About Me

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I blog. I also mother, wife, create, preserve, recycle, cook, act, quilt, exercise, laugh, write, lolligag, work, volunteer, sing, and sometimes sleep.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Ok...Cupid.

A few years ago, to prove a point to a single friend of mine, I went onto OkCupid and created a profile so that I could search the options available.  I used a junk email account, put in the bare minimum of information and promptly forgot it even existed.  A while later, I got asked by a friend to check out his profile and give my opinion, at which point I remembered I had an account...from there I started periodically helping friends edit content, suggesting picture changes, etc.  Michael tried to get me to perform a few social experiments, but I used a variation on my actual name as my screen name, so I was reticent to do that.  

It's been really interesting.  I've actually met a few people there who seem nice enough, some who don't believe the "I'm married" line (or who hope it doesn't matter) and a couple who wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell on their best day.  I eventually put a picture up because I had gotten chatty with one man who told me a LOT of personal information (M said I was his free therapist), and one day, at his insistence, I showed him my picture.  I never heard from him again.  I'm pretty sure I'm not *that* hideous, so my theory is that he somehow knows me in real life and panicked that I all of a sudden had a whole bunch of information he wouldn't want someone he knows to have.  I figured, since I wasn't trying to hide my presence (unlike the other married folks on OkC, who you can pick out by the fact that they don't have identifiable profile pics), that a picture would be fine...so I put up a non-suggestive, but recognizable shot.  That way, I wouldn't hear any more secrets unless someone wanted to tell me.  

WELL.  The messages started coming in like crazy.  Pictureless, I got very little attention.  With a picture, despite the clarity in my profile, the messages came.  Most people tentatively checking in to see if married meant I wasn't actually looking...then one day a young man asked how much I charged for editing services (I mention in my profile, in the "you should message me if" section, that "you should message me if you want me to edit your profile.)...I had no idea how to respond, so I asked if he was looking for grammar/spelling or content editing.  He responded "Content.  I need someone to take a good, long, hard look at my...content."  Aha.  Okay.  I told him I didn't provide the sort of services he was looking for and we both moved on.  

But today, it finally happened!  A "gentleman" wrote me, seemingly simple, just a "good morning, how are you..." and when I responded...well.  That's when the fun started.  





Monday, September 8, 2014

Silver

When I was 13, I challenged myself to stop being judgmental.  It stemmed from a challenge posed to me to strengthen a relationship with my beliefs.  Fresh out of a horrible Catholic school experience, I wasn't ready for that challenge to be religious, despite the spiritual focus intended.  My mentor through the process was patient and kind and suggested I challenge myself to figure out WHAT I believe in and to come up with a challenge that would help support that.

Sitting on a red rock formation in the desert at dusk, watching my friends prepping their camping equipment and settling in for the evening, I was asked "What DO you believe in?".  I remember pondering that question.  I remember jokingly answering "pre-marital sex!" (I was years away from it, but not that far away from being a smart ass.)  And then, while watching the antics of a person who has stalwartly stayed one of my closest lifelong friends, but had a tendency then (and sometimes now) toward the annoying...I said, quite simply...I believe in the goodness of people.

I continued (although without the gravitasse of Kevin Costner's BULL DURHAM speech or even a Chuck Lorre vanity card) to explain.  My recollection of what 13 year old me is strengthened by the fact that I was a writer, even then...and my journal explained it quite clearly.  Too lazy to find it and recount it verbatim right now, I hope you'll trust my paraphrasing... I decided that while I believed that all people were INHERENTLY good, their actions didn't always add up...but that I needed to force myself to stand by my beliefs.  To recognize that a person acting in an annoying or mean fashion may be doing it because of any number of reasons.  It could be because of their upbringing, fear, insecurities...any number of reasons over which they did not have control. And while every human can control their ACTIONS, that I needed to realize that no one was perfect and not judge them.  The 13 year old who had been judged since the 3rd grade for her weight, her unruly hair, her dramatic flair, her Jewish background, her Latina heritage, her general lack of cool points, her economic level, and her parents' divorce decided while sitting on that rock that she wanted to believe that people were good and her challenge was to NOT judge them when they acted in ways that were annoying, mean, or "bad".  Instead, to have patience and not "talk behind their back" and to hope that they would be able to learn the errors of their ways and find their way back to good.

Grownup me has trouble with this sometimes.  First off, certainly, in the wake of such serious current events like the uprising in Ferguson, or the domestic violence issues in the NFL, it's hard for grownup me to think anything but anger and frustration towards the people responsible.  13 year old me may have not been thinking about criminal activities, exactly, so it's possible her theories aren't foolproof.  But this morning, I found myself getting all worked up about a person's status update on Facebook.  A status so judgmental and self serving it made me want to punch something.  Or someone.  And then, as I do, I felt 13 year old me wearing the silver piece of cloth, symbolic of my challenge, tapping me on the shoulder and reminding me that anger and annoyance and frustration would not benefit me. 13 year old me reminding me that this person lives their life in fear.  That their status isn't INTENDING to hurt anyone.  And so, as she often does, grownup me calmed down and stopped judging and moved on.  Well, first I blogged.  But now I'm moving on.

Monday, September 1, 2014

Enough with the Blessed, Already

Stop saying you feel "blessed". You're not blessed. You can feel fortunate, lucky, humble, grateful, appreciative, thankful… But stop feeling so "blessed". You were NOT handpicked by the universe to get that new job, get that new car, go on vacation, see that sunset, have good cholesterol, sleep through the night, find your partner, have a healthy family, or what ever else you think you've been blessed with.
You.  Were. NOT.

