What I'm Trying to Say Is...

A Valentine's Day Primer for Men

2010-01-14T12:15:00.007-05:00

A friend of mine with a new-ish girlfriend has been a good sport about me asking personal questions that are none of my business about his relationship. Recently (like, today) I asked him if he had any big plans for Valentine's Day. His emailed answer was pretty much proof that he hadn't even realized it was coming up and my mention of it was the first sign that he might need to do something.

Wow, he is so lucky he has me for a friend!

Anyway, it sparked a discussion (okay a lecture) of what is an appropriate response to a day like Valentine's Day, a commercialized Hallmark-holiday designed to remind single people of their sad and depressed state and force couples into cliched expressions of affection for each other while waiting forever to get into restaurants like some kind of National Date Night, because waiting an hour to rush through an over-priced and over-portioned meal on a school night is our way of saying, "you're swell." For the record, I'm a romantic.

Well, the answer depends on a few things:

1. How much she cares about getting something for Valentine’s Day (hint: she will say she doesn’t care but she does, especially when her friends start talking about whatever romantic thing has happened to them).

2. What kind of precedent you want to set in the gift-giving department.

3. How much you like her ‘cause she’s cute and you aren’t the only fish in the sea, bub, just sayin’.

If you got her a can opener for Christmas she is probably not expecting much. If she liked that, then you’re off the hook. She’d probably be delighted with a spatula.

BUT! What women really want for Valentine’s Day is for their man to completely pamper them with gifts and luxuries EVEN THOUGH they don’t need a special day to do those things. When men say, “I think its more romantic to send a card and flowers on a random day instead of on Valentine’s Day when flowers are marked up and everyone else is doing it,” that translates to women as, “I have no problem with my girlfriend feeling like an ugly duckling because on the ONE DAY each year dedicated to love, as commercialized as it is, I took the high road. And I am cheap.” Because let’s be real. Those guys don’t send flowers and cards on random days. The high road is a lonely place to be on Valentine’s Day.

If you’re not a flowers-on-a-random-day kind of guy, you better really do it up big on Valentine’s Day because she will not want to be left out of the “oh he loves me,” gushiness of the day. And if you are a flowers-on-a-random-day kind of guy, you better feel reeeeeeallllly confident that she also sees you that way, and you might want to make one of those “random days” be pretty soon so its fresh in her memory how you don’t need a special day to tell her she’s the most wonderful and beautiful thing that ever graced the face of the planet.

And then also do it on Valentine’s Day.

I mean, come on! Sure we're all evolved past falling for that crap but it's Valentine's Day! Suck it up and get all lovey-dovey. It won't kill you.

I think most women will agree with me that paying marked-up prices for roses that will be dead in a week just to say something that we say every day is a waste of money, and that they would rather have that money go towards something they really want, like new bath towels (hint). But call me a softie...I kinda think the fact that he went and payed marked-up prices on roses that will be dead in a week is romantic, because it isn't practical at all, and love makes us do impractical things.

Valentine's Day is coming up. Yeah its a fake holiday but celebrate it anyway by doing something impractical for someone who will say, "you shouldn't have."

I'm Okay If You Know I Wear Underwear

2010-01-08T17:46:00.002-05:00

I was just at Wal-Mart standing patiently in the checkout line reading about the crazy marriage of Charlie Sheen and Brooke Mueller. I had chosen this particular check-out kid because he looked young, sprightly, and energetic and I figured I would be out of there in no time. I hadn't counted on the man two people in front of me shaking every carton of cigarettes against his ear before finally deciding to buy skoal. So I was getting a little ancy.

So the lady in front of me started piling her stuff on the checkout thingy, and she has miscellaneous Wal-Martish items, like tape and cat litter and dish towels. And then she stacks up some underwear, and rushes to cover it up with a magazine. She tries to be all casual like, "la di da...here I am at Wal-Mart...buying a bunch of crap...BUT NOT UNDERWEAR! Oh no, not me! No underwear here!"

And it made me wonder, why are people so embarrassed to buy underwear? Like it is some dark, shameful secret that we wear it. I mean, frankly speaking, I would be more judgmental if you never bought underwear. I would be piling my underwear up and making sure people knew that I regularly bought new underwear. I am not ashamed at all.

It made me wonder what I try to hide in my shopping cart. I always feel a little sheepish when I show up with a bunch of wine, like I wonder if they think I am going to drink it all. But underwear...I'll just be completely honest with you - I buy underwear, and I am not ashamed.

And I am totally cool with you knowing that.

The Goldilocks of Church

2009-03-10T16:20:00.003-04:00

A couple of months ago I got into the usual conversation with my dad about church and why I don't go. It ended with him saying, "go to a Buddist church, a Catholic church, a Lutheran church, I don't care. Just go."

Here's the thing - I want to go to church but I don't want to go out of my way to do it.

I am a United Methodist but I don't like the UMC in my neighborhood. I have mixed feelings on which church to attend...its complicated. I'm kind of granola in a lot of ways and get turned off by fundamentalism, and it seems a lot of churches are going towards the contemporary services, which I am not into at all. I just want an old fashioned boring church with a smart sermon that isn't about saving the world through witnessing and no electric guitars or soulful singing. I am absolutely not going to sway or link arms with anyone, and I don't hug. I just want to sit in a pew, hear/read the lesson, and pray silently. Done. I don't want to be on a committee, I don't want to pray with you, I don't want to join the choir, I don't want to go to Bible study, I don't care if you're happy to see me if or you missed me when I was gone. I like old fashioned Puritan church without eye contact.

I took a survey once to see what my "actual" religious beliefs are and it said I was a Quaker. There is actually a Quaker church in my town but it's a long drive. Yeah, I'm lazy that way.

I guess I am a little cynical about the mechanics of spirituality; I believe in God and but I'm not all concerned about making everyone believe the same things. I'm somewhere in the middle of understanding the feel-good and therapeutic aspects of spirituality, while also applying some common sense and logic to how people determine their beliefs in a higher power. But that being said, I missed church and wanted to find one to attend.

Since I am lazy and hate to drive, I decided to start with the churches in my immediate vicinity. The Methodist church I used to attend had a sign out front that advertised that they had a "new name and new traditions," so I decided to give them another shot for the 11:00 service. But within minutes of entering the sanctuary and sitting down, I looked around at the band, the projection screens, and the number of people hugging, and realized that "new traditions" was a fancy way of saying, "like everyone else." I felt bad, but I bolted.

I drove half a mile to the Lutheran church. Pulling into the parking lot I spied a sign that notified me that 11:00 was the "contemporary" service. U-turn.

There was one church left, a Presbyterian church across the street. I was late, but I decided to give it a shot anyway and ended up slinking into the back and sitting against the wall. I scanned the bulletin to see how much hugging I had missed but didn't see any mention of it. Interesting.

A cursory glance around the church made me feel at home. There were large, sunshine-filled windows, high ceilings with exposed rafters, and the usual church light fixtures that look like enormous car cigarette lighters hanging from the ceiling. The hymns confirmed that Christianity was keeping alive the tradition of discrimination against altos, as they were all sung in an octave just below a dog whistle. The sermon was thought-provoking and actually related to the Bible, not just a sales pitch for salvation. I started to really like this place. I could get used to this.

At the end of the service, however, I was taken by surprise - a sudden call for us to all join hands after the benediction and sing a closing song set to the tune of "Eidelweiss," a song that always makes me cry. But this time, it felt sweet. I didn't even mind holding hands with the old man whose hearing aid appeared to be sending signals to an alien satellite (he has since had it fixed).

I felt a little bit like Goldilocks that day, trying church after church until I found one that was just right. And in the following weeks, the church has stayed true to its first impression.

I've made a bit of a habit of attending church since then, and it's worth going out of my way to get there. I feel refreshed and happy when I leave, and I'm having a hard time finding the downside to that. I'm glad I took my dad's advice to heart. Just don't try to make me hold hands and sway.

Breast is Worst

2008-11-08T20:28:00.007-05:00

I've been making a little list of things I'd like to take up with God if/when I ever get the chance. Nothing major, just things I wonder about. Such as, why do some people wear jeans, long sleeves, and flip-flops? Why are yellow traffic lights so short? And why do we still care about Jessica Simpson?

And I also think that breast feeding should make your boobs look better, not worse. Am I right, ladies?

Seriously. Having a baby is a big deal - you turn your body over to science for nine months, get stretch marks and a stubbornly permanent tummy pooch, and spend the next year convincing yourself that everyone wears maternity clothes full-time and the scent of spit-up mixed with pureed peas is all the rage in Paris. It's really a small favor to ask that at least we don't suffer the insult of our boobs looking like, well, how they do. At least my husband can sleep well at night knowing that exotic dancing will never be a viable fall-back career for me.

