tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10585485533301125422024-03-17T23:59:59.731-07:00Keep in Touch With MommakinMother. Wife. Squealy Fangirl. Frustrated Bohemian Suburbanite.mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.comBlogger479125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-63943295135570605502016-06-07T18:09:00.000-07:002016-06-07T18:09:31.980-07:00Fighting on the Same SideI don't like confrontation. I avoid it whenever I can. I know there are people who thrive on good arguments, but I am not one of them. One of the reasons I stopped posting here regularly was because, as more people read my words, I had to make a much stronger effort to not step on toes. I mean -- I didn't <i>have</i> to. Most of the popular mainstream blogs rely on mean-spirited humor. But I liked the people who read my words -- who left kind and/or thoughtful comments. I didn't want to say something that might be hurtful for the sake of the opportunity to turn a clever phrase.<br />
<br />
So.<br />
<br />
A lover, not a fighter.<br />
<br />
But lately I've found myself in fights. Plural. I have been confused every time -- how did this happen? -- but -- not being a seasoned fighter -- I just can't seem to figure out how to walk away and drop things. Obviously if something I did or said inspired someone else to be mean to me, then I must have been misunderstood. I try to restate, but when the antagonist just keeps striking, I eventually strike back. I'm not proud of that. I watch people who just walk away. I want to be like them. I'm not, though. Not yet. I'll learn.<br />
<br />
Most recently I was attacked because -- although this woman and I were on the same side of an argument, my personal experience and viewpoint didn't completely match hers. Now she was young -- and maybe it's the advantage of age -- to be able to understand that I don't have to share your precise experience for your experience to be valid. She ripped me to shreds because I came at it from a different angle. No, no, no. You will think exactly as I think, or you will be wrong. Then -- THEN! -- she launched into -- well, here's the thing -- if she'd been a man, the womyns would've been shaking their fists and spitting, "MANSPLAINING!" while simultaneously lighting their torches and searching for their pitchforks.<br />
<br />
I thought about that a lot.<br />
<br />
I suspect that if a man had spoken to her that way, she would've lead the angry mob. Hell, I suspect that if a man had spoken to ME that way she might not have exactly LEAD the mob, but she would've probably joined it. Because mansplaining is bad. Everyone knows that. We are womyns, hear us roar! Don't dare to try to 'plain something to a womyns, because womyns don't need to have anything explained to them.<br />
<br />
Except, of course, by other womyns.<br />
<br />
Not being able to walk away from a fight isn't the only bad habit I'm trying to break.<br />
<br />
I read comments.<br />
<br />
Recently I was reading a story about the absolutely repellant <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Lato, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.993999481201172px;">Brock Allen Turner rape case. A woman in the comments expressed her repulsion with him and compassion for her by stating that she was loved. She was somebody's daughter, grand-daughter, sister, </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Lato, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.993999481201172px;">niece, friend. She was immediately attacked -- and I mean ATTACKED -- by the womyns who said things like, "Oh, so if she were a homeless orphan, it would be ok?" She said, no, of course not. It would never be ok -- but she just kept being pummeled. Our worth isn't based on our relationships to other people. Well, of course not. I agree. But I don't think attacking a woman who was in agreement -- what happened here was capital B Bad -- because of the way she chose to express her compassion was fair. She eventually gave up, by the way. But she took an awfully good pummeling, first.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Lato, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.993999481201172px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Lato, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.993999481201172px;">For what?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Lato, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.993999481201172px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Lato, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.993999481201172px;">It's stupid. Let's get it together, women. Womyns. The lot of us. Fighting with people who are on your side is really a deterrent in the bigger picture. We're attacking each other for using the wrong word, or having a different experience and turning our backs on all the stuff we should REALLY be fighting. </span></span>mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-10935841899473482152016-04-19T12:30:00.002-07:002016-04-19T12:30:41.896-07:00The Choices We Make<div style="text-align: justify;">
Growing up, I did some regrettable things. I presume we all do. It's rebellion, it's self-expression, it's -- whatever. It's human nature. However, despite engaging in the usual non-parental/societal approved sex, drugs, and rock and roll, I was, for the most part, obedient. I did what was expected of me. Come to think of it, even my rebellion was a pretty, well, expected rebellion. As a predictably obedient kid, I had my future mapped out long before I left high school. I would get good grades so that I could get into a decent college and get a good education. I would graduate in four years -- no more, no less -- and get a job in my field. I would get married shortly after college and I would put my job on hold for a couple years to raise kids, then, when they were school-aged, I would go back to work. We would take annual family vacations and develop traditional traditions around summer break and holidays. I hadn't figured past that by the time I was 14, because that would've involved imagining myself being over 30 and, well, that was pretty much inconceivable. </div>