You are fortunate. You should feel grateful. You can show appreciation and gratitude and happiness and pride.  But you need to realize that being #blessed means that YOU were better than the person who did not get that thing.  YOU were better than that person who just got a cancer diagnosis, who just had a car accident, who just got hit by a drunk driver, who is getting a divorce, whose child is sick, who just lost their job.  Do you even realize that's what you're saying???
The next time you want to show the world about how you feel "blessed" you feel, I would like you to go down to St. Jude's and say it to all the kids there affected by cancer and other horrible diseases. Tell them you were blessed because you're healthy and your life is good. And explain to them maybe they just weren't good enough to be blessed like you.  Go ahead. Tell them that. I dare you.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Yeah. I'm so brave.

When I wrote my last blog entry, I wasn't sure if I was ready to share with the world. Writing on my blog still feels very insular. If I do nothing but post on my blog, I get at most 10 views. The difference comes if I share it with my Facebook family. Then the view counts usually hits triple digits, and I know people are reading and see it. I posted my blog the day I wrote it, but I didn't share it on Facebook for almost a full week.

I don't know what pushed me over the edge to finally share it. I started off slowly with people I trusted I wasn't thrilled about all of the responses I got, but I respected all of them.

My finger hovered over that post button for sometime. I actually went about my business, getting dinner ready for my family, doing laundry...all the while vacillating as to whether or not to share it. I recognize it seems silly, considering it was already public domain, but something about sharing it on Facebook made it all that much more real. In people's faces, no turning back.

When I finally decided to hit send, it felt something like standing naked in front of all of you singing a song that none of you liked very much in a key that was terrible for my voice. In other words, somewhat humiliating, terrifying, and as vulnerable as someone could be. The slew of beautiful words that followed my post on my private page, alongside private messages that were heartfelt, loving, and supportive should certainly have made the experience feel worthwhile. Unfortunately, that's not necessarily how it works. I still feel naked, I'm still singing that song. I'm certainly unsure of anyone wanting to clean those wounds. After all, it still hurts. And I did it because I knew it was the right thing to do, but it didn't make it any easier.

Several times I heard the words "we should talk about this more" and it occurred to me that all of this was somewhat similar to my lifelong decision to identify as someone who is bisexual. Certainly, married to a man, with children, there is no need to identify myself as anything but a card-carrying breeder. Former PTA president, Baseball and softball mom, minvan-driving straight person. However, I choose to be very vocal and open about it because I feel that if everyone who felt the way I feel did as I do, maybe the world would be a better place. And it is in that connection that I reach my first place of peace with having shared this very personal information with everyone I know.

I really hope those wounds heal soon. But, sometimes, medicine is not easy to take.

Monday, August 11, 2014

You Never Know

If you ask people to describe me, they usually say words like sweet, kind, lovable, outgoing, fun-loving, happy, positive, funny...and I wouldn't say they are wrong.  Most of the time, as my old Myspace account says, I rock.  But, as it also says, often, I'm a mess.

The first time I tried to commit suicide I was 12.  My best friend-turned-nemesis had told me that I should because "the world would be a better place without you in it".  I decided to believe her and went to my mom's bathroom and swallowed a whole lot of Tylenol.  My mom had a moment of parental lucidity and noticed this was happening and made me barf it up really quickly (which is good, I learned as an adult, as acetaminophen poisoning can kill your liver if left in you too long...which means even with emptying your stomach, you could be done for anyway).  She lectured me about being stupid and sent me to bed.  

The next time I tried I was 15 and my best friend with benefits and I were having a huge fight.  I don't remember what he said, exactly, but it was bad enough that I went into the bathroom, got a razor, and slashed my left arm 37 times and my right arm 5 times (I got tired of slashing).  I went and sat in my bedroom to wait.  The problem is, I went perpendicular and nowhere near my veins, as I was using a disposable razor.  But there I sat, waiting to bleed out, fully expecting it to happen...and then the blood trickle slowed down.  And stung like crazy.  It seemed incredibly anticlimactic. So I went into the bathroom I shared with my mom to get some toilet paper to clean myself up, and that's when she came in and saw me.  "You IDIOT!" she shouted.  "You're going to stain your shirt!!!".  Well, that wasn't really what I was expecting, nor was it likely what a psychologist would have recommended, but by the time she finished pouring hydrogen peroxide over my many tiny cuts, I was too annoyed to be worried about what the boy had said.  So it worked, I guess.  

Adulthood did not miraculous fix me.  Nor did marriage.  Nor did my kids.  I'm not fixed.  I have demons.  Sometimes they whisper, sometimes they yell.  Sometimes I'm everyone's inspiration and the life of the party, and every once in a while I spiral downward until I lie crying in fetal position on my bed truly believing that everyone's life would simply be better if I were gone forever.  

I don't know what to do with that.  When my aunt died in 2008, it kept the demons at bay for a long time.  I thought there was NO way I would put my grandmother through losing me after she'd lost her daughter.  I absolutely didn't want to leave my mom alone with my dad and brother.  Weirdly. it helped.  For a while. And usually I'm fine...but sometimes I'm not. 

For a long time, I thought this was the way everyone felt sometimes.  I didn't realize there were people who honestly couldn't fathom it.  I think Robin William's death hit me as hard as it did because I SO understand.  The world is confused.  The world doesn't understand and is reeling that this funny, wonderfully talented, kind man could have those kind of demons and have them so badly that he'd rather die than keep fighting them.  I'm not confused.  I'm sad.  I'm somewhat terrified.  I'm happy that my demons are leaving me alone right now.  But I also understand...and recognize that you just never know what's going on in someone's head.

