extremely rare brain tumor. I have had various moles cut off that “looked funny” and some even turned out to be a little “funny” though none were cancerous. Except for the brain tumor, it’s probably a pretty typical medical file but for me it’s been enough to create a pattern of worry and expectancy. I mean, really, rabies??

I propose a new era of medical doctors be trained. These doctors would only tell you the good news about your health and would downplay any negative health issues as “normal, but we’ll go ahead and remove it, treat it, give you a prescription, whatever is appropriate.” Part of the problem for me is constantly hearing “wow, scarlet fever! I hope that didn’t damage your heart of your eyes!” or “Oh, you’ve had some moles removed before and your dad has a history of melanoma, well, you’re pretty likely to have some form of skin cancer so let’s cut this off…” even “hey, that brain tumor is extremely rare, does that mean you should play the lottery or avoid thunderstorms, ha ha ha…” These sentiments, expressed by trained medical professionals, do not engender faith in one’s long term health.

I want a doctor who says “Beth, you’re fine. You eat healthfully, you exercise, you meditate, you have a family history of longevity, you’ll be here long after me.” Perhaps that goes against the grain of most doctors who are trained to diagnose, treat, and then wait for the next disease, but that’s what I want to hear.

After sitting so long typing this my lower back is a little sore: gee, I hope nothing is wrong with my kidneys…

I'd like a re-write please

Recently I just finished reading (well, listening to) Certain Girls by Jennifer Weiner. I was moving along through the story, enjoying the ride well enough, when all of the sudden WHAM, the story took a sudden dramatic and unexpected turn. I did not like the new direction of the story. I couldn't figure out why the author would take this particular direction. I considered not finishing the book.

I think life is a little like that book. We're all just drifting along and WHAM you lose your job, find a lump, crash your car, your house burns down, a parent dies, you get a promotion, find out your pregnant, win the lottery, meet the man of your dreams. Life takes a lot of unexpected turns, some of them not so good. Sometimes I have felt very much like I didn't want to finish a particular chapter. I want a cosmic re-write. Surely this plot twist wasn't meant for me!?

My grandpa died when I was 18. I hadn't been close to my father for years at that point, and my grandpa stepped in and really filled that void for me. When he died, I mourned not only him, but my dad as well. My grandma was devastated. She slammed the book closed and never really opened it again. My grandma lived another 18 years after my grandpa, but she wasn't really alive after he died. She chose to end her story with his.

I am more of a re-write kind of girl myself. I have had my share of bad plot twists, but I haven't ever wanted to stop writing this story of my life. There are a few parts I'd like to re-write completely, and more than a few that could use some selective editing, but I am always excited for what will happen next. I have lived just long enough to learn that we can't ever know what will happen, but we can always put our own spin on the plot. The outline may be somewhat out of our control, but the details, ah, the details are all our own.

I rely a lot upon faith in my life. It was a complete leap of faith when I got married, against both our families' advice. It was a complete leap of faith to quit my job and be a stay-at-home-mom. It was a complete leap of faith to move to Cincinnati, then to Toledo, then to Massachusetts. But isn't every day a complete leap of faith? We don't know what will happen, though we carefully schedule each day. We don't know what the future brings, though we worry endlessly with a false sense of control. We don't know how this story ends.

All I know is that my life is a page-turner, and I can't wait to read the next chapter.

Okay, so now what?

Okay, so now that the challenge is over and I'm still blogging what am I going to do with this blog? There are many choices faced by bloggers like myself: how much personal information do I give? Do I use real names? Just initials? Nicknames? Do I tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? What if my friends or family read this blog and find something unflattering about themselves? How much do I censor myself?

I don't know the answers to any of these questions. Right now I tell the absolute unvarnished truth, using real names, with a vague geographical location to identify me. My husband thinks I should use nicknames, he'd like to be known as "Spanky" but I think I'll stick to calling him "Steve." Steve does read my blog and has, in fact, confronted me on a couple of things he has read. My immediate reaction after I realized he was following the blog was to begin censoring. I felt constrained, watched, conspicuous, vulnerable, and a lot nervous about what he would "think" about me. I spoke with Deb about all those feelings and she said "so what, it's your blog. He can write a rebuttal blog if he wants, this is for you." I think there's a lot of wisdom in that and so I am persevering, still blogging, and committing to as honest a stream of consciousness as I can provide.

I'm still a little nervous. Especially now that Deb has my blog linked to hers, other people may see this...

Isn't that the point of a blog?

Well, that is another choice bloggers need to make. Why am I blogging? What do I hope to achieve with this blog? Who is my intended audience? Will I tell anyone about this blog?

The short answer is I am blogging because I enjoy it. I enjoy writing, I enjoy examining my life in a series of short stories, vignettes if you will. I don't have an intended audience, though I think the people who will be most drawn to what I write are women as I am drawn to women authors myself.

The biggest question for me right now is "will I tell anyone about this blog?" I haven't yet admitted to blogging, except to my husband and daughter. I haven't told my friend Chellie. I haven't told any family members. I haven't told other friends or acquaintances. I have so enjoyed blogging that it feels slightly dishonest not sharing this new interest with those close to me, but I am reluctant to "out" myself. Once I know that many people who know me are reading, I think I will feel less spontaneous and definitely more censored. I need to work on thickening my skin and strengthening my resolve before I am ready to share this part of myself. I know that Deb understands because she is putting herself out there too, blogging, sharing herself in a unique way, (to read Deb's blog, go to http://www.itiswhatitis.typepad.com/). But will others understand? I suppose there is only one way to find out...

...So onward and hopefully upward. Happy November everyone!

Deb Made Me

To blog or not to blog, that was the question. For years I have enjoyed writing. I usually fulfilled this enjoyment by sending emails to my friends and family. Many times my friends and family have commented about how much they enjoy my emails, how entertained they have been for years reading what I have written. I always wondered why, what did they see in my words that I did not? I am a very casual writer. I don't think I have a novel in me, I don't think I have focus to follow a single thought to its logical conclusion through 200+ pages. I am more anecdotal in style.

For years I have read other people's blogs, read regular contributors to magazines and newspapers, devoured books, and envied all people who write. I never thought of myself as a writer, as someone with something to say that may be of interest to someone else. I like writing, but what's the point if no one ever reads what you've written? My friend Debbie offered a new perspective. After sharing how much we both enjoy writing, sharing little "rants" with each other, and discussing other blogs we have read Deb laid down a challenge: 30 posts in 30 days. Starting October 1st we were both to accomplish 30 posts. Obviously, I didn't quite make the goal. I don't have 30 posts, but what I do have is immeasurable: a new energy for writing, a deep appreciation of the process of organizing my thoughts and putting them to "paper", an enjoyment of writing to anonymous readers, or no readers at all (I have discovered, to my surprise, that it really doesn't make any difference), a journal of sorts, a chronology of what's going on in my life, a new understanding of myself, and a log of how much or how little I am growing as a person.

October is ending. There isn't any challenge for November, this could be my last blog.

It won't be. I love blogging! I love the process. I love the product.

So...thanks Deb for making me.

My Pink Ribbon Rant

October is breast cancer awareness month. Hordes of women will walk or run for Susan G. Komen. Millions of dollars will be spent on products bearing a pink ribbon. A climate of hope will be cultivated as money is raised to fight breast cancer. Or will it...?

In my opinion, breast cancer research is the biggest fraud perpetrated on the American woman in this century.

Putting a little pink ribbon on a product is a bit marketing genius. Someone figured out that women will buy, buy, buy...thinking they are doing something good for breast cancer research. I am not here to dispute how the funds are used. I have no idea if the money goes to breast cancer research or not, it really makes no difference to me because all of the energies are being spent on curing, not preventing. Some of the very products that bear the pink ribbon are carcinogenic. This has to stop. The very products that can lead to breast cancer are being consumed by women who buy them to help fight breast cancer. Anyone else think this is crazy???