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So I got the good grades and I went to college and I majored in Elementary Education because I loved kids and I was pretty good at conveying information and -- well -- that summers and holidays off thing was going to fit REALLY nicely into my family plans. I got engaged at the beginning of my senior year to a boy I'd been dating since the end of my freshman year and everything was right on track -- just like a rule-follower like me liked it.</div>
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Three weeks before graduation he broke up with me and -- in retrospect -- saved both of us a lot of heartache because we were NOT well-matched. But we're talking about a LOT of retrospect. That's another story and it's been told a million times. I won't bother to rehash it here. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Yep, it needed to happen, but it sure did send the needle skidding across the album of my life. I was utterly lost -- abandoned, with no idea how to move forward. Things were supposed to follow a formula and this wasn't it. Life was wrong. But I was still alive, so I was going to have to live it. </div>
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My best friend had made plans to go to grad school halfway across the country -- that was her plan -- and, on a whim, I asked her if I could join her. I established residency in this new state while working a job that was not in my field and started grad school myself once residency had been established. </div>
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Now I had a new focus.</div>
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I didn't stay there long enough to finish that degree. I took jobs in my field -- some traditional, some non-traditional -- and one of them led me back to grad school. That felt right. Not as right as that original plan. In my mind, that was still the <i>right</i> life, but that ship had sailed and I needed to forge a new path. If I couldn't have a family, I would have an education. It was a compromise, and not an entirely satisfactory one, but it was good. Minimally, it was a good alibi. Why haven't you gotten married? Why aren't you raising babies? I was too dedicated to my education!</div>
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So a decade later, I developed a new plan. Master's, Doctorate, publications -- I would dedicate myself to academia. I would devote myself to education. It was definitely Plan B, and I still mourned Plan A, but it was a good, sound, plan and one I could take some pride in. I wrapped my identity around it.</div>
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I had a mentor who I admired greatly and the children in my classrooms became "my kids" in the absence of kids of my own. </div>
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So I followed the new set of rules. I finished my Master's and began coursework on my Doctorate. My academic network was solid and growing stronger every day. I concentrated on younger children and people with disabilities. I took jobs in my field and that enhanced my education as my education enhanced my employment. Plan B was going ok. It wasn't Plan A, but it wasn't bad. It was rewarding.</div>
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And then love and babies curved into my path and -- well -- I didn't even think about a new plan. This is what I'd wanted in the first place. The route had been convoluted and more adventurous than I'd planned, but here I was -- right where I wanted to be -- just two decades late. A return to a modified Plan A. I briefly tried to have it all -- continuing with my studies while raising my babies -- but sitting in an ivory tower learning about early childhood while my own babies were in the care of someone else was -- well, it was just WRONG, is what it was. For me. No judgments. I stayed home. I quit school when I was piloting my doctoral dissertation. I dedicated myself to my own babies instead of to the babies of the world.</div>
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I was very, very, happy.</div>
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I figured -- the original Plan A had me returning to the workforce when my kids were school-aged -- no reason plan A2 couldn't go the same way. I mean -- I was very educated and very experienced. How hard could it be?</div>
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But there were problems I didn't anticipate.</div>
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And now? Now it's too late. My kids don't need me anymore. The only jobs I can find in my field are in daycare. If you're not aware -- the wages of daycare workers are comparable to the wages of fast-food workers. The social status? Oh, I don't have to tell you the social status. You know. The best part? I am responsible for just as much planning/work/paperwork outside the classroom as any classroom teacher. More, really, because there are no such things as the teacher planning days classroom teachers seem to get twice a month. The worst of both worlds. Some might say -- go back to school! Get the re-certifications you need to get a respectable job! But that would be a waste of my time and money. Oh -- I could do it. Probably. But could I get hired? That's very unlikely at my age. It would just be too much of a gamble.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So. So Plan C. Plan C is where I have to spend every snow day, every holiday break, every long weekend, every damn summer working while I watch the teacher friends I accumulated along the way talk about how much they deserve their breaks. I get skin rashes and stomach issues and all manner of stress-related bullshit (as well as every communicable thing that comes along) while doing a job that offers zero sick days. Go ahead and process that for a minute.</div>