Let me just say that I'm a proponent of breast feeding. Formula has come a long way, but I just think that if you can pull it off, breast feeding is the way to go. I did it, and, in theory, I'll do it again. I just wouldn't say no to a few perks along the way. It's the least He could do. On the list of Woman 2.0 upgrades, anti-gravity boobs would be a nice enhancement.

Granted, there are some women who return from the maternity wing of the hospital looking as if their pregnancies had been some elaborate ruse and they actually just pulled a basketball out from beneath their shirts and said, "gotcha!" These are probably the same women who run marathons on the weekends and and claim that they sometimes "forget to eat." Who forgets to eat? Freaks of nature, that's who. These women are not to be trusted and, just to be safe, should be universally scorned until they learn that they are not wanted here.

But for most of us, no amount of collagen-enhanced lotion, Pilates classes, or miracle snake-oil will return our bodies to their rightful state. And that's okay. The rewards of motherhood far outweigh the cost of admission. I'm just saying....I'm not opposed to the idea of a post-natal stimulus package courtesy of the Almighty One to boost morale.

And other things.

Under Pressure

2008-10-02T16:00:00.006-04:00

I've got my eye on something shiny, but it's not what you're thinking. I want a Troy-Bilt 3000 MAX PSI / 2.7 MAX GPM Pressure Washer. It's red, it's powerful, and someday I will wield its wand.

It started innocently enough. I had invited my parents for a visit with the ulterior motive of securing free babysitters so the hubby and I could go out for our anniversary. At the last second, I asked my mom to bring along their pressure washer. It had been a while since we had done our house and it needed a good scrub-down. But what I didn't know is that I had sparked a fire within my mother that would not be easily extingished.

Before I knew it, I was in the middle of a military-style logistical meeting held via email with my mom. We would need bleach, at least two gallons. We would need gasoline. To maximize our time, the materials should be purchased ahead of time and ready when she arrived. I wondered what all the fuss was about and got back to sitting around doing nothing.

When my parents arrived, she couldn't hide the disappointment that her instructions had not been carried out. "Don't worry," I said. "We can get all of that stuff after we go to the farmer's market tomorrow." Her eyes darted around and she seeemd anxious. I offered her some wine.

The next day, after the farmer's market, we sat around the table eating sandwiches. My mom brushed her hands together and pushed back from the table. "Okay," she announced. "I am going to change into my work clothes and then we can get started!"

My dad looked at her, perplexed. "To do what?"

"To pressure wash!" Her eyes gleamed with the anticipation of a child on Christmas Eve.

Within 15 minutes we were on the driveway. Our role could best be summed up as, "supervisory." There really wasn't much for us to do, but we felt guilty going inside to watch football when she was outside doing manual labor. But when we suggested trading off for turns, she ignored us. When my dad finally wrestled the pressure washer from her iron grip, she had a vigor and energy I had only previously witnessed when she realized she could combine her coupons at Chico's. I had literally never seen my mom so happy.

It was easy to see why pressure washing was so addictive: instant results. Don't like that drop of paint on the driveway? Blast it away. The green mildew on the windowsills? Gone. Even the gutters looked like new. I was a little embarassed that there was so much to wash, but I was glad to no longer feel like the Boo Radley of my cul-de-sac. Well, once we take care of the weed garden growing alongside the house and fix the part of the fence that fell down. Yeah, we're those neighbors.

It's hard to describe the intoxicating, trance-inducing element that pressure washing provides, mostly because I have not experienced it first-hand. I never got a turn. Between my mom, dad, and husband, I was left with the task of chief cook and bottle-washer. At one point, I went inside and put the fall duvet on the bed. I folded a load of laundry.

And that night, after our date, we returned home to find my parents on the couch, my dad snoring with his mouth hanging open and my mom coming down from her buzz. We convinced her to let us keep the pressure washer for a month. I am still waiting for my turn.

To clean is mundane, but to pressure wash is divine. At least, that's what I hear. :)

I'm Tired of Setting the Example

2008-09-16T16:27:00.010-04:00

I am the first born in my family, and as such I have spent a lot of time feeling like I should "set the example." Now, mom and dad, before you pick up the cell phone and call me in defense, I don't recall ever being told to do this...I was just compelled. I felt responsible. I think its an oldest-kid thing. Or maybe it is my over-developed guilt complex. Who knows.

But I'm 32 now. My brother and sister are adults, one with a child of her own. And I am sick of setting the good example! I want to have some fun!

I want to sneak out of my house in the middle of the night! And do what? Probably go back inside and get back in bed. I'm tired.

I want to stash liquor under my bed and feign suprise when it is found. (Gasp! How did that get there?)

I want to stay out all night with the wrong crowd and get a (temporary) tattoo.

I want to blow a bunch of money on 1985 Jeep Grand Wagoneer (navy blue with the wood panels and a roof rack like in "What About Bob?").

I want to play hookey from work and go to the beach in my Wagoneer and drink mojitos and not care at all about the empty calories from sugar.

I want to lose something expensive and then not care when it can't be found. Although I already have the losing things part down pretty well....

I want to empty my 401(k) and blow it on a summer home in New England. But at these rates, I could probably only afford a studio apartment...

Anyway, it just occurred to me today that I've been really good for a really long time. I'm ready to make people wonder what got into me.

I'll have to put that on my to-do list. :)

Dirty Mouth?

2008-08-27T13:29:00.014-04:00

I realized something last night: I'm a bit of a potty-mouth.

It happened gradually...maybe I just started getting frustrated more often, or maybe I just enjoy being snarky, but over time my quiet mutterings have gotten louder and louder. Then last night I found myself walking down the hall hollering, "Damn it! I burned the oatmeal again!" And as I turned into the bathroom and saw the angelic face of my two-year-old son playing in the tub, I stopped in my tracks and thought, "I really need to stop cursing."

Everyone has heard the stories about kids saying the darndest things, usually in front of the church pastor or in the checkout line at the grocery store. I love to tell the tale of my friend's nephew who called out gleefully, "see ya later, f*** face!," instantly incriminating his father, who backed silently out of the room beneath the glares of his wife, mother, and sister. And I giggle when I remember hearing another friend's daughter mutter under her breath when a puzzle piece just wouldn't fit in its spot. And the day when a child at my son's birthday party called someone else a "dumbass" and his mother had to explain her battle with road rage to the instantly-silent crowd in my living room was truly hilarious. But when you realize those words might come out of your own child's mouth, and that you are the one who put them there, well, it's time to grab a metaphorical bar of soap.

I don't say the really bad stuff. I'm more a fan of the medium-level obscenities, the ones that have meandered their way into our daily conversations. You can say them on TV, you hear them on the radio, and well, everyone else is doing it. But regardless of relative shock-value and societal peer pressure, cursing is unladylike. And anyone who knows me knows that first and foremost, I am a lady. (Hint - that is your cue to ROFLYAO*.)

So I have started coming up with new exclamations of frustration:

Cheese and crackers!

Fiddlesticks!

Oh, go bake a pie!

But sometimes nothing quite gives you that oomph like a good old-fashioned f-bomb.

I'm not proud. I want to change. So as of today, I am the new and improved, less sailor-like me. And if you don't like it, well, you can...go stuff a turkey.

*Roll On Floor Laughing Your A** Off (for the un-hip**)
**And if you're friends with me, that probably includes you.

Grammar Police Reporting for Duty

2008-08-26T11:25:00.014-04:00

I have a little habit that drives my husband crazy. I learned it early in life and never realized it was so annoying until it was pointed out to me in the car one day on the way home from work.

I was leafing through a magazine and proclaimed, "I can't believe how many typos are in this magazine! I should mark it up and send it to the editor!" I turned to the inside cover and looked for her name. "She really should be ashamed of herself."

Silence.

Then, "yeah, I'm sure she would appreciate that. People just looove it when you correct their grammar. It's so awesome." Only the word "love" was said really sarcastically so as to leave no doubt as to his real meaning.

I grew up in a house where grammar was a big deal. We weren't doing good, we were doing well. The invitation wasn't for her and I, it was for her and me. And don't get me started on the differences between "fewer" and "less". I appreciated these little English lessons because I didn't want to look or sound like an idiot, so I soaked it up and prepared for the day when I would unleash my knowledge of grammar on the world, which naturally would turn to me in appreciation and ask where I have been all its life.