Most of the "pink ribbon" clothing being sold is not made of organic cotton. Some of it is even dry clean only. Dry cleaners use formaldehyde to clean the clothes. Formaldehyde is a carcinogen. Another chemical, perchloroethylene, or PERC, is used by three out of four dry cleaners nationwide (http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/02/23/earlyshow/contributors/tracysmith/main2507444.shtml) PERC is stated by the EPA to be a possible to probable cause of cancer. Cotton growers use numerous pesticides to ensure the viability of the cotton crop. Pesticides are carcinogens. In fact five of the top nine pesticides used on cotton in the U.S. (cyanide, dicofol, naled, propargite, and trifluralin) are KNOWN cancer-causing chemicals. All nine are classified by the U.S. EPA as Category I and II— the most dangerous chemicals. (http://www.ecochoices.com/1/cotton_statistics.html)

Cosmetic companies have long been guilty of hidden carcinogens in their products. Many foundations and pressed powders contain aluminum and talc (which contains an ingredient similar to asbestos and is linked to ovarian cancer), numerous dyes and preservatives that all end up in your bloodstream, via the skin, are present as well. Chemicals such as diaminoanisole and FD&C Red 33 are found in hair dyes, and scientists have directly classified both of these as carcinogens. This evidence is also supported by separate studies that link hair dyes to such rare cancers as: non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, Hodgkin's disease and multiple myeloma. Another study claims that at least 20% of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma found in women is caused by use of hair dyes. Chemicals found in hair sprays, lipsticks, and perfumes are all linked to cancer. (For a complete listing, click on http://www.breastcancerfund.org/site/pp.asp?c=kwKXLdPaE&b=3005277).

Parabens and aluminum-based products (both compounds that are found in antiperspirants) raise estrogen levels. Elevated estrogen levels may lead to breast cancer. (http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/Risk/AP-Deo)

And the worst part is that these companies know all this information. Sure, the can play dumb like the tobacco companies "oh, does smoking cause lung cancer? We didn't know..." but women are gambling their health, not to mention their money, on these products. The FDA does not regulate hair sprays, perfumes, cosmetics, shampoos, conditioners, or hair dyes. These products do not have to undergo any rigorous testing or comply to any safety standards. Basically, anything can be in your body lotion that you are rubbing into your largest organ, your skin, and sending right into your bloodstream. Why do you think nicotine and birth control patches are so effective?

And how about the food? When I walked into the grocery store and saw a huge display of M&Ms bearing the pink ribbon packaging, I was furious. Ignoring the fact that obesity puts a woman at a much higher risk for breast cancer (http://www.webmd.com/breast-cancer/news/20061127/breast-cancer-risk-age-and-obesity), what about the ingredients in the M&Ms themselves? M&Ms are high in sugar. Sugar feeds cancer. (http://www.mnwelldir.org/docs/nutrition/sugar.htm), (http://www.healingcancernaturally.com/sugar-and-cancer.html) M&Ms also contain artificial colors, are high in fat, and have little to no nutritional value. (http://caloriecount.about.com/calories-mm-mars-candies-mms-plain-i19141).

Yet these candies bear a pink ribbon. Even if 100% of the sales were given to breast cancer research, shouldn't these products have some responsibility for not promoting cancer?

Right now companies are content with being reactive, providing most of their support to research cures, not support for prevention. While this is beneficial to the pharmaceutical companies that sell these treatments and cures, this is not beneficial to humankind. This is not an approach that we can support. We must demand that companies remove the carcinogens from their products. We must demand that companies support products that are cancer preventatives. Why isn't there a pink ribbon on broccoli or other cruciferous vegetables that are so good for our bodies? Where's the pink ribbon on apples? How about a pink ribbon advertising for walking and bike trails?

A diagnosis of cancer is terrifying. Let's envision and support a world where that diagnosis is never made instead of putting all our energies into trying to cure a disease.

My Life as a Lifetime Made for Television Movie

I think I was in my early 20's when a new channel was born: Lifetime, Television for Women. I was a devoted follower of the made for television movie. I avidly watched as Farrah Fawcett's bed burned, Barry Bostwick molested counted little girls, babies were switched at birth or stolen, women were betrayed, beaten, and cheated, and died from all manner of poignant, gut wrenching diseases. In many ways, these shows were a kind of higher education for me. Just out of college, new in my career, product of a broken home, I was searching for what it meant to be an adult, a woman, a wife. The education I received led me to believe that I would live a storybook life for a few years: devoted young handsome husband, beautiful home, great career, committed friendships. Then the trouble would begin. My husband would cheat on me, then molest our (or somebody else's) kids, then I would be diagnosed with a terminal disease which I would valiantly fight while confronting my ex-husband who would now be married to a high school girl, while I attempted to reconcile with my mother enough so she could raise my kids once I died from my terminal illness.

Sound familiar? And it's not just Lifetime Television that is to blame. Terms of Endearment, Steel Magnolias, Thelma and Louise, Sleeping with the Enemy, The Accused, Beaches, Vanished, (and the list goes on and on) all send the same messages to women. Live in fear.

I have always been a good student and I learned my lessons well from these movies. I lived most of my 20's in a constant state of low level fear. I felt like I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I had a hard time feeling content in my happiness because I feared that my happiness was just Act I and soon there would be a commercial break and God-knew-what-misery was in store for when the show resumed. We often hear of the dangers for children who watch too much TV, inappropriate shows on TV, or are exposed to "too much, too soon." I propose that there are just as many dangers for women who are watching all this crap which is targeting women, playing on their emotions, fostering a climate of fear, and generally depressing the hell out of us. I am surprised by how relatively silent the feminists are about this issue. Is there a network for men that shows a constant stream of movies about them being cheated on, molested, beaten, and then sentenced to die a painful death? Spike TV seems to show an endless parade of men doing stupid things interspersed with men being obscenely masculine, saving the day through their heroism, and then getting laid. And we get Lifetime???

I say NO MAS ! (I recently saw Beverly Hills Chihuahua with my daughter) Do not watch these shows, movies, or read the novelizations. Do not give away your power and live in fear. Do not glorify being a martyr or martrying your children. Turn the channel. Send a message.

Do not celebrate fear.

Can I Be Ex-Communicated For This?

I must be thinking about religion a lot lately, because here I am again, meditating about my own brand of spirituality. I am thinking this way because I am meeting a lot of new parents at my daughter's school and being exposed to Catholicism-Massachusetts style. One parent I recently met described himself a Catho-holic. This makes me a little nervous as I am probably closer to a Catho-rexic. My husband describes us as Cafeteria Catholics, the kind that pick and choose the parts of the religion they like the best, leaving the rest behind.

Whatever kind of Catholic I am, I know I am not traditional. Years ago my book club in Cincinnati read The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown. Hoping to get a little rise from the token Catholic, one of my neighbors asked me how I'd feel if it was proven that Christ was married. I told her, quite honestly, that it wouldn't bother me a bit. In fact I hope that Christ was married. I hope he did have children. I hope that kind of intimacy, closeness, and humanness were his to enjoy for whatever short time he had them. My mother once asked me how I'd feel if it were proven that Christ wasn't divine, or wasn't born of a virgin-birth. Again, I can honestly say it wouldn't bother me a bit. What difference does marriage, children, birthright, or divinity make to the truth of the message "Do unto others as you would have done to you"? All of the teachings of Christ are valid for reasons far beyond bureaucratic census details. I like the stories of the Bible. I do not take them literally because I believe they are meant to be stories with moral, or message to them. I like hearing about the history and politics going on during the time when many of the Bible stories were written. I think knowing the political climate of the time helps a lot in understanding why stories were written a certain way or had certain references in them.

I like the idea of saints: normal-run-of-the-mill folks who were put in tough circumstances and stood their ground. Life doesn't usually end well for most saints, but isn't that true for many people in modern times too? Would death by car accident, disease, murder, or suicide be considered pleasant?