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Plan C sucks -- and I can honestly see no way out of it because -- you can say "You're never too old to start over!" as much as you want, but the truth is -- sometimes you are.</div>
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So I've given up.</div>
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This is my life. It did not go according to plan. Few lives do, entirely, I suppose. </div>
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I don't suppose it's necessary to inform you that Plan A -- the way I always thought it should be -- is not the plan my children have chosen for themselves, either. Their lives, of course. Their choices. I gave up those dreams for them kicking and screaming, though. </div>
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But I did give up.</div>
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One dream at a time.</div>
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I did give up.</div>
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I don't have many dreams left. Not many at all. But I don't have high hopes for them.</div>
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<br />mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-83379963904833386292016-04-07T16:49:00.000-07:002016-04-07T16:49:23.401-07:00What? Sin a Name.<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">What's in a name? that which we call a rose</span></i></div>
<i><div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">By any other name would smell as sweet. ~ Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet</span></i></div>
</i></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Last week, I attended a workshop called <i>Pinot + Poems</i>. It was a little stretch outside of my comfort zone, but that's something we all need to do from time to time, no? I registered on an impulse and considered blowing it off. It was, after all, a poetry workshop. Even when I DID write, I didn't write poetry. And I haven't written for a very long time. But once I registered, I pretty much had to follow through. It's not like I'd paid for it from it from my vast store of </span><i style="line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-size: large;">extra</span></i><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"> money. I'd paid for it, I was minimally going to drink some wine.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">I knew going was the right decision long before I got there. I'd fallen into a place - again - where everything about my life was pretty passive. AGAIN, this was demonstrated by the fact that I didn't drive anywhere, really. I mean -- I drive to work, and I drive to the grocery store, and -- hell! -- I'll drive to my Mom's in another state -- but if I'm going somewhere new, Tom is usually behind the wheel. Please don't misunderstand. I prefer it that way. I think he does, too. But not having driven anywhere except work and the grocery store in some time made me -- nervous about going somewhere new. And THAT meant it had been far too long since I'd done anything independent. Yep. I needed to do this.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">I was on very unfamiliar ground. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Good.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGg5yL1FPKydodMioeZO0IrcsBhU0srA6OrSUmW1Ls4D0y3zkg6q3Yj0RuuvLnYaWYfKJx4NpZkUIReeg0f4fdb07z8eWkfMGIhcyY6_SGQczBwC8IyVHizmYFB6o6PUjY4YqLhj5XLtk/s1600/babes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGg5yL1FPKydodMioeZO0IrcsBhU0srA6OrSUmW1Ls4D0y3zkg6q3Yj0RuuvLnYaWYfKJx4NpZkUIReeg0f4fdb07z8eWkfMGIhcyY6_SGQczBwC8IyVHizmYFB6o6PUjY4YqLhj5XLtk/s320/babes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvPdaDyAzeBynBGSqsrLI72z_JBXJTJUJbW1EVDNBio288ZwalaIrvwRpkF-k9vi0VMOS7T08LHACbbccF51DJNbgkupz39Z8ucJ-db9vsHasXOf5gzusa-URotPfRmrgll7Jrz4cKydo/s1600/always+be+drunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvPdaDyAzeBynBGSqsrLI72z_JBXJTJUJbW1EVDNBio288ZwalaIrvwRpkF-k9vi0VMOS7T08LHACbbccF51DJNbgkupz39Z8ucJ-db9vsHasXOf5gzusa-URotPfRmrgll7Jrz4cKydo/s320/always+be+drunk.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">I found the place without incident, and it was amazing -- a beautiful old building that had been converted into studio space. I headed up the stairs, and they were grand in the way that only very old staircases in very old buildings can be. I found the space we'd be using, and it was perfect. Tables were set with flowers and books and craft supplies. And cookies. Fancy little cookies. There was plenty of wine and there were light appetizers. I filled my keepsake mason jar with wine, but skipped the appetizers and tucked the cookies into my purse. It's a proven fact. Nobody wants to see a fat lady eat. ESPECIALLY not cookies.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">I filled out my name tag. Hello, My Name is Tam.