So it is not surprising that I have turned into a full-fledged Grammar Warrior. My fingers itch to correct misspellings on signs. I have been known to erase an errant comma or rearrange words on the dry-erase boards at Lowe's. And anyone who has walked into my office in the past six months has seen my public announcement that adding an apostrophe "s" to a word makes it possessive, not plural. Never in the history of the world has an apostrophe "s" been plural and it never, never, never will be that way so please, for the love of God, stop.

I recently heard a news story about a group of teenagers who were arrested for vandalizing a historical sign. It turns out that they were on a mission to correct grammar mistakes on signs across America, a quest I could surely identify with. When I heard of an actual organization formed to eradicate the misuse of apostrophes, I clamored for membership information. And when a friend sent me this 2005 essay, I felt vindicated.

My constant need to point out mistakes doesn't end with printed publications, however. I suspect my husband watches movies and television shows with a clenched jaw because he is waiting for me to point jubilantly at the screen and shout, "EDITING MISTAKE!" and then grab the remote to rewind the scene and point out how, for example, in one frame, she has the boots on, and in the next one she doesn't. Then I sit back with a self-satisfied smirk as he rolls his eyes and says, "good eye, sweetie."

When did I become such a tattle-tale? And why do I feel so compelled to correct grammar? Is there a red-penned English teacher inside of me fighting to get out?

Maybe, but I think it really boils down to frustration with people looking stupid when they don't have to. There are so many tools to make us look smarter than we are, and I for one am not afraid to use them.

Do I make grammar mistakes? You betcha. And if I do, please tell me. Because if I am going to look stupid, I'd like it to be for something a lot more fun than grammar. :)

I Just Don't Have That Much To Say

2008-08-07T12:08:00.002-04:00

People keep asking me when I am going to update this blog, and to be honest, I just haven't had a lot of time to write creatively lately. The news isn't inspiring, I haven't noticed anything funny or peculiar that caught my attention long enough to formulate an opinion worth sharing, and no one in my sphere of awareness has done anything stupid for me to comment on. Nope, just living my life.

Wishing it wasn't hot anymore.

Trying to find time to update my iPod with Christmas music.

Scrolling iTunes for more Celtic music podcasts to subscribe to.

Going through my closet and finding long-lost dresses with the tags still on them and then trying them on, happy to find they still fit.

Folding endless loads of laundry (how can three people generate so much?)

Watching HGTV and wondering if we will ever finish the laundry room.

Trying to scrub clean where I spilled something on the seat in my car.

Going through my son's vast collection of priceless preschool art and deciding he is an undiscovered genuis.

You know...normal stuff.

So forgive me for not writing; I've just been distracted.

It's not you, it's me. :)

Curious George Has Balls

2008-06-09T09:06:00.009-04:00

Kids say the darndest things, and sometimes they hit the nail right on the head. It happened to me over the weekend when my family took a road trip. When getting into the car one morning, I handed my son a book called something like, "Curious George Counts to 10," which features on the cover a picture of Curious George playing with several bouncing balls. My precious wonder took the book, examined the cover, and remarked, "Curious George has balls."

As my husband and I exchanged looks and tried to stifle peals of laughter, I thought to myself, right you are, my son. Curious George does have balls.

As the mother of a toddler, I have witnessed Curious George attempting feats that would have landed anyone else in time out, the thinking chair, or in some cases, jail. I guess when you're an adorable, cooing monkey, people tend to look the other way. But after watching our cuddly friend wreak havok on the life of the man with the yellow hat, I've come to the realization that Curious George is the poster child for the "don't try this at home" campaign. The producers of the show even know this - at the end of each episode, a child's voice announces the start of a real-life application segment in which kids apply reality to George's feats by saying, "Curious George is a monkey, and sometimes he can do things that we can't." Tell me about it, kiddo.

Curious George isn't afraid to break people's stuff and then act dumb when they show up later. George has busted the plumbing system in his NYC apartment building, set a cage full of puppies loose in the animal shelter, climbed inside a clock tower and crammed a toolbox into the gears of the town clock, destroyed a beaver dam, filled his house with water, broken a dinosaur skeleton in the museum, and found countless other ways to remind us to spay and neuter our pets.

But in the end, everyone just laughs and shrugs their shoulders as if to say, "whaddya gonna do!" That crazy monkey!

I am well aware that Curious George is an animated, fictional character and his escapades are intended for entertainment purposes only. But I think George can teach us a lesson about the possibilities of innocence. George does have to have balls to pull half the stunts he gets away with, but he employs a great deal of innocence and simplicity in his solutions. If there is anything I want my son to take away from watching Curious George, it is that sometimes life takes balls, as long as you are willing to clean up afterwards.

And also that if you're really cute and know how to play dumb, people will forgive just about anything.

Why I Will Not Vote for Hillary

2008-05-23T08:45:00.008-04:00

Now, let me preface this by saying that I don't have all the facts and this is simply my opinion based on what I hear on NPR between 6:00 and 6:15 am each morning. Correct me if I have my facts wrong.

Every morning on the radio I hear Democrats making the argument that the Democratic primary votes in Florida and Michigan should be counted, and that it is a crime against humanity for them not to be. They promise to fight for our votes to count, and pledge that they will not lay down arms until all of the delegates are seated.

And I can't help but wonder how they can look at themselves in the mirror each morning and not avert their eyes. Newsflash - the Democratic party broke the rules. Blatantly, from what I understand. The rules said when to have primaries, and that primaries held at times other than stipulated by the rules would not be valid. They ignored those rules and had primaries anyway. Obama did the right thing and abstained. Hillary made speeches about how she was going to campaign here anyway, as if she was doing us a favor by gracing us with her presence, and put her name on the ballot. And because she was THE ONLY CANDIDATE LISTED, she won. Note to Hillary - winning by default is not winning. I would stop waving that victory flag.

Is it any wonder why she is now fighting to have those votes counted? It's not because of democratic processes. It is because she wants to ignore the rules and then cry foul when she gets caught. It may be a stupid rule, and it may need to be changed. But if she won't respect the guidelines created by her own party for fair play and blatently manipulates the system for her own gain, how can we expect her to create diplomacy on a global level? It is obvious she does not have the best interests of democracy at heart, so why should we expect her to have our best interests at heart if she is in office?

Let me be very clear - I am registered as an Independent, so I have no alliance to either of the dominant parties. I don't like any of the candidates and think they are all products of a flawed system plagued with more of an emphasis on PR, pandering, and strategic endorsements than with the real leadership skill it will take to turn our economy around, improve foreign relations, and get us back on track.

Why won't I vote for Hillary? Because she doesn't respect us enough to play fair. She is a smart woman with a true gift for policy-making, leadership, and inspiring people to make a difference. But her campaign is not about those things. It is about Hillary Clinton waging a one-woman battle to stick it to the Republicans. I'm not so naive as to think that Obama and McCain are not cut from the same cloth, but at least they're better actors.

Hilary is losing, and it is driving her crazy. I can relate - I can appreciate a woman who fights to the death and doesn't take failure as an option. But there comes a time when you're just making a fool of yourself, and trying to convince us that you manipulating the system is really doing us a favor, you manage to simultaneously insult our intelligence and degrade your credibility as an agent of change.

Step aside, Hillary. The fat lady just cleared her throat.

Enough With the Mommy Guilt

2008-05-14T15:46:00.000-04:00

I just read an article about the current marketing campaign by Suave, in which a woman is shown going through the stages of being a young, attractive woman, then having kids and slowly morphing into a spit-up smelling, wrinkled-clothes wearing, unhappy lump of a person. Then, of course, she uses Suave and is attractive and happy again. The writer of the article chastized Suave for exploiting mommy-guilt to sell their products, and argued that glamorous haircare isn't necessarily at the top of a mother's to-do list.

And then I read the comments from women (and men) listing off all of the roles women play as mothers, and how we should all just be glad that they don't hit us in the face with a frying pan for not worshipping at their feet for the sole reason that they gave birth.

My response - you signed up for this.

I am a mother, albeit to only one child who is pretty easy to take care of. And, I have a A+ husband who shares household chores and parenting responsibilities pretty equally and with enthusiasm. I work full-time and manage to keep the house relatively clean, wear clean and presentable clothes, cook healthy meals, run errands, maintain friendships, date my husband, and exercise daily. And I don't feel like society owes me any pity for this.