I like statuary too. My mind wanders a bit when I am trying to pray so having a physical, tangible statue in front of me helps me focus my thoughts. Oh yea, I'm supposed to praying, not mentally redecorating my living room...

I like the ritual and pageantry of Catholicism. I find ritual comforting and the fact that I can walk into almost any Catholic church in the U.S. and know when to sit, stand, and knee feels inclusive and inviting.

I don't attend Mass every Sunday. I have managed to break almost all of the Ten Commandments. I don't always tithe. I don't attend Mass on holy days of obligation. I don't venerate the Pope.

I am not the best Catholic.

I do pray daily and almost constantly: a prayer of thanks to God for my world, my life, my family, my health, my friends, the amazing beauty of the leaves around me. I do exult in the love and sanctitude of my marriage and my family. I do one good deed a day, even if it's just complementing the sales clerk on her manicure. I do teach my daughter about God and the amazing wonders of the world gifted to us. I do nurture and encourage spirituality within myself and my daughter.

I am not the worst Catholic.

Last Catholic Standing

I was raised Catholic. First through 10th grade I attended Catholic school. My parents were Catholic, their parents were Catholic. All my aunts and uncles were Catholic. We attended church every Sunday as a family until my parents divorced. No exceptions. We once attended church on Saturday evening, I can't remember exactly why, but my mother felt that this was wrong, violated the spirit of the Third Commandment, and we never did that again.

I am the only remaining Catholic in my family. My parents, siblings, and many of my aunts and uncles have all gone on to different religions, agnoisticism, or atheism. It's strange believing something so fundamentally different from the rest of my family. It's like my parents spent my entire childhood telling me how great the color red was: "We're a red family. We like the color red, we believe the color red is the right color. We expect you to wear red, like red, attend school to learn more about the different tones, hues, and shadings of red, and to marry a man who also likes red and believes it to be the right color too." So finally, after 25 years, I decided that red would be my color too. My husband decided that he liked red so much he would learn all about it and convert so we could have a red family. Then, one day, post-divorce, my dad decides that he really likes blue, indigo, or violet better. Red is too vibrant, too pushy of a color. He wants something more subdued. On another day, post-divorce, my mom decides that it isn't about one color at all, it's about the whole rainbow. No color is better than any other color, they are all equal, they are all connected, part of the rainbow. And my siblings, tired of the color red anyway, quickly threw off their red garments and put on black or white. No color. No choice. Certainly not a rainbow, but no blues, indigos, or violets either. And there I stand, wearing my red, feeling a little confused and a lot betrayed.

If something so integral to my childhood, my values, the morals with which I was raised, the very fabric of our family could be tossed aside by my parents as being an oops-we-didn't-really-like-Catholicism-as-much-as-thought-we-did, what other parts of my upbringing would be overturned? I always feel a little awkward around my parents now when it comes to Catholic rites of passage, such as my daughter's baptism and her First Communion. I know these are things they once believed in deeply but are now only attending to see their granddaughter. I wonder if their new beliefs are true or if someday they'll swing back to Catholicism, or off in another direction completely. I wonder if they clung to Catholicism for so long because it was the one thing they had in common. Perhaps the only thing they had in common.

I like being Catholic. I am not, by any means, the most traditional Catholic, but I believe, very deeply, in what I teach my daughter. I'm not the Last Catholic Standing, I have a husband, and daughter standing by my side too. And we all look good in red.

Beware of P.A.M.

At my daughter's school in Ohio there was a woman a friend and I nicknamed PAM (Passive Aggressive Martyr). PAM was a compulsive volunteer. PAM didn't volunteer for the joy of being active in her children's school and lives. PAM didn't volunteer because she didn't have anything better to do. PAM volunteered to gain power. We have all encountered these people in all different walks of life: they are the suck-ups at work, the teacher's pet in school, the person bringing a cold drink for the ref at sporting events, or the partygoer who usurps the hosts by serving drinks and hors d'oerves to the other guests. Men can be PAMs just as much as women, they just don't usually have as much time.

I am beginning to suspect that each school/organization has its own PAM. We move all the way to Massachusetts and whom do I meet within the first week of school? That's right, the resident PAM. She is president of the PTO, she volunteers in the library, donates the most books at the Book Fair, bakes the most cupcakes for the Bake Sale and probably turns in the most Box Tops during the Box Tops for Education drive. She is friendly without being your friend. She is, with the support of her husband, running the school.

I volunteer a lot too. I would absolutely be PAM material except that I'm not passive, not too aggressive, and I'm definitely not a martyr. I see volunteering as part of my job as stay-at-home-mom-with-a-child-in-school-all-day. If I'm not doing something to care for the family at home, then I should be spending at least some of my time helping out the school, because really, (I'll say it) what else do I have to do? You'll not find me listing the litany of chores I can't complete and complaining about the endless carpools. With only one child to care for, my life really is pretty easy. If I'm complaining, it's just because I feel like bitching, not because of any real hardship in my life.

I think a lot about going back to work. I was good at working and always liked it. I never can seem to find that perfect job that enables me to be home for sick days, snow days, half days, winter break, spring break, and summer vacation that doesn't require me actually working at the school. Parents that work at the school their children attend, I think I may have to add that to my stray peeves list because it is quickly becoming a new favorite peeve of mine. What may, on the surface, seem a perfect marriage of parenting availability and employment can also lead to blackmail, gossip, and other catty behaviors from parents who are unable to keep their work life and social life separate.

I'd like to think that all the PAMs have their eventual day of reckoning when the last child graduates. Are these the women you see working at Starbucks and Barnes & Noble on weekends with a slightly stunned, lost expression and a bit of Prozac quick dissolve tablets still melting on their tongues? Are these the women now turning that feverish energy on their own bodies as they relentlessly tone, tuck, Botox, and wax themselves to perfection? Or are these the women who are still doing their kids' laundry when said children are 28?

I don't know what I'll do when my daughter's schooling moves beyond my volunteering. I only know this, I'll fight to death against becoming a PAM!

Separated, but Equal

My dad left the family home when I was 15. My parents’ divorce became final when I was 18. When I think back to how I thought my parents’ lives would turn out post-divorce, I have to laugh at how wrong I was. My dad, who for years I cast in the role of villain and main perpetrator of the divorce, went on to marry again and has been successfully remarried for almost 18 years. I definitely would have figured him for being alone the rest of his life, becoming more and more of a recluse. I thought he liked solitude but now I think he was just hiding from my mom. My mom, who for years I cast in the role of woman-done-wrong, has gone on to have a string of somewhat bizarre and mostly unsuccessful relationships that seem to repeat again and again the patterns she had with my dad. I figured she would re-marry within a few years, even possibly have another child, and pretty much remain a stay-at-home-mom and housewife for the rest of her life. I thought she liked having kids, now I think she was just trying to create reinforcements against my dad.

It took me several years of marriage to figure out that it’s not possible for my father to have been completely at fault and my mother an innocent bystander. I see the role I play in my own marriage, how I antagonize, compromise, criticize, complement, annoy, and love just as much as my husband does.

My parents now live completely separate lives. I would say they are separate but equal, though I doubt my mother who is not as financially successful as my father, would agree with the equal part. The equality comes from the freedom they now enjoy to be who they really are. Who they really are has certainly been a little unexpected for me: I never thought I'd have a stepmom with a tatoo or a stepdad who wasn't, um, a man. I never thought my dad would become a pilot or my mom would be a (wait for it...) marriage and family therapist. I certainly never thought I'd get along as well as I do with my dad or be as frustrated as I sometimes am with my mom.

I'm probably a little unexpected for them too. The daughter who insisted upon wearing parachute pants to Catholic school and mini skirts that left little to the imagination has settled down in a traditional wife/mother role in a small New England town. My brothers, sister, and I are spread around the U.S. making getting all of us together something that hasn't happened since my grandma's funeral 4 years ago. Maybe it's easier for them to like us, separated as we all are. I'm sure if asked they would say they love us all equally. In spite of all the unexpected changes, and maybe because of them, I like my parents too, separately, but equally.