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">This? Was as bold a move as getting in the car and driving there had been. (Please don't be jealous of the exciting lifestyle that leads to driving to a new place and filling out a name tag being elevated to the status of bold moves. We can't all be international personages of mystery and intrigue.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-gbLZlLOFYt2tzF7U239yvu6FU7DO_Ia41Ift62F89esHZlB1C81v-tBA5dM8wuSZg3tVyIwXajt7uX05DsygMbwK5vSuSyxkHDog-GhGdtJPaiIrMog3tY4cg9I4lyt7sxfqWdb4FQ/s1600/hello+my+name+is+tam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-gbLZlLOFYt2tzF7U239yvu6FU7DO_Ia41Ift62F89esHZlB1C81v-tBA5dM8wuSZg3tVyIwXajt7uX05DsygMbwK5vSuSyxkHDog-GhGdtJPaiIrMog3tY4cg9I4lyt7sxfqWdb4FQ/s320/hello+my+name+is+tam.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">I don't introduce myself as Tam. I didn't even introduce myself as Tam that night, although there it was -- prominently displayed over my left boob. I like being called Tam, though. Not many people call me that, and I like the way it sounds. Familiar and comfortable -- sort of like the handful of people who DO use it regularly. I know this is because I introduce myself as Tammy and people do not want to take liberties. I get that. I'm a grown-ass adult. I should introduce myself the way I wish to be referenced, no?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">I set out to rectify it with this tiny little act. Hello, My Name is Tam.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">The leader of the workshop began her presentation and said, "We're going to talk, tonight, about poetry as naming." I almost reacted right out loud, which would've put a dent in the cool rep I -- Tam -- was trying so hard to establish that night, in my carefully-chosen-to-look-not-carefully-chosen-new-but-hopefully-didn't-look-too-new sweater. Poetry as naming. I had put thought into the presentation of my name. I was trying on a new old identity. Familiarity with people with whom I was completely unfamiliar. And she was going to talk about naming. Kismet. Fate had brought me here tonight. Well, fate, and Siri. Tam I am. Tam I mother-fucking am. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Tam is going to be so much happier than Tammy has been.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">*rubs hands together* Tam I am. Let's write some poetry. Go. I am ON this. I belong here.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Of course I didn't. Stupid Tammy in her stupid sweater was stupid and old and didn't fit. Everything I did was wrong. Awkward. I tried too hard. This event was beautiful and young and hip. It was for Gwens and Marleys and Ionas. It wasn't for Tammy. It wasn't even for Tam.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Whoa. That took a turn. Sorry.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">It wasn't really that bad. It wasn't bad at all. It was, in fact, absolutely lovely. I just didn't fit. I'm being dramatic. Poets do that. That's why it's called poetic license.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Anyway.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">My firstborn has decided that her name no longer fits. She hasn't changed it legally, but she has changed it socially. I think I understand her reasoning. She wants -- if I am interpreting it correctly -- to be someone other than who she's been. Her newly chosen name is a part of that metamorphosis. I want to respect it -- and try to -- but it is difficult for me. I gave her her name before she was born. It was carefully chosen, not randomly or frivolously assigned. But it no longer fits. What would a poet do? What would Tam do?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">What's in a name? We carefully choose names for our children, our pets, sometimes even our possessions. We choose names that we think will suit them and serve them. We try to choose well. They might play with it -- try to find a better fit. Their friends might gift (or curse) them with nicknames that eventually supersede their given names. Does it matter? </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">I don't know.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Tam didn't have any more fun than Tammy does. And I feel a little silly for attempting to toy with it at my age. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">What's your name? What do you go by? What do you like to be called? What do you wish you were called? Does it make a difference? Do names make impressions? Do certain names conjure up images for you? Fill in the blank:</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span>mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-46076693903953464802014-12-18T02:50:00.000-08:002014-12-18T02:50:24.389-08:00The Stairs<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>I wrote this quite a while ago, but was not ready to share it at that time. Today is the anniversary of my adoption and I've decided that it was time to share. Be gentle with me.</i><br />
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When I was adopted, my mother tells me, the day they made it official, I cried inconsolably as they carried me down the courthouse stairs to start my new life. As the story goes, a little more than two years later when I made the trip down those stairs again, when my sister was the newly adopted infant, I was extremely disappointed because, not only did she not cry, she slept. I wanted her to cry. Crying was what was done. My mother had told me over and over. I cried all the way down the courthouse stairs. It was my birth story, or as close as I had to one. </div>