People call being a mother the hardest job on earth, and I can see why. It is a 24/7 all-hands-on-deck position with little vacation, no sick leave, and payment in the form of the occasional "please" or "thank you, mommy." I just don't feel the need to lord it over everyone about how hard I work as a mother. I asked to become a mother, and I knew it would be hard. Sure, I enjoyed my Mother's Day breakfast and basked in the appreciation of my son and husband, but I don't expect to be worshipped because I am a mother. I expect to be worshipped because I am awesome. LOL

Many mothers love to list off all of the hats they wear in their families. As one commenter on the article wrote: "cook, pastry chef, maid, taxi-cab driver, author, disciplinarian, friend, laundress, pet groomer/caregiver, professional grocery planner and shopper, party planner, gift purchaser (birthday parties, christmas, anniversaries, etc.), volunteer (at school event or otherwise), counselor, nurse/physician (primary care and ER services), vehicle cleaner(inside and out), editor, teacher (all subjects and specialties), financial analyst, college planner and financier..." Here's the thing - you don't have to do all of those things. There is a good chance that your family would survive - possibly thrive - if you just got out of the way a little bit.

What I'm trying to say is, I don't feel bad for you. Seriously. If you are filling all of those roles for your family, what is everyone else doing? Feeding a cat and scooping a litter box does not make you a pet groomer/caregiver. It makes you an adult. Shopping for gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, and Christmas does not make you a personal shopper. It makes you an adult. Stopping at the gas station to vacuum out your car for 10 minutes does not make you a vehicle cleaner. It makes you an adult.

If you don't want to do these things, get rid of the cat, disown your family, and live with a dirty car. But don't make the rest of us feel bad because you can't get your act together.

Want to talk about the double standard regarding societal pressure for moms to look like supermodels while dads can let themselves go? I'm right there with you. Want to vent about there not being enough time in the day to get it all done and still get enough sleep to get up and do it the next day? Sing it, sister. Just stop with the guilt.

It really isn't making me feel bad.

Some Enchanted Evening

2008-04-14T08:46:00.001-04:00

I heard on the radio this morning that our local Junior League recently hosted an "Operation: Prom Night," during which the members supplied lower-income teenagers with dresses, shoes, haircuts, makeup, accessories, and everything else a girl needs to go to the prom. Except her dignity, of course.

The woman who was interviewed expressed that she was so glad they were able to provide this service and make sure that everyone had an opportunity to have the magical experience of prom night.

Blech. Gag me.

Okay, I went to my prom. I went to two, in fact - mine and my now-husband's. It was fine. My mom made me two very nice dresses. I managed to rub some goop in my hair until it resembled something moderately fashionable and slap on some makeup, and we piled into a limo with our friends to go have pictures taken to commemorate our magical evening. We went downtown and had at 4:30 pm dinner at a fancy restaurant, where I witnessed two girls from my class throwing up their dinners in the bathroom, and then because we had so much time to kill before the actual prom started, we stopped and played a few rounds of mini-golf.

I don't even remember what happened at the prom. Probably a lot of yelling over the DJ and looking at people's watches to find out when we could leave and have fun again. I wasn't that into the prom.

My wedding day was the same way. My mom made me a lovely dress, I rubbed some goop in my hair and stuck a veil on top, put on some lip gloss, and went to church. I shaved my legs in the car. I didn't mean to make light of the importance of the day, but I just wasn't that into making my wedding the Most Perfect Day Ever. My wedding day was pretty close to perfect, but I think it had more to do with my family and husband than magic.

What I'm trying to say is, so much pressure is put on events like prom night for them to be perfect and magical, when in reality prom night is just prom night. And to view it from the perspective of MTV, prom night is an event designed to pressure kids to spend their parents' money, drink heavily, have sex, and ultimately throw up in someone's bushes at an after-party, all in the name of creating a "magical experience."

The prom champions will argue that the prom is a rite of passage, a symbolic event celebrating the end of high school and the entrance into a new phase of life. It is about treasuring friendships and making lifelong memories. And I agree, the prom is an excellent way to do those things. I just don't think it needs to be built up as the most important event in a high school girl's life.

Call me jaded but I can't get excited about Operation: Prom Night. But, my perspective is skewed; going to the prom was not out of reach for me. I understand that this group of do-gooders is simply helping these girls have a nice dress, cute shoes, and pretty jewelry for a party that they might not otherwise be able to afford. And that is what the problem is - the prom should not be a party that people need charity to attend.

I think these girls would be better served by the Junior League donating supplies for their first college dorm room or apartment on their own, and they can just do the makeovers on each other.

I'm not one of the prom picketers who want to see it abolished in exchange for college application essay writing parties. The prom can be a fun event to celebrate the end of high school and these kids should fight for their right to party. But I will do a silent high-five to myself if I have a teenaged daughter someday who tells me she just isn't that into the prom.

Toddlers, Talk to Me

2008-03-17T11:51:00.000-04:00

I've been making the two-year-old birthday party circuit lately, and I've got to hand it to them - two-year-olds are the cutest game in town. A two-year-old on his own is pretty darn cute, but get a bunch of them together and the cuteness just oozes out everywhere and turns typically level-headed adults into smiling, sappy goofballs.

Two-year-olds have a knack for making everything funny. The way they walk, like they're trying to pretend like they're not drunk. The way they drop things and then stoop to pick them up, taking extra care on the vertical return so they don't do a face-plant in the sandbox. A two-year-old laughs with his entire body and infects everyone else with their happiness. And seeing a two-year-old run with complete abandon is enough to make Dick Cheney want to celebrate Earth Day.

The way two-year-olds interact with each other is even better. Linear thought is not a requirement, and they don't even have to be doing the same thing to have a good time together. Whether they are bonding over animal crackers, juice, or a mutual admiration for Thomas the Tank Engine, toddlers generally accept each other for who they are.

My favorite thing about two-year-olds, though, is how easy it is for me to communicate with them. I know, most of their words are not easily understood and they don't use complete sentences, but that is where the magic happens. Let me explain.

I am not a kid person. Kids don't get me, and I don't get them. Kids are unpredictable, and I never know what they're going to say to me. That freaks me out. When I'm around other people's kids, I feel like they can sense my fear and see it as a weakness. Take this recent exchange in the parking lot of my son's preschool:

Random Child: Are you Zach's mom?

Me: No.

Random Child: You look like Zach's mom.

Me: Okay.

It's not that I am not friendly or social, or that I lack the basics of conversant interaction. It's that I have nothing to say to kids that doesn't sound like I am patronizing them.

But with two-year-olds, my world opens up. This is a group I can engage with. Since I am not completely clear on what they are telling or asking me, I can pretty much say anything and get an A+ for trying. A conversation with a two-year-old goes more like this:

Toddler: Cup.

Me: Yep, that's a red cup.

Toddler: Moon in sky.

Me: Look at the moon in the sky. What shape is the moon?

Toddler: Mommy is eating.

Me: Yep, Mommy is having a yummy snack.

Easy! Just state the obvious and ask questions related to shapes, colors, and sounds, and you're golden. I could do this all day.

I feel like my resistance to interact with kids makes me lazy or standoffish, and that I might be interpreted as mean or disinterested. And maybe I am those things, who knows. But I think it really comes down to the basic need we all have once in a while to be happy just stating the obvious, accepting it, and moving on. Toddlers have it down to an art form, and I get it.

Not Without My Hair

2008-02-14T08:11:00.000-05:00

In the natural habitat of women, there are certain ideals. A single-digit clothing size, stylish purses, big diamond rings...let's face it ladies: these are some of the things we use as a basis of comparison out in the wild. We all know its true. And as makeover shows and reality modeling competitions will attest, the holy grail of femininity is long hair.

At some point in a woman's life, she sees a shampoo commercial and instantly aches for long, glorious locks of hair that swoosh when she walks and sends a message to the universe that says, "I am woman, see me flat-iron." Long hair is sexuality, long hair is glamorous, long hair is...never going to happen for me.

I have always been a member of the short hair club. As a child, my mother would cut my hair into styles that she insists now were "very becoming." I suspect now that she was getting her style advice from a pet grooming magazine. My elementary school pictures are a slide show of pity: curly in some spots, wavy in others, and always a big cowlick in the front. My solution was to grow it long, and I tried so many times. I brushed it 100 times a night, used the special shampoo, and patiently persevered through the awkward stages when I tried to act like I meant for it to look that way. But it never looked good, and eventually I had to accept that I just look better with short hair, so I tried to make the most of it.

But oh how I envied those girls with long hair. People always think that short hair is so easy, but I wanted the simplicity of putting my hair in a ponytail instead of having to invest in various types of goop and sprays to keep my hair under control. What you save in drying time with short hair, you lose in logistics.

So you can imagine that I held a little resentment towards those long-locked girls who identified themselves by their hair. Inevitably every week I would see some television show about makeovers, when girls would cry and moan about having their hair cut, and I would think, "get over it, you whiner." But inside I thought, "one down, 50 million to go. If I can't have long hair, NO ONE CAN."