I was kidnapped by a tribe of mini-sloths

My family would probably take issue with being called mini-sloths. And, okay, I wasn't actually kidnapped, I believed at the time that I was choosing this life while being of sound mind and body. Right now I am trying to think while being asked constant questions, being told amazing facts, and being given a constant stream of drink orders. But wait, isn't today supposed to be a SCHOOL day?? My dearest daughter was sent home from school today, her prognosis grim: headache, sore throat, stuffy nose, and body aches. Luckily by the time we reached home a miracle had occurred! Suddenly the headache had disappeared. Her throat couldn't have been too sore since she chattered the entire way home, and if her body ached, it didn't ache enough to prevent her from doing "robot" dance moves as she took off her coat and kicked off her shoes.

I am a creature of habit. I like my schedule and I feel comfortable knowing that on Mondays I wash clothes and pay bills. Tuesdays I volunteer at school and grocery shop. Wednesdays I do an extra long workout and run errands. Thursdays I volunteer at school and wash all the bedding. Fridays I do an extra long workout and clean the house. Sounds peaceful doesn't it? That's why sick days, snow days, federal holidays and winter and spring break send me into a complete breakdown. Those long hours without routine, form, or plans make me sweat. I think back longingly to my days as a computer programmer. I knew what to do all day long. I was rarely overwhelmed, disappointed, or bored. I had purpose. I couldn't recite most of the dialogue from Beauty and the Beast.

But then my daughter gets sick at school and I remember all the reasons I continue to stay at home. I stay home not to honor a routine, cook meals, clean a house, or be available for errands. My routine is merely the pause to fill the hours until my real job comes home from school. I like to think I am my own boss, and sometimes I probably am. I'm a Mom and whatever form that takes each day is the job description for the day.

Life in captivity isn't so bad, and besides, I like my mini-sloths.

Seamless underwire shaping for your briefs?

I don't have small breasts. I don't have large breasts. I have probably the most average breasts you can have. Yet shopping for a new bra last week nearly brought me to tears. How could there possibly be this much diversity in size, style, fit, shape, and materials? I remember watching a Seinfeld episode where Mr. Costanza summed the whole thing up as cups in the front, loops in the back. Shouldn't it be that easy??

Bra #1: a party favorite, this bra was soft, feminine, lightly padded (you know how I feel about visible nipples), and reasonably priced. Take it off the hangar and put on the body and bra morphs into itchy lace and falling straps. Bra rejected.

Bra #2: a budget favorite, this bra was basic cotton, no visible seams, lightly padded, and super cheap. Put bra on and see reflection of slightly torpedo shaped sagging breasts and puckering cotton. Bra rejected.

Bra #3: a miracle of engineering this bra promises hidden underwire support, shaping cups and breathable back and sides. Put bra on and try to breathe. Unable to breathe I quickly take bra off. Bra rejected.

Bra #4: a budget buster this bra has seamless cups, no-wire underwire (how can that be??), and comfort straps. Put bra on and notice most of breasts spilling out top of cups. Learn something new: demi-bra = falling out of cups whenever you lean forward. Bra rejected.

Bra #5: old faithful, even down to the aren't-I-too-old-to-be-wearing-this bow in the front, no-nonsense hooks and straps, only availabe in (yawn) white, moderately priced and mass produced. Bra grudgingly accepted because I had to pick up child from school.

I have worn expensive bras from Victoria's Secret and cheap bras from Target. I have purchased special bras to make me feel sexy and industrial strength bras to simply get the job done. I have tried back closures, front closures, sports bras and camisoles. I am not liberated enough (not to mention perky enough) to go bra-less, nor am I ever going to get my boobs "done". I have worn a bra for almost 30 years yet whenever I need a new one the process starts essentially from scratch. I want bra manufacturers to stop messing with their styles. Every time I have found a bra style that I like and that fits me beautifully that company "updates" the line and I have to start the process all over again. My perfect Body by Victoria front close bra: ruined when the Angels line was created. My favorite Bali natural look bra: discontinued in favor of no-wire underwires. The only Champion sports bra I ever found that didn't give me the "wall of boobs" look: updated to have Frankenstein looking seams running through the center of the cups.

A conspiracy? A plot against women? A bit of marketing sleight of hand? Hmmm....all I can say is that I have been able to purchase my husband the EXACT SAME Fruit of the Loom briefs since 1991...

Tag Team Parenting

Yesterday we took our 9 1/2 year old daughter clothes shopping. While I am sure it was not as bad as it will become when she is say, 13, right now it's pretty surprisingly horrible for my husband and I. Ah the good old days when you could pick up any adorable onesie, pair it with any cute leggings and the child was dressed, happy, and content. I remember thinking that I was going through the "hard part" of dressing a child when I had to struggle onesies over my infant's still-too-large-head. I was so naive. Now the hormones have kicked in and the child is rarely happy and content.

All we needed to get were 2 pairs of jeans, 2 sweaters, and 2 long sleeved shirts. Admittedly, that's 6 items but there was a time, even a year ago, when buying 6 items could take 15 minutes, including the checkout! We were in Justice-Just for Girls for an hour, followed by a crying jag in the restaurant that lasted 10 minutes, followed by another trip to Justice (just me and my drama queen this time) that lasted another 1/2 hour.

Frequently I wonder how Steve and I will navigate the landmines of parenting our daughter: our styles are completely different, our methods generally at odds, and even our goals sometimes make it appear that we're on different teams. Yesterday, though, I figured out why we will make it through, mostly unscathed. We tag team parent. We're not the kind of parents as presented on the Cosby Show or Disney channel who appear together in the child's doorway, arms around each other's waists as they lovingly but firmly lay down the law as a unified team. We are not able to finish each other's sentences or nod along supportively as the other parent presents the thoroughly discussed-agreed-upon-and-sanctioned-discipline for the child. We actually parent best if we don't know what the other person is saying, doing, or God-forbid, caving on. We have only 1 thing in common with our parenting, but it apparently is the most important thing for us: we like each other.

My own parents were not able to jointly parent me or my 3 siblings. I don't know how much my parents loved each other but I know they never liked each other. I didn't realize how important liking your spouse was to parenting until after our daughter was born. Especially in the moment when you're not sure how much you like your much-loved child.

I can't imagine being a single parent. I need to be able to tag-off when I am fed up, irritated, irrational, tired, disinterested, bored, busy, or distracted. I need to be able to walk away for a minute, knowing that a pinch hitter will step in to save the inning. I don't know how I'll know who wins this game, but I sure am glad I'm playing on a team.

Where Are They Now...?

I would like to have my own personal 'where are they now?' files. I always enjoy seeing faded pop stars and actors from the 70s, 80s and 90s profiled. I like hearing what they're doing now, how their careers ended, if they have gone on to live normal lives, or if they are still trying to wring out that last drop of fame in embarrassing ways: appearing on 4th rate talk shows, at community colleges, county fairs, zoos, or the worst of the worst...birthday parties.

I want some of the people who were once prominent in my life to be profiled. I would enjoy watching what has become of their lives so far from the privacy of my living room. I could TiVO the episodes and fast forward through the lesser characters, replay 3 seconds again and again of a particularly funny moment, and delete entirely people who I thought I wanted to see again but in actuality, not so much.

I would definitely choose my 4th grade teacher Ms. Toby. Ms. Toby terrorized me for an entire year with her militant attitude, sharp tongue, and aggressive red lipstick. I would like to see if she got married (or found a partner, she had VERY aggressive lipstick), had a child, softened, lightened up. Or perhaps she is still a teacher, out there threatening other insecure, ugly-duckling 9 year olds who are too cowed to speak up for themselves and whose parents are too oblivious to speak up for their child.