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I just read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Girls-Who-Went-Away-Surrendered/dp/0143038974/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345768949&sr=1-1&keywords=the+girls+who+went+away">The Girls Who Went Away: The Hidden History of Women Who Surrendered Children for Adoption in the Decades Before Roe v. Wade</a> by Ann Fessler. I shan't review it per se -- at least not here and now -- but it did stir up a lot of things I thought I'd put to rest.</div>
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One of the many things that jumped out at me -- and it probably was not nearly as prominent as it appeared to be -- was how many times stairs were mentioned. Stairs played a big part in my adoption story, and they played a part in many of the stories relayed by these women who became pregnant and relinquished their babies in the 50's, 60's and 70's. Throwing themselves down stairs in an attempt to force a miscarriage, taking their only exercise on the stairs while confined to the home for unwed mothers, and, yes, walking up and then down the stairs at the court house. A happy memory for adoptive parents, an unspeakably sad one for these young girls.</div>
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Unspeakable was a carefully chosen word. Their experiences were not spoken of.</div>
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Reading about them now, at this point in my life, was chilling.</div>
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I had no idea.</div>
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My parents had been given the company line regarding my birth circumstances. They weren't told much and -- now that I've read this book -- I doubt that much of what they were told was true. Similar stories about them were, no doubt, fabricated for my birth mother. Everyone was worried about "what was best for the child" and apparently truth didn't figure into that equation very tidily. </div>
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I have never sought my birth mother, for many reasons, not one of which is unique. I respected my parents too much to want to hurt them with a search. I didn't want to disrupt the life of the woman who had given me up and probably moved on with her life -- maybe forgotten all about me -- probably forgotten all about me. I didn't want to give her the chance to reject me again.</div>
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I know now that that was probably misguided at best, and I am sorry.</div>
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I considered it when I was pregnant. I wanted the medical history I lacked. I considered it, but I didn't act on it. And then my daughter was born -- my first blood relative -- and I sort of forgot about it. I sort of forgot about everything. The whole game changed.</div>
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And now it's changed again. After reading the testimonies of so many women who were coerced into relinquishing their infants in that era -- not rejecting them (me), not throwing them (me) away, not ridding themselves of an inconvenient obstacle (um, me again), but instead mourning their loss (of me!) -- sometimes for the rest of their lives.</div>
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There is pain on every corner of this triad.</div>
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No-one escapes unscathed, whether we talk about it or sweep it under the rug.</div>
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I know that there are other adoptees who read my words. I know that there are adoptive parents who read my words. I don't know if there are any birth mothers who read my words or not. There is still a pretty thick veil of silence there. I hope -- by touching upon the very shallow surface of this issue here -- that I do not cause undue pain to any of them.</div>
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This book stirred things up in me.</div>
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But I won't do anything about it.</div>
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I am not brave enough to take those stairs.</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-31267699858762707282014-08-13T05:38:00.000-07:002014-08-13T05:38:18.138-07:00A Life Worth Living<div style="text-align: justify;">
Since Robin Williams' tragic suicide<span style="font-size: x-small;"> (as if there's another kind...) </span>two days ago, social media -- all media, I guess -- has been inundated with tributes but also with pleas for an increased awareness of the issues surrounding depression and other forms of mental illness. I've also seen a lot of people speaking frankly about their own experiences with depression. This is a positive outcome from an immensely negative event. </div>
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We lost a family member in the same way in the same week.</div>
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It wasn't national news. But it did cause our family circle to tighten a little bit -- to view things a little differently -- to grow as we grieve.</div>
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I have read many of these tributes and revelations and have been tempted to write one of my own, but feared that I had nothing to add to the conversation -- that it has all been said in the last two days, and far more eloquently than I could manage.</div>
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Then I remembered something from the beginning of my daughter's battle with the dementors <span style="font-size: x-small;">(she'll appreciate that reference)</span> -- when we were just beginning to fight the fight. I have seen a lot of people post links to the suicide prevention helpline. I have even seen at least one person mention that getting help can be hard, but it's worth it. We can certainly verify that. What I haven't seen discussed is the way people react.</div>