Then one day I realized I was slowing making the transition to the dark side. I was home with my baby and didn't have many opportunities for haircuts anyway, so it kind of started to happen on its own.

Over time, I started to really enjoy having "long hair" (which for me, means shoulder-length). I could get it into a ponytail if I really tried, and a collection of barrettes and headbands had started to appear in the bathroom. Before I knew it, I was nodding in understanding at the crying girls on TV, brushing my lucious locks and vowing never to cut my hair.

And then I innocently went in for a trim. I wanted bangs, nothing major. I sat confidently with my stylist and chatted about nothing in particular. Then my neck started to feel very naked. I reached back to feel my hair and realized...it was gone. There had been a gross miscommunication. I panicked, and tried to calm down. As she excitedly gave me the mirror to check out the back, my heart sank. All of my work had gone down the drain, and I hadn't even gotten to say goodbye. I couldn't fault her; she was so pleased with her work and I knew this was my old haircut I had always had. It looked okay, it just wasn't what I expected.

I was numb. I played it off like it was fine and went to my car to cry. I returned to my office and received comfort from my friends who assured me it looked cute. I cried to my husband as he stood there helplessly and tried to tell me it wasn't that bad. I appreciated my one honest friend who told me, "it kind of looks cute."

And that's when I realized that I turned into That Girl. I had mocked them, I had scorned them, and then I had joined them. I spent two days of my life mourning my hair, never seeing the irony because when it happens to you, its never ironic.

To be honest, now I am glad its gone. Having long hair was fun, but having short hair is me. While it takes longer in the mornings and I still miss having a ponytail on the weekends, I like not blending in with the crowd. I don't think I will try to grow my hair out again, but I can confide to the long-haired girls: I get it.

Insanity Is a One-Way Street

2008-02-04T10:19:00.000-05:00

Last week as I was driving through my neighborhood towards my house to retrieve my forgotten lunch from the refrigerator, which is not an uncommon experience in my work week, I encountered someone in the car ahead of me committing something so vile and reprehensible, so simultaneously annoying and enraging, so completely selfish and inconsiderate that I thought it should be listed as the eighth deadly sin: he was driving the speed limit.

But he wasn't just driving the speed limit. He was driving 30 miles an hour. As I trailed him in my car, knuckles white, brow furrowed, obscenities uttered, and as I tried in vain to use my Jedi mind tricks to propel his car faster down the curving road to my house, I decided that 30 miles an hour is the exact speed that will drive someone mentally insane.

If I ever become an evil genius and need to drive people insane, I am going to create time-sensitive tasks for them to do and then dictate that they can only accomplish them while driving in a car at 30 miles an hour. Then I'll sit back at my desk, tap my fingers together under my chin, and smile at nothing in particular while I rock slowly back and forth in my chair, because I am pretty sure that's what evil geniuses do, at least until we leave the room, at which point they probably check their email.

But back to what I was saying - driving at 30 miles an hour makes being in a car completely pointless. If you're going to take the trouble to get into a car, put on your seatbelt, and crank it up only to drive 30 miles an hour, then you should be ashamed of yourself. Make it worth the effort. Go 45.

Now, I can only complain too much. After all, I was the one who was late. And we were in a residential neighborhood. And I don't have the most illustrious driving record: I have my share of tickets, made worse due to sarcastic comments regarding the validity of the speed limit I had violated, and I have been to drivers' rehab more than once (I recommend the online version). I am a repeat offender, and I know I'll do it again. I can't help myself; I have a need for speed.

I understand the reasoning behind low speed limits in residential areas and I hypocritically tsk at the folks who whip around bus stops and buggy-pushing mothers. I just have a sneaking suspicion that the people responsible for coming up with the speed limits in my neighborhood are sitting behind big desks, tapping their fingers on their chins, and smiling at nothing in particular while they rock back and forth in their chairs.

So the next time you are stuck behind some pokey law-abiding citizen, gripping your steering wheel and trying to figure keep from ramming their car, think of me. If you're not too busy going insane, that is.

I See London, I See France...I am sick of seeing your underpants

2008-01-24T08:34:00.000-05:00

You know, it is really sad when we have to pass a law to make people pull up their pants.

This morning on my drive to work I heard about a bill moving through our government called the "Pull Up Your Britches Bill". It basically makes it illegal to wear pants that expose your unmentionables. I rather thought it should have been called the "I See London, I See France Bill," but no one asked me. Again.

I recently saw a kid wearing pants that were so low I almost missed my green light trying to figure out how he kept them from falling straight down to the ground. Safety pins? Velcro? Lots of practice walking without moving his hips? I wasn't sure, but I didn't approve. I also tire of seeing teenage girls walking around with the hot pink waistband of their thong peeking from their low-rise jeans. Then again, maybe I'm just jealous.

This would be a great opportunity launch into a tirade about the days when we had a sense of decency and self-respect in regards to our appearance, but I am going to try to not do that. I remember seeing an episode of "Leave it to Beaver," when Wally and Beaver are taking a bus to visit a cousin, and Wally asks if he can wear his blue jeans for the journey. Ward replied in surprise, "Why no, Wally. You'll need to wear your slacks and a sport jacket!" It made me laugh because I know that no matter what era you choose, there have always been people muttering how they don't know what's up with kids these days.

So is there really anything wrong with kids wearing clothes that make them look like morons? I did it when I was a teenager and...well, you can draw your own conclusions there. But really, if the worst thing someone does is wear stupid-looking pants, do we really have a problem?

I think the issue is that we are worried that wearing stupid-looking pants is a gateway activity towards doing something worse. Come on, we've all looked at those kids and assumed they were up to no good. For all we know they are the valedictorian of their class, curing cancer by day and rescuing kittens by night. But if while they're doing these heroic things, we can see their underwear...well, I just have a hard time not laughing.

I think maybe this legislation should be renamed as the "You'll Thank Us Later" bill. Kids will be kids and wear their moronic clothes (and I have the family photo albums to prove it), but eventually they will be adults and, hopefully, utter those familiar words: "what's the matter with kids today?"

I'm Addicted to LOL

2008-01-10T10:52:00.001-05:00

It's the new year, so its time to make some obligatory New Year resolutions. This year, I resolved to do a few things differently. For one, I am going to attempt a full year without frivilous credit card spending or fast food. Both ambitious, but both necessary for a good 2009. So I am committed. The credit cards are out of my wallet, and my road trips will be fortified with Clif bars and homemade sandwiches. I can deal.

But one resolution has been harder to keep. Every day, I am compelled by an irresistable longing to conclude each sentence in an email by letting my fingers wander to some very special letters on my keyboard: LOL. I love using LOL. Okay, so I don't use it after every sentence, but it has gotten to the point where if I was indeed laughing out loud that often, I would lose my job, or at least be gently prodded to take advantage of our employee assistance program. LOL I love to laugh, but apparently I love telling people I am laughing even more.

LOL is such a quick and easy way to say, "get it?" or "you know what I am saying?" or even "wink, wink, nudge, nudge". LOL lets me add levity to a touchy situation, or convey that my opinion on so-and-so's new haircut is only meant in jest, and if confronted I would never actually say whatever I just LOLed about. Or, it is just an expression that I am not taking myself too seriously, and that my comments on the world are mostly tongue-in-cheek.

The truth is, I do laugh a lot, and I do laugh out loud. I like to laugh, and I like to make other people laugh. But lately I've started to feel that my constant use of LOL is diluting its impact. If I LOL at everything I think is even mildly amusing, maybe LOLing isn't that big of a deal. If I LOL at the drop of a hat, people might stop trying to make me LOL, and that would be a shame.

So, this year I resolve to stop overusing LOL and use it only in cases where it is absolutely necessary. Sure, others may resolve to get out of debt or volunteer more time to charity or stop stealing office supplies from their employer. But for me, developing coping mechanisms for ignoring the itch of my fingers that desperately want to type those three little taps on the keyboard will be rehabilitation enough.

What will I do instead to convey my emotions through email? I plan to begin abusing the smiley face. :)

One and a Half Glasses of Wine

2007-12-02T19:57:00.000-05:00

I wish I could live my life the way I feel when I've had one and a half glasses of wine.

When I've had one and a half glasses of wine, I can sit back and soak in the world around me. Everything my child does is genius. Solutions to problems come quickly to mind, and everything becomes simple.

When I've had one and a half glasses of wine, I become the parent I want to be, knowing that if my son told me at age 19 that he wanted to get in the car and drive to New England to see the leaves change, I will tell him to go, that he should go and experience the world.