A whole episode could be devoted to my former-best-friend-and-maid-of-honor-at-my-wedding Cathy. Cathy and I became friends in our sophomore year in high school because of our mutual love of books and disappointment with the popular crowd. We remained best friends for 15 years, a friendship that I thought would last forever, could withstand anything, but ultimately couldn't withstand my preoccupation with my new baby and (I think) her jealousy that she wasn't even married, let alone a mother. I frequently miss Cathy and think of things I would say to her if I could. I wonder if she's okay. I worry that with all the women our age dealing with breast cancer, divorce, unemployment that maybe something has happened to her, and could I have helped if I had just reached out to her. It's been 9 years since I've spoken with Cath and I never even really got to say goodbye.

Old boyfriends would be of passing interest, probably fast-forwarded through once I saw how they had aged or who they married. Old bosses, friends, neighbors, and even distant relatives could all be lumped into 3 minute segments with brief interviews, a few then-and-now photos, and a quick summary of the last 30 years or so.

Mostly I want to make sure everyone is okay. I don't want to get even, gloat, mourn, or rejoice I really just want to know that they are still out there. I don't want to rekindle any friendships or romances, re-fight any battles, relive any glory days, or prove anybody wrong. I like my life and I hope everyone with whom I have shared space on the planet likes their lives too.

But because I'm nosy, I just want to know...!

Anniversaries

I am coming up on an anniversary soon. Not my wedding anniversary, or anything else that would be celebrated with a card, a gift, a public recognition. This is an anniversary that I am probably the only one who will remember. It is a day that changed the trajectory of my life and continues to make an impact upon me, yet no one, even my husband who was there, who felt the world sway beneath him, remembers this day unless reminded.

I cannot remember the date of my high school graduation. Or my college.

I cannot remember the exact date my husband proposed to me. I know it was Sweetest Day, but since the date for that Hallmark Holiday changes each year, the exact date has been lost to me

I cannot remember the exact date I found out that I was pregnant. I remember taking the test. I remember calling my husband at work. I remember coming home from work and my husband saying “Welcome home, both of you!” I remember it was in July.

I cannot remember the date of my first day of my first job or even my last job.

I can’t even give an approximation of the date, let alone the month, that I lost my virginity.

But I do know the date when I started my period, closed on my dream house, my husband lost his job, my husband found a new job, my parents’ divorce became final, my sister left my house in a rage and hasn’t really spoken with me since. I remember my daughter’s due date, and then the amended due date. I remember the date of my first baby shower. I remember the day I thought my life was ending and I remember the day I realized I would survive.

Anniversaries are funny because they are so subjective. When is your anniversary? someone may ask, and of course we give them the date of our wedding.

What we really should say is “which one?”

The Things I do for Love

Today I spent the entire day traipsing through poison ivy, swatting at bees, casting a wary eye at the threatening rain clouds, picking “stickers” off my jeans, trying not to breathe the “eau du manure” too deeply, eating a soggy sandwich and drinking warm water, and pasting a permanent, if strained, smile on my face through endless lectures. It was field trip day at my daughter’s school and I was a volunteer.

For the record, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world. I love my daughter and I know that she needed extra support today during this field trip. The one friend she has made in Massachusetts happens to be on vacation this week and my daughter was feeling nervous: who will sit with me on the bus? Who will eat lunch with me? Who will be my partner if we pair up? Who will be my friend today? I also know that I have limited time left for my daughter to be open enough with me, vulnerable enough to actually ask for my help, want my presence, and hold my hand as we hike through mud, horse manure, and leaves.

I am grateful that I was on the field trip today. I got to see my daughter cope with navigating tricky nine-year-old friendships, especially when the teacher did tell the kids to choose a partner and there was an uneven number of girls. I got to sit with her at lunch when she otherwise may have sat alone. I got to hear other girls clamor for her to sit next to them on the bus. I got to see her face light up and the forlorn, lost look be replaced with hopefulness, happiness, and relief. It’s one thing for me to feel lonely, it’s an entirely different thing to see that loneliness reflected in my child. I learned a lot on this field trip, most of it having nothing to do with the life cycle of dairy cows. I learned that my child is resilient. She is human. She is more aware of the social pecking order than I had previously thought. She is more popular than she realizes. She is kind. She is smart. She has a big heart and all she really wants is to have friends to sit with, friends to eat with, a few friends she can count on to choose her when it’s time to pair up.

Wow, she really is her mother’s child…

Stray Peeves

My little irritations never stay with me long enough to be considered “pets” but I do have a few things that bug me enough to deserve mention. In no particular order they are…

Advertising flyers. I don’t know if this form of direct marketing actually works, but I do know that those little bits of neon colored paper that are tucked beneath windshield wipers, tacked on mailboxes and rolled up and stuck in door handles are completely annoying. In addition to being unsolicited, they are constantly seen blowing around the streets on windy days and disintegrating into soggy trash on wet ones. When found tacked to utility poles they seem to rarely be reclaimed by their owners after the event is over or the business has failed. It’s legal littering.

Facial hair on women. Look, I realize that this kind of stuff can creep up on us; if left on its own, my face would soon rival that of a ZZ Top band member; so don’t forget to wax. Let’s face it: caterpillar eyebrows, mustaches, chin hair, and full side burns are distracting on men and downright horrifying on women. I recently met a woman who would be absolutely adorable were it not for eyebrows that begin at her hairline, meet in the middle, and can be swept back with the rest of her bangs. Wax on, wax off.

Scraggly nails. Another grooming habit I know, but again, this is distracting and gives the appearance of messiness, even when the individual is well groomed in every other area. I don’t personally get my nails done professionally at salons and I am not advocating that others do so. Clean, shaped nails with healthy cuticles, that’s all you need. This goes for children too as it can be appalling to hold hands with a child who has a week’s worth of dirt, food, markers, and unidentifiable stickiness on their hands.

Visible nipples. Having nursed a child for a longer-than-socially-acceptable amount of time, I am well aware of nipples that seem permanently erect and obtrusive. I don’t need to see other women’s nipples. This is the reason for the invention of the padded bra. If you look in the mirror and your chest looks like a relief map, get a new bra. Layering clothing, oversized shirts, slumped shoulders, and crossed arms are not good alternatives. Get a padded bra.

Muffin tops. As a product of the 70s and 80s when thin was in, I am appalled at how much gut many women are comfortable showing. Anything that spills over the top of your waistband should be considered contraband and subject to coverage, not display. It’s simply too nasty for words.

Men with long nails. Perhaps because the one man I knew as a child who had long nails turned out to be molesting his daughters, or because of the good job the movie Silence of the Lambs did in creeping me out, I always feel a little grossed out when I see a man with long nails. I would rather see the too-short-bitten-to-the-quick-painful-looking-nails on a man than long ones. Just a personal peeve.

Decorations inspired by Alvin and The Chimpmunks

As I begin to dream about what my next house will look like, I can't help but return again and again to the homes that have inspired me. I get most of my inspiration from my daughter's movie collection: I want to live in one of the homes depicted on the Silver Screen. I love the cottage look in Alvin and The Chipmunks. I feel warm with the arts and crafts look of Garfield's house. I would be the perfect mom if I could only live in the house in Air Bud. I want the curb appeal of the house depicted in Father of the Bride. I would whip up gourmet meals if only my kitchen was the same as the one in Freaky Friday. I want my little girl to grow up in the idyllic setting of a winery like the one in the remake of the Parent Trap. My husband Steve reminds me again and again that set dressers get paid a lot of money to evoke just this kind of reaction. That immediate identification with a room that makes it scream "HOME!" I have this same reaction with each new issue of the Pottery Barn catalog. That sense of longing, of knowing that if I just could layer my bed linens like that, bask in the natural light of 10 foot high windows, read with those gorgeous built-ins behind me as I luxuriate on my chenille couch, that somehow I would be ...more. More beautiful. More healthy. More intelligent. More creative. My social life would be full, my marriage blissful, my parenting beyond I reproach, my friendships deep, lasting, and fulfilling.