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I lost friends when I sought treatment for my daughter. </div>
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I was judged harshly for trusting big pharma and was told that all she needed was unconditional love -- that by seeking treatment and help, I was essentially trying to change who she was. Just let her be. Just love her. She'll work it out. They implied that seeking help would make me a bad parent and a worse person. </div>
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Other factions told me that she just needed tighter boundaries. That she needed more discipline. If any kid of theirs pulled a stunt like that... </div>
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I was too demanding. </div>
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I wasn't demanding enough.</div>
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I'm not going to lie -- I second guessed myself. Constantly.</div>
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But ultimately I continued to seek help. I dedicated myself to it. </div>
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I left a job I loved because I couldn't do it well and continue to give my child what she needed.</div>
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I lost friends.</div>
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But I have my daughter -- and she is healing. She is well. </div>
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So I guess that's what I want to add to the conversation. Depression cannot be loved away.<span style="font-size: x-small;"> (Nor can it be beaten out of someone, although that seems sort of like a no-brainer to me -- but a lot of people continue to entertain the notion...)</span> I wish it could, but that's just not the way this particular beasty works. It takes hard work and diligence and sacrifice. </div>
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Worth it.</div>
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We have worked our way through several hospitalizations, many meds and med combinations, many therapists, a few psychiatrists and many psychologists. It has been all-consuming.</div>
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Worth it.</div>
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When she had her very first meeting with her current counselor, the counselor told Tom and I, "This is not suicide prevention. We can't prevent suicide. If she really wants to kill herself, nothing you or I or any friend or any boy can say or do will stop her. We can't prevent suicide. What we can do is teach her to have a life worth living."</div>
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She is learning that.</div>
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I am learning, too.</div>
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I lost friends. </div>
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I lost my source of income and a chunk of my external sense of self. </div>
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It's a lesson that comes with a cost.</div>
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Worth it.</div>
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So I guess that's what I want to bring to the conversation. Right now the climate is very encouraging. Get help. And I want to underline that. But I also want to warn you that the world isn't always as supportive as it's been the last couple days, but it's worth it to pursue every avenue of help that is available. For you. For your loved ones.</div>
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Hmmmm.</div>
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Maybe we can love it away. </div>
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Maybe we just need to reframe our ideas about love.</div>
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mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-32689719675924710902014-07-01T13:48:00.002-07:002014-07-01T13:48:45.433-07:00If a Picture Paints 1000 Words<div style="text-align: justify;">
Last week, my trainer started working on some back muscles I didn't know I had. They were a little weak, as you can imagine, but I'm at a good place with my training. It felt much more like a challenge than a defeat.</div>
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As I was driving to my weekend getaway, those back muscles flexed a couple times, involuntarily. It felt amazing. Powerful. Flexion laden with potential. Righteous. I mused on a conversation I'd had with my trainer earlier in the week. I told her that I could feel my muscles growing -- especially my biceps, which we don't work that hard in isolation, but they get a lot of peripheral action. My quads, too -- man are they feeling strong. I expressed my frustration with the fact that she and I are the only ones who really know how strong I'm becoming -- the extra layer(s) of ME hide the evidence pretty well from the general populous. "That's alright, babies," I assured my incognito guns, "I know you're there." I sealed my loving sentiment with a little kiss for each one. I was alone in my car. Nobody noticed. And if they did, well, then they have a story, I suppose. Crazy old fat lady in the next lane sucking on her big old arms in an attempt to satiate herself until she could pull over and buy a tub of chicken and a quart of ice cream.</div>
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Whatever.</div>