Having one and a half glasses of wine makes me a better singer and dancer. And I can remember all of the funny lines to my favorite movies and inject them into conversation at just the right moment.

One and a half glasses of wine lets music wash over me like waves and lyrics mean so much more. A sad song is more touching, and a happy one makes me forget that I don't know any good dance moves.

When I have had one and a half glasses of wine, I become more in touch with my mortality, and become more thankful for the life that I have. My blessings are more obvious, my time is more precious, and my patience is thick with indulgence. It is a reminder that life happens once, and we are wise to stop once in a while and soak it in.

And then it hits me. What is so wrong with my life that I need to numb it with a bottle of cheap red wine to be happy? And then it hits me again - it's not my life, it's me. I can be a little intense. Some might say I am too hard on myself. I like those things about me, but everyone needs a break from themselves once in a while. What I'm trying to say is, one and a half glasses of wine lets me get out of my own way so I can appreciate just how amazing my life really is and take my focus off of the next hurdle to be cleared. And then, as it begins to fade and life resumes to normal, I become preoccupied with dishes in the sink, laundry that needs to be folded, cats that need to be fed, and all of the little things that keep me from truly living in the moment. And that's fine; having a chance to step away and see the big picture for a while reminds me that I am one lucky lady.

Life comes at us fast. In the blink of an eye, a year has passed and we can't even remember what we did last weekend. If I have a resolution for 2008, it will be to live more of each day as if I have just had one and a half glasses of wine.

What is it with Women and Shoes?

2007-11-06T20:54:00.001-05:00

I have a thing for shoes. I think a lot of women do. Lately I've found myself becoming a bit obsessive over them, ordering shoes online and justifying my purchases with the rationale that a good pair of shoes will last forever, so I am really making an investment in my future, right? After I complete my order, I track my package every day and revel in the anticipation of when I will arrive home from work and see a tidy little box in front of my door. When they arrive, I savor every moment of opening the package, reminding myself that I can return them if I don't like them but knowing inside that will never happen.

Over the years I have bought, worn, given away, and thrown out an embarassing amount of shoes. Some have been gorgeous, others hideous. But they have all served their purpose: they made me feel good. They made me feel pretty. And is that so wrong?

Just as most women seem to have a thing for shoes, most men seem to not understand why women have a thing for shoes. I guess I can understand the confusion. Most men have a few pairs of shoes - the requisite brown, black, and sneakers. Possibly some flip flops, the number of which seems to be directly proportional to the number of times that man says, "dude," in a given day. But generally, for men, shoes are functional, while for women, they are so much more.

Shoes are validation of our womanhood! Shoes fit you no matter what size you are this week. Shoes can mean the difference between casual or dressy, dowdy or sophisticated. The right shoes can make you feel invincible, and the wrong shoes can turn an otherwise reasonable woman into a she-devil. Out of consideration for humankind, I've been known to turn around and go home to change my shoes on my way to work, and its always been worth it. I'm doing my part.

Some women go overboard in their quest for validation through footwear. "Sex and the City" character Carrie Bradshaw famously realized in mid-shoe-shop that she had the equivalency of a down payment on a NYC apartment sitting on the floor of her closet. But it's not just fictional characters who fall victim to the smell of shoe leather in the morning. In a 2006 survey of 300 people by OppenheimerFunds, nearly half of women interviewed said they would rather buy 30 pairs of shoes than save $30,000 for retirement.

So what is it with women and shoes? I think it really comes down to a control mechanism related to want versus need. We don't need shoes. We want shoes. And there is something intoxicating about seeing something you want, no matter how frivilous, and going out and getting it. Our good friend Instant Gratification. There are a lot of things I want that I can't have, many times when I hit a brick wall on an issue, or instances of obstacles between me and a goal, but shoes is never one of them. So what I'm trying to say is, when I can't control the outcome of situations in my life, I always have my shoes. Having my shoes make those naysayers, brick walls, and obstacles easier to brush off. Sometimes it truly is the little things.

And while shoe shopping isn't the healthiest way to deal with the daily stress of life, I don't think a simple high-heeled knee-high leather boot ever hurt anyone.

Unless you're the one in my way.

I'm not who I thought I was

2007-10-22T09:02:00.000-04:00

I love Christmas. Everyone who knows me knows that in my world, Christmas season starts July 5. I like to stretch it out. I break out the Christmas music as soon as possible, and begin planning my decorations around Labor Day. So you can imagine that by the time October arrives I am all geared up to shop. Last weekend I had an afternoon to myself so I settled in for some online Christmas shopping. Little did I know it would be a lesson in self-discovery.

I innocently wandered over to gifts.com, a site I used last year to get gift ideas for tricky recipients. It's great - you can search on a lot of different things like age, gender, interests, and hobbies, and the website will suggest gifts that you never would have thought of on your own. It's the website that recommended the novelty toaster my sister-in-law received, which burns "I'm hot" and "bite me" into your toast, a gift which, for a panicked moment last Christmas morning, I thought had inadvertently been sent to my grandparents, but that is a different story.

This story begins when I stumbled upon a feature I hadn't noticed before - the opportunity to do a full personality profile on your friends and family to receive even better suggestions from this electronic wizard. My brother-in-law was my first victim. After entering his gender and age group, the website flashed a series of photos on the screen and asked me to click on the one that best described his interests. Is he a gadget guy or a minimalist? Would he spend his Saturday fishing with his buddies or visiting the flea market? I answered all of their questions and viola! Gift ideas abound. My curiousity piqued, I quickly saved some gift ideas in my shopping cart and moved on to my brother. My new best friend responded with even better suggestions than the first round. With my Christmas shopping list getting shorter, I spied a bit of temptation..."do it for yourself!" the website called. I let my finger linger on the mouse and slowly moved the cursor to begin a new profile. I was curious to know what this insightful little database had in store for me, so with a bit of self-indulgent entitlement, I clicked.

I entered my gender and my age, breezing through the first few questions since by this point I was a pro. Then the fun began. Would I rather wear jewelry by a local artist or a well-known jeweler? Click. Would I rather vacation in a swanky hotel or a lakeside cottage? Click. Do I wear expensive lipstick or just stick a tube of chapstick in my back pocket? Click. I finished the survey and waited with anticipation at my page of suggested gifts selected especially for me began to load on the screen.

But as I scrolled down the page, my anticipation turned to confusion. And my confusion turned to dismay. And then my dismay turned to insult as I came across one recommendation - a calendar called "Captivating Kittens".

What?!?!

Ice cream bowls. Photo-printed pillows. Little bedazzled chains for me to hang my reading glasses around my neck. Okay, so I made that part up. The point is that this website, which had so recently provided such accurate insight into my gift-giving soul, didn't know me at all. Or maybe....I didn't really know myself.

Later that evening I revealed to my husband that he was married to a middle-aged crafter with a penchant for ice cream and kittens. After retelling my tale of misguided self-exploration, I indignantly went back to the website to show him just how mean and rude it had been to me. But as I brazenly started to click through the pictures, he started questioning my every choice. Local artisan? No, he said. You're a Tiffany's girl all the way. Lakeside cottage? Nope, he replied. He did concede to the choice of chapstick over lipstick, being the recipient of the ever-prevalent chapstick-left-in-the-jeans dryer discovery. But again and again, he confirmed to me that I was not the person I thought I was.

I sat there in front of the computer, feeling shallow. Was I a fraud? Was I living a lie, pretending to be something I wasn't? Or was I simply a victim of drive-though stereotyping, trying to shove myself into a box that didn't quite fit?

I never settled on an answer, and I decided not to care. Either way, I knew one thing was true - I do not want the "Captivating Kittens" calendar for Christmas.

Quitters Never Win...or do they?

2007-10-11T09:57:00.000-04:00

Everyone has heard some over-zealous super-pumped bundle of energy proclaim in an annoyingly perky voice that, "quitters never win and winners never quit!" Okay, so most of the time, that person is me. I'll admit it - I am one of those shiny happy people who bounce out of bed in the morning ready to turn the frowns upside down. Most of the time, in the case of living with my non-morning-loving husband, that good way to get yourself scowled at. Which, of course, just makes me more motivated. But that is beside the point.

The point is that I've spent a lot of time in my life reminding myself that quitters never win, and pushing on toward goals that may be outdated or irrelevant, because I don't want to quit. Or rather, I want to win.