I don't know what the answer is.  I was so touched by the viral images with the images of William's "Genie" with quotes to the effect of "Genie, you're free."  Then I was sobered by the suggestion by a group of experts that likening suicide to freedom is unwise.  Commenting upon that perspective led to a discussion so emotional, it ended with a family member "unfriending" me then blocking me on Facebook, so angry with me, his parting words to me were meant to cause me pain, before he went and deleted them.  Clearly, there is no right answer...but what I do know is in these days following this event, while I completely sympathize with Robin Williams, and have felt the way he likely felt, I think in his death, I found a reason to keep fighting with those demons.  For the sadness I have felt over the last few days is nothing I've ever felt for a celebrity, or for anyone I don't know.  If his actions caused this much of a reaction in me, I can't imagine what his family must be going through...or what mine would go through were I to do the same.  For years, I used the duty I felt to my grandmother as my lifeline.  The last year or so, that's been less helpful...so now I guess I have another one.  So I'm thankful for it.  


Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Not Excited

It’s not that I don’t appreciate getting auditions.  I do.  I bend over backwards, change whatever schedule needs changing, make time, bend time, drive in ways that break laws, change clothes in the car…I’ll usually do whatever it takes to make the audition happen and happen well…even those times I don’t think I am right for the part for which I was submitted.

And don’t take my blasé, throwaway attitude regarding each audition that I’m lucky enough to land as me not caring.  I care.  I want that MOTHEREFFING JOB like a Texan wants meat (I’ve never been great at similes).  I obsess over what to wear.  I practice my sides like I’m about to perform Shakespeare for William himself.  I take more time to do my hair and makeup than I take in 4 days to get ready for the day.  I’m all in.  Game face on. Costume approximated. Lines learned.  Character considered (even when the character’s name is just “unkempt woman”.  And yes, I booked that one.). I really, really care.

But, also, I don’t. Yep. Contradictory. What gives?

I’ve spent much of my acting life on stage, in a theater.  My auditions, while varied, all carried similar amounts of going through the wringer.  I have sung songs I learned 5 minutes before to strangers 5 feet away from my face…I have performed choreography that I have NOT learned (no matter how hard I tried) as though I’m in the Alvin Ailey Dance company..all out, the right attitude, performance level (even if I’m making it up).  I have read scenes I have never seen before with strangers who are supposed to be my lovers, my children, my parents…and when I do any of these things, I see each time as an opportunity to play.  I get to go on stage and be whoever and do what I love and what I’m good at for a theater full of (almost entirely empty) seats and the production team and even if it’s just for a few minutes and even if I’m not ultimately right for the role, I am being considered and having fun and sharing my talent.

When I got my first few tv/film/commercial auditions as an adult, I was beside myself.  BESIDE MYSELF.  So excited.  I was also nervous.  Like, couldn’t hold my sides when I read for the part hand shaking nervous.  This never happens to me at theater auditions so I was perplexed by it.  I walked in to my first co-star audition, dressed the way I would dress for a theater audition…neutral, so they could see what I looked like.  Basic makeup, basic hair, knee length skirt, black top (fitted but not tight), neutral shoes.  I was the first one there, I didn’t want to be late…I found the casting office and as I was signing in, the casting assistant looked me up and down and said “Um, you know…she’s supposed to be white trash.  I mean, she’s nice and all.  But white trash.” I’m bright, so I realized right away what he was saying.  I was not dressed for this part.  I was supposed to be actually DRESSED for this part.  “Oh” I said.  “Thank you!”.  And I went to the waiting room, took as much of my hair to one side as possible and teased it up as far as I could,  then found the darkest shade of lipstick in my purse and applied.  Meanwhile, girls who knew the drill walked in looking like guest stars on Jerry Springer during Mississippi week.  I lived through the audition, sitting on a couch across from the casting director, then fled, having learned a good lesson.  Needless to say, I didn’t book it.

By my next audition, I was ready.  I was supposed to be a mail carrier, and so I cut off a pair of overalls until they looked like blue shorts, and wore a grey button-down top.  The other women there for the part were in black slacks and blue shirts, clearly there is a uniform for this…and I was slightly off…but at least closer.  The casting person was an ass, made me feel like an idiot, and I walked out of the room  after taping my audition realizing 2 buttons on my blouse had opened while I was doing my part.  I have never felt more “tail between my legs” as I did that day, walking back to my car…I was certain that I was making the wrong decision to do this “for real” again.  Then I booked it.   So I decided to keep trying.

Now I’ve figured out what you are supposed to do.  I read the articles from casting people saying please do this and please don’t do that, and sometimes I learn stuff and sometimes I’m pleased that I don’t.  I don’t get nervous anymore going to film and tv auditions like I did when I started up again.  I am finally looking at them like I’m playing I get to do at theater auditions…only it’s harder to do that when you spend 4 hours of your day preparing, getting ready for, driving, parking, walking, sitting, waiting…all for the opportunity to be one of 25 chubby redheads all hoping THEY will be the one chosen to say “Egg white frittata?” on that new cable show.  (That really happened.  Twice, actually, cause I got a callback. The first time was on 3 hours notice to get from Van Nuys to Hollywood, then I had to go back the next morning.  AND I WAS THRILLED FOR THE OPPORTUNITY.)

When I started this journey again, I decided I would NEVER stop being excited.  That I wanted to have SO MANY AUDITIONS that it’d feel like they weren’t a big deal, but I wanted to make sure I appreciated each one for the big deal that they are.  And excitement was the way to do that.  BE EXCITED.  But I’ve learned that there’s a better way to be.  Be thankful.  I’m thankful for each and every one of my auditions…but I’m not really excited about them anymore.