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I knew the truth.</div>
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I had bigger things to worry about anyway. I was on my way to camp - alone - in another state - to sleep and craft in the woods with 20-some people I'd never met. I was excited, but more than a little bit nervous. There would be a strict ban on social media for the whole weekend. That was scary enough, but I understood the desire to have everyone be fully present. If I wanted to have this adventure, I'd have to have it without a lifeline. All in. The scarier part was that the only camera I have is in my iPhone. While cameras were allowed, I knew I couldn't be trusted to not check my messages (real quick!) if my phone was in my hand. In my pics-or-it-didn't-happen world, would I even continue to <i><b>exist</b></i> if there were no photographic evidence?</div>
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I aimed to find out.</div>
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So I went and I lived and I socialized and I did it all without taking a single picture or writing or answering a single text. I did it without posting a status update or a tweet or an instagram. I pinned nothing. I did it. I lived an un-shared weekend. I wouldn't want to make a habit of it, but I'd definitely like to do it again. It seems very healthy (in small doses).</div>
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Now one of the things I do with my (perhaps way more than is healthy) online time is participate in a group that takes daily selfies. This is not out of any sense of vanity or ego -- it is just a practice we all use for our own purposes. My purpose is to become more comfortable with how I look -- to recognize myself -- to learn to treat myself with gentleness instead of picking myself apart. The latter is a lot easier than the former, and that just shouldn't be so. So I'm working and learning and making slow progress.</div>
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I thought I'd learned to recognize myself and not recoil in horror every time I saw a picture of myself. I thought that -- until the pictures that other people took at camp started showing up. I am not speaking hyperbolically -- I saw those pictures and burst into tears. I recognize myself in the mirror -- I recognize myself in the selfies -- I did not recognize myself as captured by someone else's eyes. </div>
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Two days earlier I'd been kissing those hiding-but-existent biceps -- loving them and loving me -- and less than 50 hours later I was looking at arms as big as hams on a body they looked reconciled with. Fucking fuckity fuck.</div>
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I recalled with perfect clarity a conference I'd attended when I was in my 20s. I'd zoned out a little bit because I was distracted by the woman in front of me. She was a big woman. That wasn't shocking. I'd seen big women before. But her arms -- her arms were shocking. They were -- SO big. I remember thinking initially -- and quite uncharitably -- that she had no business wearing a sleeveless dress. As the conference ran on and I became more bored and squirmy and hot, I remember becoming more sympathetic rather than less. If I was that uncomfortable how uncomfortable must she be? This was so many years ago, and I never even spoke to her -- yet this memory came flooding back so clearly I could hear the speaker -- I could smell the room -- and I could visualize every flower on her faded shift dress.</div>
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Damn.</div>
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I'd become what I'd judged.</div>
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All that work I'd done -- in the gym and in the mirror and with the rear-facing camera -- obliterated in an instant. Strong, emerging, offbeat -- yes, even beautiful -- replaced in less time than it took to blink by old, fat and ugly.</div>
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I'd been kidding myself, and quite successfully.</div>
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Let's rewind a moment. </div>
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Months and months of working my way up to a place of self-acceptance. Months and months of getting stronger -- physically and emotionally. Months and months. Was I really going to let one moment -- no matter how undeniable the evidence was -- take all of that away from me?</div>
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This morning I made myself do my hair and put on make-up before I left the house. I didn't want to. I couldn't imagine why it would matter. Lipstick on a pig, and all that. But I did it. And it felt sort of good. Then I took my daily selfie. I hadn't been able to manage that yesterday. And it took a couple tries, but I recognized myself.</div>
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Tonight I will run.</div>
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Tomorrow I will train.</div>
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Because old fat and ugly cannot win. It cannot own me. How I look through someone else's lens isn't as important as how I look through my own. I've had a setback. But through my own lens, I am still strong. And oh, I am still emerging.</div>