But lately, I've been asking myself, "win what"? Is winning accomplishing a goal or a task? Or is it really about being happy with the state of your life? I don't think the answer is necessarily an easy one. For some, accomplishing a goal makes them happy, and if the definition of winning is to be happy, well there you go. But for others, the scandal of quitting in mid-stream provides a rush of rebellion-infused adrenaline that makes them happy. So...happy despite quitting. And for still others, that frustrating, gut-wrenching, battle-to-the-death of working towards an unrealistic but technically attainable goal IS what makes them happy...and once they get there, they deflate and fret until another target it located. They won, but they are not happy.

I won't tell you which category I fall into.

The reason I've been thinking about this lately is that I have a goal I have been working towards for a long time with no luck whatsoever, and I just realized that the only reason I have not given up is because it never occurred to me. My goal is outdated, unrealistic, and very unlikely to ever happen. But I keep plodding away, scheming and strategizing, and working diligently towards it.

So I've begun to wonder if it just might be time to quit. Pack it up. Go home. Admit defeat. Reality: 1; Me: zip. I think of the things I could do with the time I would regain once I am not out pursuing my elusive goal. I could take up needlepoint. I sit with that thought for a moment and know exactly what to do.

I get back in the game. I know which category I fall into - I am the one for whom the frustrating, gut-wrenching, battle-to-the-death of working towards an unrealistic but technically attainable goal was made. What I am trying to say is, quitters never win, and winners never quit.

But the knowledge that for a minute I stopped to wonder if I could exist any other way makes me know that just working towards the goal is what makes me happy, and even if I never get there, the fight is what drives me. I almost hope I never achieve it. But I'll never admit that in public.

Honesty: Not The Best Policy?

2007-05-01T13:55:00.000-04:00

"What you have to understand about me is that I am brutally honest. If I have a problem with someone, they are going to know it because I will tell them to their face how I feel about them."

Have you ever heard someone say something similar and thought to yourself, "oh, please don't?" Have you ever nodded silently when someone boasted to you about their guerrilla-style frankness regardless of the reaction? And have you ever secretly thought they were going about it all wrong? I have.

It is often said that honesty is the best policy, and in most cases that is true. But lately I've been thinking about people who take that to a new level - people who are honest with you no matter what. People who have opinions and aren't afraid to share them. People who want everyone to know what they are thinking as soon as they think it, whether you like it or not. Everyone knows someone like them, and you might be one of them. And if you are, listen closely: Stop.

Someone once told me that they wished they could emulate the way I could "say mean things to people but make it sound nice." At the time I wasn't sure that was a compliment because I don't make a practice of saying mean things to people, but now I realize that what she meant is that she wished she knew how to be honest with tact, diplomacy, and just plain good manners. I am not convinced that I do a good job of that myself most of the time, but I do give it a good try.

Honesty is a tricky thing. When you realize you have to be honest with someone, it usually means you are going to say something they don't want to hear, so you have to find the right combination of frankness and compassion, and that is hard to do. I think that's why so many people opt for brutal honesty: it's easier. Sometimes it's easier to open your mouth, say what you need to say, and then turn around and ignore the reaction to your words. Or worse, stand there and wait for the person you've just attacked to respond, as if you have just done them a favor.

I think the real trick to honesty, though, is knowing when to say something and when to keep your damn mouth shut. That's another trait I've noticed in my brutally honest friends: that they believe their opinion always matters, all the time. And, let's be honest (pun intended), it doesn't. Your honest opinion about how I look in these jeans? Bring it on. Your honest opinion about your best friend's husband? Better keep that to yourself.

Think about it - everyone wishes they could be a fly on the wall and find out what their friends really think of them. (Or maybe that's just me.) I heard a radio interview with a guy who wanted the straight dope on his reputation with his friends...so he asked them to be brutally honest with him, to just open the floodgates and let it out: the good, the bad, and the ugly. He found out that pretty much everyone, including his own mother, thought he was a jerk. Imagine hearing that kind of honesty. Imagine having to say it.

What I'm trying to say is, honesty doesn't have to be brutal. It takes work to make the truth easier to swallow, and while some people seem to be born with a velvet tongue, the talent is one that can be honed with sincere attention to a) how much honesty someone really wants to hear, and b) whether your opinion even matters in the first place.

Is My Break Over Yet?

2007-04-24T16:47:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, I informed my husband that he was about to experience something that had been few and far between for a while: an all-guys weekend. No girls allowed. Just him and...the baby. Yep, I was headed out of town for a girls' weekend of my own and leaving him with our 14-month-old son. Our 14 month-old son who had never spent a night of his life away from his mother. Our 14 month-old son who was currently falling to pieces if I as much as left the room to use the bathroom. Our 14 month-old son who had spent almost all of his days within shouting distance of dear old mom. That's right, it was a rite of passage for all three of us.

Truth be told, I needed a break. I was off to meet with my girlfriends and engage in some much-needed retail therapy.

So when I announced my plans to leave for three days (well, one whole day and two half-days), I was happy and thankful to hear my husband say, "okay." Okay. Like I had just suggested we order a pizza. Okay. No sweat. Have fun! See ya! I don't know what I had expected him to say...after all, my husband is not the type to consider hanging out with his own child to be "babysitting". But I guess I had anticipated at least a glimmer of anxiety, confirmation that I was still A+ #1 Parent-in-Charge and that my leaving the household was a recipe for disaster. But as it seemed, it was no biggie.

About a week later, my beloved voiced some apprehension. "It's not that I don't want you to go and have fun, but....well, there are just some things he just wants you for."

Ahhhhh....the validation I was looking for. My baby needs me! I am not as replaceable as I thought! I smiled, patted his arm knowingly, and smugly said, "I know, but you'll be fine without me."

But as I smiled on the outside and calmly packed my overnight bag, I was the one freaking out. I knew my husband could handle it just fine...but could I? Lately I had been daydreaming about the open road, about listening to whatever station I wanted to on the radio without input from anyone else, and about having dirty diapers and messy mealtimes be someone else's problem. I was seriously looking forward to a few days away from my precious baby, and what did that say about me as a mother? Although I knew it was time for us to spend a night apart, I felt guilty for looking forward to it, no doubt about it.

When the day finally arrived I got in the car and waved goodbye and blew kisses through the window as I drove away. I waited for the exhileration of the open road to hit me. I waited to feel liberated and free. But I didn't. I felt lonely and bored. Plus, my CD player was broken. I called home.

"What are you guys doing?"

"He's fine. We're going to the park."

Life went on.

When I arrived at my destination and reunited with my college girlfriends, I noticed myself noticing things I had never noticed before. Getting into a car that didn't have Cheerios littering the floor made me feel glamorous. Putting something on the edge of a coffee table and knowing it would stay there until I personally moved it was an indulgence. Taking a shower and drying my hair without first having to turn on Baby Einstein was a step back in time. I browsed the mall without a thought of whether I had adequate supplies of juice and goldfish crackers in my bag and lingered in a dimly-lit restaurant without a high-chair in sight.

And I talked about my baby non-stop.

What I'm trying to say is, I did feel liberated, and I did feel free. It was nice to have a break and be able to focus on just me for a couple of days. But I learned something about myself that weekend: I didn't need as much of a break as I thought. By Saturday night I was itching to be home wiping off sticky fingers and searching the dryer for the matching top to tiny pajama bottoms. And when my car finally pulled into the driveway on Sunday afternoon and I peeked at my baby sleeping in his room, I knew that soon my break would be over...and I couldn't wait.

Racism? Or just Jerkism?

2007-04-10T14:15:00.000-04:00

This week I ask you: which is worse - to be a racist, or to be a jerk about it?

The media is all up in arms this week over Don Imus and his morning radio talk show, on which he called female Rutgers University basketball players, "nappy-headed hos." He has been dismissed for two weeks and some are calling for his termination from the airways. The NAACP has demanded an apology to the athletes, Al Sharpton has scolded him on his own show, and Jesse Jackson has led a protest against his program and called for an end to racism in our culture.

But is racism the real issue here?

I am not saying that the racist nature of his comments should be ignored; racist comments are wrong and I think it is important to point that out and ensure that our children understand the ignorance of basing opinions about people strictly on issues of race.

But in my opinion, Don Imus' comments have less to do with him being a racist than with him being a jerk, and with us letting him get away with it.

Why is it okay for someone - anyone - to go on the air and make rude, insulting, and downright mean statements about people and call it entertainment? People like Don Imus and Howard Stern and countless other grumedgeons who have branded their own version of shock-jock entertainment have created an empire and earned millions at the expense of common decency. But as long as we as a society encourage these bullies to clog our airways with insults and crude humor by listening to their programs, they will continue to take full advantage of their first amendment right to free speech.