It’s hard to get excited, because excitement brings the dreaded hope.  Hope is never far away, mind you.  You have to have hope, otherwise WHY are you doing these ridiculous things to yourself?  But hope is scary.  Hope brings disappointment.  The more excited you are about something (What? I just got an audition to play Cam’s sister on Modern Family??)(Yes, I have great representation), the harder it is when that phone call doesn’t come.  So, I squelch the excitement.  I temper it with preparation and professionalism and poise.  But it can come off as blasé.  My mother in law asks me to do something for her and I can’t because I have an audition.  “WHAT!?” she exclaims.  “Why didn’t you tell me!!!” and I explain that it’s just a commercial for this or that and I hadn’t thought to call her and she admonishes me in the most supportive way possible, telling me that she would pray for me to get the part and I need to TELL HER…and while I adore her for it, it’s too hard to get excited for each audition like that.  I’ll tell her when I get a callback, or when I’m put on avail.  When it’s just a little bit closer.  When I can let hope peek around the corner just a little.  Just pray for me in general, I tell her.  I’ll take all the help I can get.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Stuff You Don't Do

You don't take away a 6 year old's bed and bedroom to make room for a new baby, and tell her that she isn't at your house often enough to deserve her own room...then make her sleep on the couch and keep her clothes in cardboard drawers in the closet.

You don't print out a private picture and spitefully do as much damage with it as you can to a person's reputation...especially when you had no moral objection to what is happening in the picture in general...you just know that it will hurt the person you want to hurt.

You don't tell a child with a broken leg who is sitting on her own, reading a book, that she had better not expect any special privileges.

You don't stop talking to a person who you have always had a perfectly functional and pleasant work relationship with because she wears a t-shirt you disagree with.

You don't ask a child lie about what is happening so that you don't get in trouble.

You don't go to a person's house and accuse them of being bad at their religion because you don't like the way you hear they might be acting.

You don't spend an hour yelling at someone about how awful they are then turn around and tell people how close you feel to them now.

I'm a pretty easygoing girl.  I don't like to think of myself as someone who holds grudges...but the last few years I've been letting some things fester.  Some things are things that happened to me as a child, that I find difficult to let go, especially as I recognize more and more how damaging they were...somethings are things that have been done to me in the last 3 years, and which I have allowed to affect me more than I should.  I've let these things affect my mood, my decisions, my ability to enjoy life.  I wish it were as easy as just saying I'm ready to let go.  I WANT to let go.  I don't want to hold on to these negative memories and events and let them continue to have power over me.  But it's not as simple as believing in some facebook meme self love paragraph superimposed on a picture of a sunset.  Or, at least, if it is...it isn't for me.

Intellectually I understand that these events were wrong and the people doing them were wrong.  In some cases, I truly believe the people involved may have a mental defect causing them to act that way, which is even more reason to not allow their words to carry weight.  Over the last 10 years, I've learned that through writing I'm able to work through a lot of my issues.  I'm hoping this here is one of those times.


Friday, June 6, 2014

More to the Point

Relative to my last post...

And then, somedays I just miss my daddy.  Not because I actually saw him much the last 30 years, or even had that great a relationship with him when I did see him.  But I miss the IDEA of him.

Friday, May 23, 2014

I Hate My Stepmother

Recently, while looking through old photo albums for some "Throwback Thurday" shots, I came across my biological father's journal.  This is actually about 5 months worth of journaling, scribbled on yellow legal paper from the first few months of my life.  My grandma found it in her stuff on a trip to Nicaragua about 15 years ago and brought it back for me.  It is fascinating.  It's clear that he loved my mother very much and that he loved his new daughter very much as well.  He definitely excelled at being a father, especially of babies. I was his fourth, although my mom's first...so he took lead on everything from feeding to diapering to general care.  It's particularly poignant to me, since I felt quite abandoned by him as a young adult and right up until he died.
In the journal I also placed a series of letters I wrote to him (I printed more than one copy) and his response to me.  Re-reading those, which represented the first time I ever really spoke up to him in an intelligent way, at around age 21, was moving...especially putting together the memories of the circumstances that surrounded the letters being written.  I read them aloud to my very patient husband because I was impressed with how young adult me had handled the situation, and I felt the response I got from him was such great insight into his weird, narcissistic personality that I needed to share it.  My husband only met him on a couple of occasions, and while he's heard many earfuls of stories about him, and even attended his funeral, this letter was a window into the kind of father he was to me, and the kind of person he was.
He died 3 years ago this month.  It's felt very peaceful since he died.  No stress or guilt on his birthday or on Father's Day, no second guessing if my cutting ties was the right thing to do...but a strong sense of his presence.  Seemingly positive and quite evolved from the person he was in life, his energy spent a lot of time around me when first he passed, real or imagined.  It was comforting to feel the father I had always longed for around me.  He was an incredible father to many of my siblings (he had 7 children), but that isn't the straw I drew.  Luckily, the universe granted me a second chance by way of my incredibly stalwart and honorable, if somewhat withdrawn, stepfather...but there's something about being loved by your dad that every kid yearns for, even if they don't realize it.
That man loved me.  I know he did.  I read it in his writings.  Unfortunately, he fell into a relationship with a hate monger.  A manipulative, horrid woman who could never be trusted, should not have been trusted with the care of his young child.  He turned a blind eye, although apologized for it later.  She was a terrific mother to her own children...and why not, she had me on whom to take out her frustrations.  As I grew, and became less tolerant of the kind of parent she was, I became the pariah to that family.  Their stories about me made it seem as though I left them out of some kind of spite or desire to hurt my them, especially my dad.  My story is one of survival.  I left to reclaim myself. I left to stop the pain.  I found a way and was lucky enough to be able to stop the cycle of physical and emotional abuse, but my younger siblings were taught otherwise...and I won't ever be able to convince them of the validity of MY version.  The last time I saw them was at our father's funeral.  They didn't make eye contact with me.  I didn't speak to any of them.  They made it clear that I wasn't welcome.  If I wasn't sure, the phone call I got the night before from one of them saying I wasn't welcome made it pretty clear.  I went anyway, as I was there for my older siblings, who have always been my protectors.
It's been 3 years and for a long time I was able to happily not think about my stepmonster.  I vaguely worry when I go to Santa Monica...concerned I may run into her...but I carry on.  I am a big girl now and she can't hurt me anymore.  But that hurt little girl isn't all that far away.  I sometimes daydream about the confrontation that would take place if I could.  It's a scene from a movie, really, where I yell at her in perfect Aaron Sorkin dialogue about why she's such a wretched human being and her children hear me and finally believe me and love their big sister again.  But that's not the ending to this story.   The little girl needs to be heard, and maybe will be one day, but the big girl knows that the only behavior you have control over is your own.  There isn't going to be a movie ending on this one.  Those 3 people who share my genes, the one who I carried home from the hospital, the one whose birth was the first I attended, and the one whose diaper I changed and hair I brushed...they have a different movie in their heads.  I'm the bad guy in their movie, and as much as it pains me, I accept that I cannot change it.  So, instead, I thank my lucky stars for the siblings I DO have who love me and hold me up, and for the rest of my family, who listens when I complain, and hold me when I am sad, and who love me.  Because that has to be enough.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Hashtag Compliments