I get all this just from watching Alvin and the Chimpmunks.

I know it all sounds shallow but there are much deeper currents running beneath the surface want. People do feel more comfortable in houses and/rooms that have been carefully pulled together with warm colors, deep, comfortable couches and chairs, different layers and textures and interesting things at which to look and discuss. People do tend to entertain more if they have the room and the room is beautifully furnished. The Chinese call this the art of Feng Shui and have practiced it for thousands of years to bring health and prosperity to their homes and businesses. Though I don't suppose it's all about the furnishings.

I tend to remember wonderful events in my life based upon how the room around me felt. One of my favorite places to be at Christmastime is my friend Debbie's house. Debbie has an annual Christmas Cookie Exchange and sitting in her family room, the week or so before Christmas, with all her Christmas finery, the candles, the table laden with holiday cookies, the friends, the way the wine sparkles in the candlelight... I absolutely adore it. My greatest regret about moving to Massachusetts thus far is that I am pretty sure I will miss Debbie's cookie exchange.

My favorite memories growing up all took place at my grandparents' house. Filled with family, sunshine, food, laughter, and holiday decorations (no matter what the holiday) my grandparents' house was magical. I loved the all-blue Christmas tree my grandma put up in the family room. I was captivated as a child by the white, fiber optic table top tree she always put in the living room. I loved the smell of her cloth napkins when I put them to my face. I loved the feeling of being grown up I had when I was asked if I would like wine. Only at Grandma's would there be special little cut glass bowls for pickles, olives, and cheeses. Toothpicks with fancy tassles at the top. A box of gourmet chocolates to end the evening.

We frequently spend Thanksgiving with my friend Chellie. Now Thanksgiving is linked to Chellie's house. The smell of her kitchen, the way the light comes through her two-story windows in her great room. The special cookies she makes that I have tried to make again and again but that never taste quite the same. The feel of the cushy mattress we sleep on. No matter how many other times we visit Chellie, when I think of her house I think of Thanksgiving.

I want people to feel that way about my house. I want to evoke for my child that instant sensation of HOME whenever she smells a certain scent, sees the flicker of a candle, or hears a certain song. I want my husband to always want to come home not just because of me, but because of the way home feels. I want my friends to sink into my couches and chairs, relax with a cool or warm drink and feel completely safe, accepted, loved, even a little pampered.

Do I need a Hollywood set designer? Do I need professional help, a big budget, a complete home remodel? I don't know. For now all I know is that I really like Alvin and the Chimpmunks and I really miss my grandparents, Chellie, and Debbie.

I miss home.

I crawled through pee for you, you little ingrate!

Yesterday I was driving my daughter and a friend home from school. As the driver of the vehicle I was completely anonymous, invisible, and not worth worrying about so the girls were talking as if they were alone. My daughter was lamenting to her friend how her mother "never plays with me" and "Bethany's mom and dad are so cool because they always play with their kids!" The girls were in agreement that I was useless and cruel, meanwhile I was flashing back to my worst moment in my playful parenting history: the day I crawled through pee.

I had taken my then-4-yr-old daughter to the Museum Center in Cincinnati, Ohio. She wanted to play in an area of the Children's Museum where there are numerous tubes and walkways to climb through and explore, and a very narrow maze of levels that the kids can use to exit the play area. My daughter was too young to go up in the tunnels on her own without getting lost and scared. My husband was too big to fit through many of the child-sized tunnels. I was elected. Now at the time I didn't know that I was mildly claustrophobic, I hadn't had any experience with mazes and tunnels, as I am a product of the 70s when such things didn't exist. I was okay on all the main stairs, large rope tunnels, and even the tinier crawling spaces were fine.

Then we came to the narrow step maze. My daughter went down first and so I was committed: I had to follow her down. I slithered my body down one level and then another. Locked in an 'S' shape I found myself having a difficult time moving down to the third level. I couldn't go down, I couldn't go up. I was stuck. I wriggled and pulled and tugged myself forward and came face to face with a crying child of about 6 who apparently had no doubts as to his claustrophobic state. We eventually manage to pass each other, mostly because I allow the child to step on my hands, stick his butt in my face and use me as the step to the next level. I reach my hand down to pull myself downward again ... and I feel it. A puddle. My hand has landed in a puddle and I know with every fiber of my being that the puddle isn't water. Well, not pure water, that is. I have put my hand in pee and now I am forced to drag my entire body through the pee in order to exit the maze.

I finally exit: shaken, disheveled, and wet. My daughter and husband are waiting impatiently for me at the bottom, acting as if I am deliberately drawing out this experience just to keep them from moving on to the next fun spot. Of course no one is ready to go home. Of course while I have 2 complete changes of clothes in the car for my daughter I have nothing for myself. Of course sympathy has never been Steve's strong point and he laughs at me until he grows bored with my complaining and then tells me to "let it go." Of course I never even thought twice about going back to that torture chamber because OF COURSE that maze became my daughter's favorite place in the entire museum. Of course. I'm a mom. This is what I do. And my daughter's a child. Lack of appreciation. That's what she does.

But just so we're all clear: I crawled through pee for that little ingrate.

I love books

I love books. In fact, since I was in the 6th grade most of my best friends have been made because of a mutual love of books. Books have literally changed my life. I completely changed the way I was thinking about my body after reading Louise Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life. I completely changed the way I eat after reading Fit for Life by Harvey Diamond. I changed my relationship with money and the way I felt about politics after reading Capitalism and Freedom by Milton Friedman. I changed the way I parented after reading Playful Parenting and how I taught my daughter about the world after reading Protecting the Gift by Gavin DeBecker. I decorate totally differently since I discovered books on Feng Shui, and I haven’t really felt good about a cheeseburger since I read Fast Food Nation. Mostly though, I love fiction, chic lit, smut, historical fiction, mysteries, and the occasional sci fi just to keep things interesting.

I love reading books, I love discussing books. I love browsing for books in libraries, book stores, garage sales, and newsstands. I love the anticipation of having a new book to read and the satisfied/disappointed feeling I have when I have finished a good book. I married a man who also loves books and am raising a child who is an avid reader. Sometimes when I am not sure that my parenting is really going all that well I remind myself that my child loves to read and is good at reading and therefore can rule the world if she wishes to do so.

I think life is easier for those of us who love to read. We are rarely bored, our hobby can be free (though I admit that just seeing a Barnes&Noble on the horizon makes me feel giddy…), we tend to have better vocabularies, be better spellers, have broader senses of experience even if we haven’t travelled much, and be more interesting in conversation. There are always new books being written so we can never run out of material, and our hobby is helpful and applicable in everyday life.

I love books. Last year for Christmas I bought my husband a Sony e-Reader. He loves it. He loves how small and compact it is. He loves getting a new book quickly simply by downloading it from the internet. He loves the technology. I have read a few novels on the e-Reader, but for me, it’s just not the same. I am a touchy-feely kind of girl, I guess, because I want to hold the book, turn the pages, flip back to re-read something, or flip forward to “cheat” on what happens next. I want to meet new people because they see the title of what I’m reading and want to discuss it. I want the anticipation of opening the book and I like the finality of closing it when I’m finished.

My friend Debbie drives a lot for her job, so she also likes audio books, something I am quickly learning to love myself. I feel like I can workout for hours while listening to an audio book. I have cleaned my house, painted many rooms, and folded endless loads of laundry while listening to audio books. I even find myself sometimes envying Deb her time alone in the car with her audio books. I imagine her all snug and comfy, driving along, sipping a coffee, alone in her own little world while listening to a great book.

I sometimes dream of writing a book. I don’t think I am committed enough to the idea now to really stick to it, but maybe someday. For now I’ll stick to my little blog, hopefully providing reading enjoyment for somebody else who shares my love.

I was a Stepford Friend

Recently my friend Debbie told me that I have the unique opportunity, now that I am new kid in Massachusetts, to reinvent myself if I so desire. I am actually pretty happy with myself right now, but that's really only because I reinvented myself when I moved from Cincinnati to Toledo.