Civil rights organizations are calling for Imus to be fired because of his racist comments. But sadly, Don Imus will probably only be fired when he stops making money for his broadcaster. When companies stop advertising because people stop listening because he uses his time on the air to insult our intelligence, he may be fired.

What I am trying to say is, the outrage is misplaced. It should be at ourselves, for letting people like him trash-talk us to a point where we consider profanity and rudeness to be an acceptable use of our airways.

So which is worse, to be a racist or to be a jerk about it? I honestly don't know, but I know better than to answer that question.

God Loves Boating!

2007-03-19T13:43:00.000-04:00

I have seen the same bumper sticker on two different cars in the past two weeks, and I have started to take notice. It is a plain white bumper sticker with royal blue lettering that proclaims, "God Loves Boating!" Now, the "loves" part is actually communicated with a red heart, not the word, "loves." But that is the general message. God loves boating. Did not know that.

It made me think about how convenient God is. Since He is not here on land to defend Himself, we can decide what His interests, or apparently, His hobbies are. It reminds me of those motorcycle drivers I see wearing jackets that announce that they are "biking for the Lord." For the Lord? Are they on an errand? Is the Lord out of milk?

Now let me get one thing straight: I believe in God and am not scorning Him or people who believe in Him. Quite the opposite, actually. I just doubt that He, though divine intervention, asked those families to place that message on their cars and tell the world about his love of the open water.

I believe that there are messages God wants us to share with each other. Love thy neighbor. Honor thy mother and father. Do not kill. Its where people start putting words in His mouth that I become skeptical.

At funerals, you hear people say, "it's God's way." When we're confused about why something happened or didn't happen, we shrug and mutter, "well, the Lord works in mysterious ways." And my favorite, when we're faced with a situation where we can either make a right or wrong decision, someone will ask, "what would Jesus do?" I can't help but think, "Call his Dad."

In wars across the world, everyone feels as if their version of God is on their side, justifying their fight. God has been both blamed and praised for things that were done by mankind. Ben Franklin even claimed that beer is "proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."

What I'm trying to say is, at what point are we guilty of exploitation? If God is a convenient scapegoat for feelings we don't want to deal with, issues we can't explain, or vices we want to justify, does that detract from the human qualities we possess for critical thought, problem solving, and self-control? Or does looking for a comfortable way to sweep our issues under the rug make us all the more human?

Something tells me I am reading too much into a silly bumper sticker.

To be honest, I hope God does love boating. I'd like to think that every once in a while, God gets up on a beautiful Sunday morning and decides to go out on His boat. It would make me feel less guilty about not going to church.

President for Hire: Experience a Minus

2007-03-15T10:50:00.000-04:00

Cold and flu season is behind us, but some of us are still feeling queasy...and its because another season is getting close: presidential campaign season. Soon we won't be able to sit through an episode of, "America's Next Top Model," without being inundated with messages from special-interest groups telling us not why their candidate is better, but why the other is worse.

A lot of attention is being paid these days to whether Hilary Clinton or Barack Obama will receive the Democratic party's nomination, attempting to place our first female or first black president in the White House. Arguments are made on behalf of each one, and one of the reasons justifying Hilary's nomination is because she is a more experienced politician. Experienced politician? Pardon me, but am I the only one who thinks an experienced politician is the last person we need leading us?

"Yes, I am an experienced politician! I have had 25 years to hone my skills of manipulation, back-stabbing, truth-twisting, and talking out of both sides of my mouth!"

If you can't tell, I think politicians are the slimiest of the slimy, the scummiest of the scummy, and the last species of person I would want having anything to do with my well-being. So to tell me that I should support someone because they are an experienced politician...well, that's just scary. Experience what got us in this mess in the first place. Our current president comes from one of the most experienced political families in America, and we've ended up the most-hated country in the world. I don't think experience is what we need. In fact, we might need the opposite.

In job interviews across America, people know that a good attitude and a strong work ethic can usually beat experience. Why isn't that the case in public office? We don't need someone who has mastered the art of telling people what they want to hear. We need someone who can bridge the gap between the two feuding extremist groups battling it out for dominance in our world. No, not the Sunis and the Shiites. I mean the Liberals and the Conservatives.

Am I just a jaded 30-something who feels lost in the shuffle and doubts the value of a vote? Kind of. I'm not a bleeding heart liberal or a Christian conservative, I'm just a middle-of-the-road American who thinks each party makes some good points but is equally delusional on others. Either way, when I go to the polls to vote I can't help but feel like I am choosing between Equal and Sweet-n-Low. Does it really matter when they're both fake anyway?

What I'm trying to say is, if the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, why do we keep electing experienced politicians and expecting our problems to be over? I don't have the solution, but I feel like I could be part of it if the right kind of person was leading the charge. No, Dad, that person is not me. But it isn't an experienced politician either.

Attractive People Are Successful: Shocker!

2007-03-07T19:31:00.000-05:00

I read an article today that revealed a chilling insight into reality: attractive people are more successful at work.

Well, duh.

The article said survey results indicated that people are perceived to be more competent at their jobs if they are attractive, and that ugly people are lazy and stupid. Okay, so the article used more politically-correct language, but that's what it was getting at.

I don't think it is any shock that the beautiful people get ahead in life faster than us average-looking folks, but it did get me thinking. Attractive by whose standards? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right? Well, then who is beholding us at work? And more importantly, how can we become more attractive to them?

Our entire society is built upon appearances. There are image consultants who make a living off of the concept that perception is reality, there are television shows dedicated to turning ugly ducklings into beautiful swans, and hoards of magazines promise us the secret to ageless beauty and sex appeal. A lot of people spend a lot of money to appear to be something they may not by purchasing expensive cars, homes, and clothes to create a certain image. Our economy depends on a certain level of vanity!

But is being aware of how appearance affects your success such a bad idea? I think there is truth to the adage that when you dress up and put some effort into your appearance, you feel better about yourself and as a result, perform better at work. Granted, there are a variety of ways we can define "effort" in this case. After all, you can spend a lot of time looking like you just got out of bed, but I don't think that's going to help you get a promotion. Unless you work for a bunch of college students.

I guess what I am trying to say is, no matter how evolved we think we are, appearance still counts, and I don't think that is a terrible thing. No, its not fair, but its true. But the good news is that research shows that while the beautiful and fabulous still end up getting the benefit of the doubt more than they might deserve it, most of being attractive to others at work is having a smile on your face. And maybe using some mousse. After all, if you want to win, you gotta play the game.

On a somewhat related note, I also read an article that said more Americans hate their jobs than ever before. I wonder if those people are ugly.

A Life WIthout Regret? No thanks.

2007-03-01T13:26:00.000-05:00

A lot of people like to say that they live their lives without regret, and I've been thinking about that lately. I've been wondering if that is really a good idea, if its really something smart to do. They are so proud..."No regrets, baby, no regrets!" They say it like they have some kind of secret weapon for a long and prosperous life, like if I regret things then I am really wasting my time when I could be out doing something meaningful. I don't live without regret, and I think my regrets are part of what has made my life what it is. Let me explain.

To say that you live life without regret is like saying you don't make any mistakes. And saying that you don't make any mistakes is like saying you either always make good decisions or you always decide to like the decisions you made regardless of whether they are good or bad. And to say that you always make good decisions or you always decide to like your decisions, in my opinion, robs you of the opportunity to realize what could have been.

What I'm trying to say is, if you never regret anything, you never think to yourself, "I would rather have done this instead of that." And you'll never really know if you're happy or not.

I think what the "no regrets" people are really saying is that they don't want to dwell on the past, that they want to move forward and focus on the future. I agree with them, but I think ignoring the past and our regrettable decisions is a mistake. By recognizing our regrets, we allow ourselves to admit that we made a mistake, that we would do things differently if given the chance at a "do-over".

Regretting something isn't a waste of time, but what is a waste is letting that regret paralyze you in time, reliving the decision and renewing the feeling over and over. I've been letting a recent decision paralyze me in time, constantly wondering what could have happened if I had done something differently. The truth is, I'll never know. Maybe everything, maybe nothing. That's not the point. The point is that by regretting my decision, I learned something about myself and what I want out of life.

Which brings me here. Part of my regret is realizing that what I want out of life is to be part of the world, to leave some kind of legacy behind that says, "I was here." I like to talk, I like to write, and I like to think big. So instead of editorializing to my steering wheel, I am going to do it here.

Regrets? You bet. Mostly small, unimportant things that don't matter...and a few that keep me up at night. But a life without regret is kind of like a birthday cake without a spot where someone tasted the frosting with their finger. How else do you know if its any good?