Do you ever get a random compliment out of the blue and it completely makes your day ?  Sometimes a remark from a complete stranger can lighten your mood, put a smile on your face, or make you think differently about that "old shirt" you pulled out of your closet.  For the last few years I've noticed an upswing in people suggesting more compliments be given as you go about your day, and I think that's great. Random Acts of Kindness (or compliments)are awesome.  I feel it's time to take it one step further and create a movement to consciously compliment the people you care about.  Complimenting is best with very specific and sincere statements about how you feel about them, how they act, what they do, how they look, whatever strikes you. And I'm not talking a random "you look nice today" (although those are great too). I'm talking about taking one minute out of your day, every day to text someone that you know or leave a message on someone's Facebook wall or send an email just letting a friend know how you feel about them.
I do this a lot, and sometimes I think people think that I'm creepy, or they think that I might be trying to sell them something. I may very well be creepy, but I forge on, because I can't help myself. I like connecting with people, even for a moment, and making them feel good. It's what I do. It's something I'm good at, but I think that everyone could do it. Can you imagine a world where periodically you receive messages from someone you care about with an unsolicited compliment? Wouldn't that be wonderful? Maybe it needs a hashtag, or a specific day of the week, or even both. It would be nice to not limit such things, but life gets so busy. Traditions are good and Reminders are better. I wish there was a day of the week that began with a C, as alliteration seems to of helped "Throwback Thursdays" quite a bit.  Conscious complementing sounds a little bit too much like "conscious uncoupling", (thanks a lot, Gwyneth Paltrow).Okay, so I don't have a hashtag or a catchphrase yet, but I'll work on it, if all of you are willing to try doing this with me. I have over 1000 Facebook friends, all of whom people I know personally. Imagine the brightness in the world if each one gave a compliment to someone they love today. You CAN brighten someone's day.

Sometimes the best ideas strike you after some time has passed.  How about #saysomethingsweetSunday?  Or #ssss for short?  Worth a shot.

Doing good truly makes you feel good. Making someone else feel good can be it's own reward. There is a selflessness about it that would do everyone a bit of good. Who is with me?


Tuesday, May 20, 2014

What? I'm Fat??

Yes, somewhat inspired by the brilliant episode of Louis C.K, which has spurred on a load on internet discussion among my group of friends...but also inspired by, you know, my life...and I have more than a blogpost amount to say about that.

"Heavy" since 3rd grade.  A "voluptuous" teenager/young adult.  "Morbidly Obese" now.  That sounds sexy and fun, doesn't it?  I feel the need to justify that my actual weight only makes me "obese", but because I'm the lucky recipient of hereditary diabetes (another justification), that flips me right into that special "morbidly" category.  But you know what?  I'm done caring.

Imagine this conversation, if you would...between, let's say a black man and a white woman:
BM-So, you don't mind that I'm black?
WW- Oh, don't say that.  You're not black.
BM- Um, pretty sure I am.
WW- No, stop saying that about yourself!
BM- But...I AM.

Now, trade out the word fat for black.  I'm so done with people having the word fat be such a negative thing.  (Old, too, while we're at it, but I'll just pick one battle with society for today.)  Guess what?  I'm fat.  I'm also quite happily married to a (not fat) guy who yes, started dating me when I was a fair bit smaller than I am now, but married me at 206 pounds.  Yes, that's how much I weighed when I got married, and guess what else?  That's give or take 5 pounds what I weigh now.  Did you hear that shattering sound?  The universe combusting over an overweight woman giving the internet her actual, non driver's license (185), non 'size card' (200) weight and not because she's about to start on the next season of The Biggest Loser?  No?  Well, I'm pretty sure it was ready to...maybe it didn't because it really doesn't matter one freaking bit.

Am I a good wife?  Yes.  I support my husband in whatever way he needs, I'm a good partner, his best friend, his biggest fan and he adores me.  My husband wants me healthy and happy, but loves me at any weight and I could call him into this room right now to have sex with me and he'd leave his past deadline work pile and drag his feverish, sickly self in here to take care of business...so THAT isn't an issue.
Am I a good mother?  Sometimes, that's debatable but for the 2 incredibly awesome kids I have somehow managed to produce through all my insanity, so maybe for today's purposes we'll say yes.
Am I a good friend?  Without question.
Good at my job?  Great at it, actually.