When I lived in Cincinnati I was a Stepford friend.

I lived in a suburb of Cincinnati called Mason. Mason was a once-little-farm-town-now-growing-t0-massive-proportions that was just coming into its own. Or leaving behind its true self, however you choose to look at it. In my neighborhood in Mason one-upmanship was the name of the game. All the houses were new and middle class affluent. All the families were growing, careers were growing, and debt was growing as everyone tried to outspend everyone else to show our worthiness. It was understood that your house was to be furnished from Pottery Barn, your kitchen outfitted by Williams-Sonoma, and your car to be no more than 2 years old. It was bad parenting to allow your child out in the winter in anything less than LLBean and summer swimwear could only come from Lands End. I knew I was expected to attend holiday parties with my daughter in adorable mommy-and-me combos from Hanna Andersen. Vacations were taken for a week at Disney World and weekend getaways without the kids were the norm. Purses from Coach, jewelry parties from Silpata, hors d'oerves courtesy of Tastefully Simple, (prepared using your specialty Pampered Chef tools of course), children's bedding from Land of Nod, adult bedding from Pottery Barn, holiday dishes from Crate&Barrel: the list of things you had to own in order to be acceptable went on and on.

The women also had strict standards to meet. You had to workout, highlight your hair, be tan but not go tanning (?), wear gorgeous outfits from Ann Taylor and Talbots to all the parties, be in the neighborhood book club, play Mah-Jongg, be active in the neighborhood women's charity club, decorate your child's bike for the annual neighborhood 4th of July parade, bake exotic appetizers and desserts for supper club, adore jewelry, drink, know all things pop culture, drink: the list of what you had to BE to be acceptable went on and on.

I bought into it all, literally BOUGHT it all.

Then my husband was laid off. Suddenly my world was upside down. Steve couldn't find another job in Cincinnati because Procter and Gamble had just dumped 1000 IT jobs on the market a few months earlier when they outsourced their IT department. After searching for months he found a job in Toledo. We had to move. Moving meant leaving behind the house, the friends, my daughter's school. I was devastated and turned to my neighborhood friends for support. What neighborhood friends? They were all gone. I was persona non grata. I moved on a dreary March day and not one person was there to wish me well as the moving van pulled out. My phone calls, emails, and Christmas cards went unanswered.

For years my feelings were hurt. I was confused. I wanted to know, what happened? Why did all my friends abandon me? Steve got another job, he even ended up getting a raise! He still drove the requisite BMW and I still carried the Coach purse. Why wasn't I good enough anymore? Then one day it dawned on me: I was a Stepford friend. I didn't really have any friends once I broke out of the mold. I didn't want to break out, I certainly never planned on breaking out, but once I couldn't be counted on for lighthearted, problem-free entertainment, I was no longer useful to the group.

I am so grateful I am not in that neighborhood living up to those standards anymore. I am so grateful that I don't have to BE that person anymore. I live in Massachusetts now, not in Stepford.

Trick or ...Carrot Stick?

I've been buying a lot of candy lately because it's almost Halloween. Buying candy for me is like an alcoholic buying drinks...it's only a matter of time before I'm going to eat some of it. I'm not going to want to, I'm going to try my hardest not to, I'm going to regret it even before I do it, and still, I am most likely going to eat some of that candy.

I'm addicted to sugar.

A sugar addiction is socially acceptable, not usually seen as an addiction, and just as dangerous and deadly as any other addiction. But oh my God it tastes so good! I have always had a sweet tooth. Until about 4 years ago I thought that handling problems by eating chocolate was not only a good idea, but also fairly healthy. I am not one of those women who will demure coyly saying "oh, that's too rich for me!" I have never, and I mean never turned down something for being "too rich." I have quit sugar many times: gone cold turkey, weaned myself off sugar, substituted natural, unrefined sugars, tried just eating fruit, every trick in the book has been attempted. I always go back to sugar. Sugar is insidious! It's in everything from bread to barbecue sauce!

I can directly relate my sugar intake to my mood: feeling bad? eat a lot of sugar, feeling good? eat a lot of sugar, not sure how I feel? hey, here's something to do, let's eat some sugar! Moving to Massachusetts hasn't helped at all because Dunkin' Donuts is everywhere in this state. There is actually a Dunkin' Donuts across from a Dunkin' Donuts just down the road from my house. People here say there are so many Dunkin' Donuts stores because the coffee is so good. I don't drink coffee (one addiction being enough, thank you) so if you see me at the Dunkin' you can be sure I'm going for a Munchkin fix.

So now for the most sugar filled holiday of all: Halloween. My daughter is too old to fall for the "just checking your candy" ruse, and too wise to believe me when I say I just want one little miniature Snickers bar. I have, though I'm not proud to admit it, been reduced to sneaking candy out of her bag after she goes to bed, lying to her about the number of candy bars she had, eating so much of her candy that to hide my indiscretion I tell her I "donated" it, and forced myself to go to bed when she does to avoid eating at night. All for sugar.

My next hurdle is to somehow not pass this addiction on to the next generation. I feel I am failing already as my daughter will do almost anything to get dessert, a trip for ice cream, or bubble gum. Restaurants that give candy with the bill are among her favorites. She considers chocolate a food group. She gets cranky if denied sugar and even sometimes appears to get a headache if she hasn't had sugar in a while.

She is her mother's child.

But all is not lost. I once successfully had no sugar at all for 6 months and wouldn't have broken that streak except I was too embarrassed to refuse dessert when it was offered by a woman who intimidated me. I have days, weeks, sometimes even months where I am able to make better food choices and feel great. I have not purchased sugar foods for our home in months, thus only consuming the occasional dessert when we go out for dinner.

But it's Halloween again, and the Trick is avoiding the Treat...

Biteable Butt

There have been many things that have been surprising to me since moving to Massachusetts. One of the more pleasant surprises has been seeing the police officers…everywhere! They are directing traffic, they are present at every construction site keeping the workers safe and traffic moving, they are driving around, setting speed traps, and patrolling the streets on foot. More surprising than actually seeing police, is seeing how fit these guys are. I do have firsthand knowledge, however, that the cuteness does not necessarily extend to the personality…Yesterday I am driving home which means going completely vertical as I attempt to haul my oversized SUV’s ass up the hill. A dump truck is stopped on the right side of the street. A utility truck is stopped on the left side of the street. The bright orange diamond proclaims “Utility work ahead” A cute cop stands in the middle of the road wearing his bright orange rain slicker and a foul expression on his cute young face. I wait for a moment behind the dump truck, realize it’s not going anywhere and slowly begin to pull around the truck toward my driveway. I can see the cop’s mouth moving and his grim expression looking even more grim even as it appears he is waving me forward, but a really good Tears for Fears song (Shout) is on and I don’t want to roll down my window and 1. get wet 2. miss any of the song. Finally the hand signals are unmistakeable and I realize he wants me to stop. I open the window and get a close up view of this 25-30 yr old hottie as he yells at me that he wasn’t gesturing for me to go but for the dump truck to go and would I mind waiting my turn? As he angrily turns around his rain slicker flies out and I get to see that while he IS an ass, he also has a good ass and I find myself wondering what he would do if I got out and bit his butt. Would I get arrested? Is cop butt-biting considered an assault or a come-on? I meekly pulled into my driveway while he glared and I laughed. I now sit warm and dry in my home while he stands outside, dripping, glaring, and frankly, unbitten. No mouthful of soggy polyester for me, he’s too much of an ass.