I also eat healthfully and I exercise.  Don't believe me?  My afternoon snack today?  1/2 cup of raspberries and 6 almonds.  My dinner?  Spinach quinoa patties with hummus, taboule, and tomato.  My next 5K scheduled for June 21st.  My cholesterol is 147.  My blood pressure last week came in at 108/67.  Liver function is normal, as are my kidneys.  Even my diabetes bloodwork matches that of a non-diabetic, now that I function as my own pancreas.  I.  Am. Good.  Fat does not automatically mean unhealthy.  Skinny does not automatically mean healthy.  So, what's with the naughtiness of the fat word?  Why is it SO terrible to be fat?  When my kids were little, if they called my belly fat I'd get over the initial "ouch" feeling and pretend to laugh and I'd say- "yeah, mama's belly IS fat isn't it?  And squishy!" and then I'd tickle them and we'd move on.  Because I wanted them to live in a world (at least for a little while) where an accurate descriptive word was NOT bad.  I want to change the world, even if it's just my little world...but my kids didn't live in a bubble.  They went to school where because they weren't tiny stick figures they got called fat...and they'd come home sad until I explained to them that it didn't MATTER what they looked like, kids smell weakness.  They could just as easily have been made fun of for the color of their hair, for the length of their chins, for the dimple on their nose or for the skinny legs they don't have...kids find things to make fun of.  I explained to them that they needed to buck up and figure out how to deal with whatever the hurtful words were because even if they were the skinniest kids on earth, someone, someday would find a reason to pick on them.

I was walking in the parking lot of a store last week, when a 20 something man called me a fat cow.  This happens more often than you'd think.  I hadn't taken his parking spot, I hadn't done anything. I was just walking to my car. He just did it.  Sadly, he chose the wrong person, because what came out of my mouth was something to this effect:
"Why do guys like you always think that's some kind of great insult?  I've been married for 16 years to a hot guy who thinks I'm FINE.  I've probably had more sex in my life than you will EVER have (and am sure I'm better at it).  I am more healthy, happy, and fulfilled than you could ever imagine being...and YOU think pointing out one of the most OBVIOUS FACTS about me is going to hurt me somehow??  Your brain must be as small as your penis."

Have to admit, was pretty pleased with the last bit.

So how do we do this?  How do we make the word fat as innocuous as the word tall or short or silly or redheaded or whatever?  I'm starting with me.  You can too.  Call me your fat friend Ariella.  I don't care.  It's TRUE.  If you're lucky enough to be my friend, anyway.

The movie PITCH PERFECT has a character, played by the actress Rebel Wilson who goes by the name Fat Amy...by her own logic she says she knows the girls are going to call her fat anyway so they may as well do it to her face.  The movie does a fabulous job of making her not apologize for her weight, in fact she joins the singing group cause she's tired of all her boyfriends...as a fat actress, I am always worried about the portrayal of the fat character, and I'm happy they did it well.  So did Louis.  And so will I.  I don't need to be fat BUT with a pretty face...or sexy DESPITE the fact that I'm fat.  I can just just be all of those things.  And it can be ok.

My favorite fat joke?  (only Harry Potter fans will get it).
Yo mama is so fat that her patronus is a cake.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

That Easter Thing You Do

My kids know the truth now.  If yours don't, then maybe have them stop reading over your shoulder now (also, why are you letting your kids read over your shoulder anyway?  They should be outside playing.).

Magnolia found out when she was 9...mainly because we are terrible at the Tooth Fairy thing.  We forget, we lose teeth, we forget some more, then we forget again.  We always said that we weren't going to straight up lie to the kids about anything, and if they asked us direct questions, we'd answer truthfully, with the idea that when they get older, this would translate into them feeling safe about trusting us to be honest with them...an idea certainly appealing once they become teenagers.  So, the tooth fairy forgot (again) and Magnolia asked.  And since she asked, I was honest with her.  Unfortunately, she lost her shit.  LOTS of crying. Through the tears, she blubbered "What about the Easter Bunny?" at which point I told her.  Renewed hysterical sobbing...then "And Santa?".  Fearful of the onslaught, I lied.  A few days later, once she had calmed down, she asked again about that one, and I was honest.  She took it reasonably well.  She then became very concerned about her brother not knowing the truth and over the next couple of years put on an incredible show, which made the inevitable truth even harder with him...as he is a person who loves facts and information.  But the years passed, the tooth fairy bungled again, and one fateful day, he tested his theory before even asking the question, and we were caught before we even got asked.  *The* question was then asked, with several follow up questions...and the truth came to light.  When his father later asked how he felt about knowing the truth, Max's matter of fact answer was "I'm glad you guys told me because otherwise when I grow up and have kids, I wouldn't have known I was supposed to DO all this stuff!!"  Perfect.

So, once your kids "know"...and especially if you're Unitarian Universalists (spiritual agnostics) and don't actually "believe" in the "reason for the season" (although your families celebrate it)...what do you do?  Last Easter was the first one where both kids *knew*.  And they both begged me to pretend like they didn't know because they still wanted presents and candy.  I gave in, even though it's a lot of work on a weekend when I already have a lot of work to prepare for not one, but TWO family gatherings.  This year, I was in a bit of denial right until we got until the day before...when both kids pleaded again for the candy...when I explained we could go BUY the candy they wanted when it was 50% the day after Easter, Magnolia groused that she liked the TRADITION of it...and that Max waking her up early in excitement was the thing she liked the most.  Heart warmed by an unusual display of sibling love, this Grinch decided SOMETHING should be done.  Both kids had mentioned how much they'd miss the chocolate bunnies.  So, in between baseball and softball games, rehearsal, an audition, and a shopping for a BBQ we were hosting that evening, I went to the store to buy a few bits of Easter joy.  That night, I decided that baskets and egg hunts at home were out (they'd have one at each Grandparents' house later), but something needed to replace it.  In a moment of brilliance, I decided on a new tradition, and since both kids are old enough to process a letter, and since the waking up early part is better when they don't involve US, I wrote out a letter to both of them, which Michael typed up and printed up 2 copies, so that we could personalize each one.  We've started a new tradition, one they were both excited by and happy with...and one that will make me finally comfortable with this celebration.  Each kid got a few chocolate eggs, peeps, a small chocolate bunny, some money, and this letter, along with personal notes to each one by each of us.  This is something I feel comfortable with.

Dear Magnolia and Max,

We decided, as the years passed where make believe bunnies bring you treats, that it's time to transition our traditions into one that makes good for the years to come.

"Easter" is celebrated by Christians all over the world to honor the idea that Jesus rose from the dead as a way to forgive us all for all our sins as humans...but long before Jesus of Nazareth died on the cross, spring brought the celebration of "Ostara", a celebration of fertility and rebirth, of  Mother Earth coming out of her winter sleep to bless us all with new life- celebrations filled with eggs and rabbits and babies and animals to symbolize fertility and spring- new life.  As you can see, all these years, we've actually been celebrating Ostara.  We still think it's important to honor spring, the rebirth of the earth, the renewal of hope, life; the celebration of blooms, babies, bunnies and the sweetness of life- these are things we feel never will go out of style.

With this in mind, we provide you with your new Ostara tradition.  You'll see on the table gifts for each of you.  Candy, to represent how sweet life is and how delicious it can be.  Money, to wish for your prosperity in the coming yer and for years to come.  Baby animals (represented by peeps) to remind you of the rebirth of the earth and the importance to respect all living things. And a chocolate bunny, to remind you of your childhood past, a reminder that even as things change, they can also stay the same.

We give you these gifts in the hopes that you remember these things, that you celebrate traditions, old and new, that you continue to appreciate and support each other and the rest of our family to make sure we are always give the best of ourselves to the world, and that you enjoy this day and the coming year.


The kids awoke to their presents and letters and when they came to thank us, Magnolia whispered to me "I like Ostara better.  Thank you.".  The next day, Max asked me if he could eat his chocolate bunny, and when I gave him permission, he said (with sincere 10 year old wisdom)  "Thank you.  I want to remember my childhood...I really hope it's a solid one."  I know he was talking about the bunny...but still.

Mother Theresa

My wise and sometimes way too on point husband paraphrased Mother Theresa this morning, as he was pontificating on life and relationships and why we are who we are and why we do what we do...and what he said was this:

Mother Theresa was with someone who was struck by how she connected with everyone she met, regardless of how well she knew them or what she knew of them, she was able to connect with them at a personal level.  When this person asked her about it, she said something to the effect of  "If you spend your time making judgments, you are not spending time loving.  I'd rather spend my time loving."

This struck a chord with me as I've recently been coming to terms with a lot of realities about who I am and what makes me really tick, and I've realized that making those connections, even with people I barely know or don't know at all, is incredibly important.  I have never paid a great deal of attention to the life and works of Mother Theresa, but I was so moved by a quote a friend posted on her birthday, almost a year ago, that I asked him to email it to me, so I wouldn't lose it.  After the conversation with Michael this morning, I felt the need to go retrieve that email and re-visit the message that resounded so strongly with me.

“Life is an opportunity, benefit from it. Life is beauty, admire it. Life is a dream, realize it. Life is a challenge, meet it. Life is a duty, complete it. Life is a game, play it. Life is a promise, fulfill it. Life is sorrow, overcome it. Life is a song, sing it. Life is a struggle, accept it. Life is a tragedy, confront it. Life is an adventure, dare it. Life is luck, make it. Life is too precious, do not destroy it. Life is life, fight for it.”

Now, when I was 18, I took on a challenge through a Y program very dear to my spirit...and part of that challenge involved choosing an "ideal".  A person whose life I wished to emulate...and the people I chose at that time were people who were not famous, they were 2 women in my life who I respected and cared about and about whom I thought very highly...and I still feel that way about them, however, I think it's time for me to spend a little more time thinking about Mother Theresa and what I can learn from this woman.  Her legacy on this earth was something to really emulate...beyond her work with the sick and the poor, the ability she had to really connect with people, to try to stay positive and kind while completing her life's work...THAT is what I want to be my legacy.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

I'm not Perfect

A parent at the school, a new friend, told me today that she marvels at my ability to get everything done that I do.  I explained that all I do is put one foot in front of the other.

She asked if she could help with what I was doing and I gladly gave her a task...she was doing it when she asked if I was a perfectionist...and I laughed and said that I most certainly was not.  "Good enough!" is my mantra far more often than not.  Pondering this, it occurred to me that in reality, I don't have TIME for perfection.  I have too much to do.  It doesn't all get done well...hell, sometimes it doesn't even get done...but if I strived (strove?) for perfection, I doubt any of it would get at all.