House and Home

I love houses. I love looking at houses. I love decorating houses. I love seeing other people’s houses and learning how they decorate, how they live. I identify myself with my house. I can clearly see when I am organized and when my life is in chaos just by looking at the condition of my house. Ten years ago my husband, Steve, and I moved into a newly built house in Cincinnati, Ohio. This house was my dream home: flooded with natural light and vaulted ceilings, I loved everything about that house. I enjoyed driving up to my house and just seeing the way it sat on its lot, placed “just so” at the curve of the cul-de-sac. When I lived in Cincinnati I was in the best shape of my life. I adhered to a strict vegan diet, exercised daily AND ENJOYED IT, dressed in adorable little sporty outfits, and had tons of energy. When Steve was laid off in Cincinnati and we had to move to Toledo I really mourned the loss of that house far more than I mourned moving away from my friends and my neighborhood. The house we bought in Toledo had a very similar floor plan, but lacked the high ceilings and natural light. It felt dark, heavy, and depressed. I gained weight, had a major surgery, ate…whatever…didn’t replace the sporty cute outfits of which I gained to much weight to fit into with anything resembling sporty or cute. I stopped highlighting my hair and wearing makeup. Essentially I was dark, heavy, and depressed. I found solace in my house. I painted every room in that house and especially the dark, shabby wood trim that surrounded every window, wall, and door. Steve and I took off the heavy, dated window treatments and opted for light, airy curtains hung just below the ceiling. We removed bulkheads and raised ceilings. As the house began to lighten up, so did I. I found myself interested in working out again. I began to wear makeup again and get my hair highlighted. I began buying new clothes that weren’t baggy and shapeless. As each room lightened my spirit lightened and I felt energetic, enthusiastic, optimistic and alive. By the time we moved from that Toledo house last month to the home we’re renting in Massachusetts, I loved that Toledo house just as much as I loved the house in Cincinnati.

Now I’m on a break from houses. Living in a rental, I feel displaced, uncertain, a little lost. I frequently wander through the rooms of this house re-decorating them in my mind and imagining how I could lighten, brighten, modernize, and energize this home. I know it won’t happen, this isn’t my house to change, but just thinking about what I would do if I could helps to connect me to myself. I am excited to buy a house next year, I have even picked out several homes here that I hope will go on the market when I’m ready to buy, but more than physically owning a home, I’m excited to get back to the things I love: sanding, priming, painting, tearing down wallpaper, tearing out, fixing up, and, eventually, moving on.

Life's Embarrassing Moments

Yesterday a very dear friend of mine suffered a very public, very embarrassing moment. As this little guy is only 9 years old, I am able to provide the perspective that with all the opportunities for embarrassment provided by girls, friends, co-workers, bosses, condoms, and the IRS, this moment may not even make it to his Top 10 list by the time he is my age. However, his predicament did get me thinking about my own “most” embarrassing moments. There are so many to choose from that I can’t really qualify one as the number one moment in my life, but merely as the number one moment during that time of my life. There was the time that I was so deliberately vague when asking a boy to my junior high Sadie Hawkins dance that he got the impression that I wanted to have sex with him, an impression which he shared with the rest of my 8th grade class. There was the time that my irritable bowel syndrome produced a bout of the wicked twisties so violent I was forced to ask my co-workers with whom I was carpooling to pull over at an underpass so I could “evacuate.” That particular bout left me so ill and weak that I wasn’t even properly embarrassed until the next day. Then of course there was the time that my new husband and I were engaging in a very intimate moment and my body chose to make its gaseous emissions. And those are just the biggies from each decade! Add to those all the little times of having my name forgotten by someone, or being wrong and too dumb to admit it before I looked a fool, or wearing all the wrong clothes…the list goes on and on. I feel confident in saying that I will have more embarrassing moments to add to this list, maybe even by the end of the day. I feel bad for my friend, Jack, but not too bad, because someday I think he will laugh at this and after all, laughter is the best medicine!

The Invisible Woman

We moved last month from Ohio to Massachusetts. In addition to all the other changes of moving: changing my billing address at 25 different places, changing my email address at another 125 different places, changing cell phone numbers, changing grocery stores, pediatricians, dentists, hair stylists, gynecologists, and dry cleaners, there has been one other significant change I have yet to make.

I have to change friends.

Now of course I’ll keep in touch with all my friends from Cincinnati and Toledo that I have made so far, but I mean the casual friends. I have no friends in Massachusetts, casual or otherwise. My 9 yr old daughter remedied her friendless state by the third week of school by simply asking another little girl “do you want to be friends?” The little girl said yes and they are, as I write, upstairs playing happily together. It’s not quite so easy for adults. As an “unknown” at my daughter’s school I spend a lot of time on the outside looking in. I am at the edge of the group at pickup time, listening in, smiling, trying to look friendly, casual, open, but not lonely. Trying to look like I’m part of the group without actually BEING included in the group. I get to listen to a lot that way. Because of my “unknown” status I am actually quite benign and therefore gossip is not whispered around me, voices are not lowered, backs are not turned, and eyes are not averted. You see, right now, I don’t really exist at band practice, art club, or pick up from school. This status is both unnerving and exhilarating. I get the benefit of seeing how people behave when they don’t realize they’re being watched but I suffer the anonymity of not really being seen. I know I won’t have this status forever. My cloak of invisibility will be fading soon as I get more involved at my daughter’s school, work at recess, volunteer during Book Fair and “prove” myself worthy of being known. I am lonely a lot, so I look forward to the time when the pack accepts me, sniffs me out as one of their own, if you will. But I know someday, not next week or even next month, but in a couple of months when I am running with the pack and therefore subject to ridicule by the pack, I’ll miss this time of being the Invisible Woman.

Too Much Stuff

I have too much stuff. I never thought I had too much stuff, but the last move from Ohio to Massachusetts has confirmed it: I have too much stuff. I am not even sure where most of the stuff came from because I can still quite clearly remember moving into my first apartment and having…nothing! I remember linen closets with 2 towels and 2 wash cloths, one set of sheets and nothing else! Medicine cabinets with a tube of toothpaste, some Motrin, and nothing else. Kitchen cabinets with a pot, a skillet, a pizza cutter, and NOTHING ELSE! How did I go from nothing to too much? I have always considered myself fairly clutter free. I give volumes of “stuff” away each year to Goodwill, the Salvation Army, Coats for Kids, and various friends whose kids’ sizes coordinate with my own kid’s size. I am not a pack rat. I am not a thrift store, garage sale, or flea market junkie. Yet here I sit, crowded in at my desk surrounded by stuff: an Empire Today Carpet bobble head, a half-finished Perler beads project, a tin holding change, a pinwheel, a digital camera with cord, 2 baskets filled with papers that could/should be filed, shredded, or recycled, a popsicle stick (we haven’t had popsicles for at least 3 months!), a cell phone, a book on origami, some crayons, tape, hand cream, a box of tissues, some ribbon, a clipboard, some unidentifiable cords without which none of our electronics will work, an umbrella cover, a head band, a Hershey Kiss wrapper, some stickers, a pack of gum, an empty baggie, scissors, a glue stick, some receipts, a pencil sharpener, and a hairbrush.

Where did it all come from? Recently I have been thinking a lot about money (paying a mortgage and rent will do that to you), and I was feeling pretty good about how lean we have been living. Now I look around me as I fight for space for my laptop on the desk, and I realize that I don’t know what lean is. I haven’t lived “lean” for many years. I could make a resolution to return all of these items to their rightful owners/places but I’m a realist: I don’t live alone therefore I don’t have complete clutter control. Of course blaming others for my “stuff” problem isn’t really the answer either, but what is the answer? Do I shop less? Purchase only what is absolutely necessary for life and nothing else? What about the stuff that just seems to happen: I am quite sure I never purchased an Empire Today Carpet bobble head! Does anyone at Goodwill really want that? Can I sell it on eBay? Feed it to a landfill? Send it back to the company and tell them thank you, but I already have enough stuff and would they please keep their stuff to themselves?

I resolve to have less stuff. I don’t know exactly how I’m going to lessen the stuff I already have, but I can (somewhat) control acquiring new stuff. I aim for a warm, comfortable, happy, and healthy home with JUST ENOUGH stuff, but not TOO much.