Michael has something he calls the 95% rule.  The idea is that to get a task 95% of the way done takes a certain amount of time. Then, the last 5% of that task very often, can take almost as much.  It's all in the details.  He applies this rule to coding, to housejobs, to gardening...and while the point of this rule is not to invalidate the importance of that last 5%, it does often happen by default, resulting in us only getting things *most* of the way done, because those last details are just plain tedious...and can take us away from doing 95% of something else.  Back to my mantra, "good enough".  Because, really, there are a LOT of tasks that need doing.  Once we've gotten to something where "good enough" IS good enough, we often move on.  I applaud those detail oriented folks who want everything to be JUSTEXACTLYRIGHT before they move on to the next thing...but that's just not me.  I have stuff to do, and not enough time to do it in as it is, much less if I fuss over getting every last thing *just so*.  Perfectionism is for those people who post stuff on pintrest.  I can't...I just can't.  I applaud those who do, don't get me wrong...we need a world of diversity.  We need a world where people pay attention to detail and where people plow through getting loads of stuff done.  We need people to create beauty, people to appreciate it, people to make stuff, people to buy stuff (although the fact that there is too much stuff in the world is a whole other blog post) and people to clean up when all the stuff is gone.  We need those pintrest people and we also need the people that haven't ever even been on pintrest (raises hand).  Everyone has a gift to give...contentedness comes when we learn to be happy with whatever that is.  Am I a perfectionist?  Far from it...but another friend just told me I poop rainbows, which I think was a compliment.

Children's entertainer, Laurie Berkener, who saved many a car ride when my kids were toddlers, has a song called "I'm Not Perfect".  The lyrics to the chorus are
I'm not perfect, no I'm not.
I'm not perfect, but I've got what I've got.
I do my very best, I do my very best, I do my very best each day...
But I'm not perfect, and I hope you like me that way.

Those lyrics might be wrong...I am writing them from memory, and, well, I'm not perfect.  :)

Sunday, March 2, 2014

Being Legal

18 years ago this morning, I woke up with one thought in my head.  I wanted a new life.  I was done with the boy I'd been seeing for the previous 18 months.  Our relationship wasn't good for either of us, even considering the good parts.  I knew it was time to move on.  I hadn't been able to make the break, because our relationship was mostly a pretty easy one, built on friendship, common interests, and a strong physical connection, but we weren't meant for each other.  I was done with the string of relationships I'd been in for years. I wanted some freedom, a chance to just be me.  9 months out of college, a burgeoning freelance career, and all kinds of options awaited...but first, this day.  March 2nd.  I rolled over in bed and looked at an invitation for a party that my friend was throwing that evening and took note of the last line on the handwritten, "Xeroxed" invitation, "If there's a person you're supposed to meet, they will be there."  I rolled my eyes and sighed.  Oh, Gabe.  So optimistic.

18 years ago this afternoon I stopped by a community garden right by my apartment that had just put up a sign that it was FINALLY accepting applications for new members.  I dropped off my carefully written application and stood watching the sun start to make its downward trajectory and daydreamed about this new life of mine...I was sure to meet a bunch of fun crunchy granola types here and this would just be the start of this carefree, fun, without strings life I was about to start.  I knew big things were coming and headed home to make my potluck contribution for the party (had to be something that began with the first letter of your name...I was going to make "Noodles and Alfredo" cause I had already said I was going to bring the aforementioned boy and knew it was up to me to provide.  I figured I'd make a lot to make up for chintzing on the name thing.)

18 years ago tonight I arrived at the party, hot dish in hand, boy trailing behind...ready to meet new people.  I met an interesting redhead in the kitchen almost first thing...as I set down my dish.  He'd brought 2 different  dishes of Mac n Cheese, cause his name was Michael.  I felt a little dash of guilt.  My jacket still in hand, a friend popped her head in the door and took our picture.  The evening passed pretty quickly.  I was really enjoying talking to the redhead, but I wasn't sure if he was enjoying talking to me *quite* the same way.  Looking at the pleats on his J. Peterman pirate shirt, I was pretty convinced he wasn't.  There was a very pretty girl with a shaved head who I thought might be more interested in me, and I spent a little bit of time working on my girl flirting skills, which hadn't been successfully used in a couple of years.  Eventually the boy I came with let me know he was ready to go home, and while I wasn't, I grudgingly left to drive him home.

18 years ago right about now, I drove my kinda boyfriend home and asked him if I could come in, because I was weak willed and needy.  Thankfully he said no.  I drove around the corner where some of my friends, including my roommate, were getting ready for the midnight show of Rocky Horror.  My roommate and another friend of mine were standing outside the theater and I pulled up to say hi and to vent about my situation.  My roommate was tired of hearing me complain about the boy, and once they heard there were not one, but two potentially interesting people back at the party, they both insisted I backtrack and drive back over to the party.  So I did.

17 years, 11 months, 30 days, and 23 and a half hours ago I got back to the party, and much to my chagrin, the cute shorn girl was gone.  The redhead was still there, and it turns out, he WAS interested in me.  We ended up going to first base and the next morning helped clean up, exchanged numbers, and promised to stay in touch.  I remember walking back to my car and being decently annoyed.  I knew something WAS different, but it wasn't the kind of different I had planned.  I could tell that there was something very different about *this* boy.  Life was going to be different, but it wasn't going to involve me being carefree and single.  And it turns out, I was right.

That redhead is now my husband of almost 16 years.  He is the father of my children.  He is my best friend, my biggest fan, my most vehement supporter.  He's the person I most enjoy spending time with, the one I most admire...we are inextricably linked.  We have grown up together.  He can make me laugh with a word.  He knows me better than anyone.  And we're finally legal.  18 years since the day we met and started our life together.

Who knew Gabe would be right?

Saturday, March 1, 2014

And Time Flew

Going to commit to writing more.  Again.  There have been so many half written, un-written, re-written unpublished posts, they actually outnumber the amount of posts I have written.  I find solace in writing.  I get a release that very few things are able to give me.  When I vent in writing, I am often able to let things go.  This is an incredibly handy skill and I need to embrace it more.

This is my reintroduction to this place and this process.  Who knows what I'll talk about!  How exciting!!