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Have I written 1000 words? I think probably not. Have I painted a picture? I hope so. And I hope it is somehow -- in some offbeat way -- beautiful.</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-56738372895311750142014-06-03T12:22:00.001-07:002014-06-03T12:34:24.659-07:00Button, Button<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have been working on decorations for Lea's graduation party for a couple days now. I really shouldn't be. There are more important things to be done. But creating is what I do. I can do this part. I can control this part. This part keeps my hands busy and allows my mind to slip subconsciously into a state that is damn near Zen. This is good -- because left to it's own devices, my brain has been an absolute mess for a couple weeks. The prevalent themes are: I can't believe my baby is graduating and I wish my dad were here to see this -- my dad should be here to see this, peppered with a lot of wondering how much food is enough because whose brilliant idea was it to have an open house with no head count, anyway?</div>
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Screw it -- let's make paper flowers and bunting. Activate hands; deactivate brain. It's better for everyone this way.</div>
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I was working on a project that was missing something, but I couldn't decide exactly what. Flowers weren't right -- but it needed something colorful; dimensional, but only subtly so. Eureka! Fetch Momma her button box!</div>
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I dumped the buttons I'd amassed throughout the years on top of my party notes and lists and started sifting through them, looking for the best ones to suit my need.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2m-3AdXnBTP-LTVaAcHFVQ_X2iW8uFtV7gNQt8bgn9NK3-OvpvKpCMVA3gi7LzfbVaUxgrkeBKZXVc2jQaVczx_yLVWLAwrJzmMmiz4-PFOSrLfSg7mziOKlF_JCj5isyRHlDC73wNT0/s1600/button+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2m-3AdXnBTP-LTVaAcHFVQ_X2iW8uFtV7gNQt8bgn9NK3-OvpvKpCMVA3gi7LzfbVaUxgrkeBKZXVc2jQaVczx_yLVWLAwrJzmMmiz4-PFOSrLfSg7mziOKlF_JCj5isyRHlDC73wNT0/s1600/button+1.jpg" height="257" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
It was a happy chore, unlike the dusting and vacuuming that I was neglecting in order to do it.<br />
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And then I saw it.<br />
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I bet you know what's coming...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7iVGJNPTCzVTw7KYvJjdQdj3h8pdZhmxN2qnMYvfvGUzJcgk2dFsFNdXsUshgOKr6sLXRFNLrqtwC3V-opJDPxLy41py_EP79alqpQmXZX7GiK3BV_znoWCRFTqdEzvWc6vgZxhRR0Ew/s1600/button+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7iVGJNPTCzVTw7KYvJjdQdj3h8pdZhmxN2qnMYvfvGUzJcgk2dFsFNdXsUshgOKr6sLXRFNLrqtwC3V-opJDPxLy41py_EP79alqpQmXZX7GiK3BV_znoWCRFTqdEzvWc6vgZxhRR0Ew/s1600/button+3.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Peter Rabbit.<br />
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Peter Fucking Rabbit.<br />
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Peter was a leftover button from a sweater I'd made when I was expecting Lea. We didn't even know she was Lea, yet. At that point, she might have been Evan. Peter seemed sort of neutral to me. I remembered standing there in the fabric store in front of all of the cute buttons, trying to find something that would be just right for a little person I'd not yet met but who already owned my heart. The sweater was simple and white -- the only color was from these little buttons.</div>
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I picked up this button and promptly lost my shit.</div>
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I mentioned that I've been kind of a mess for weeks -- and Tom and the girls will certainly vouch for that. I tear up over nothing and lose my train of thought -- but I'd not actually cried.</div>
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Until I held that stupid button in my hand.</div>
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Ugly cry? Oh, you don't even want to know...</div>
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I'm glad, too. </div>
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A good cry is cathartic, more often than not.</div>
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I had a sweet baby. And now I have a beautiful daughter standing on the brink of adulthood. She worked so hard to get here -- overcame so many obstacles -- it is such an accomplishment. And she did it.</div>
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Damn, I'm proud of that child.</div>
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I wondered what button I would choose to put on a sweater for her now. And then it hit me -- I wouldn't choose. She would choose for herself. And it would be perfect.</div>
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And some day -- 20 years from now -- when a spare one rolls out of my button box -- I will probably weep, remembering this time -- when the whole world was in front of her.</div>
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mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-82728546592183827362014-05-21T14:40:00.000-07:002014-05-21T14:40:25.161-07:00Boy, the Way Glenn Miller Played...<div style="text-align: justify;">
Recently a friend received a surprise discount. Delight turned to horror as she read the code on the receipt -- she had been awarded a senior discount. Another friend piped in that it had happened to her, too. Then another. It's happened to me. Couldn't they call it something nicer? Like a 'you are so damn good-looking' discount or something? But, no. Senior. Yuck.</div>
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A couple evenings ago, Tom and I were channel surfing. We don't have cable -- we have rabbit ears -- so channel surfing for us is more like letting the waves lap around our ankles with our pants rolled up than actual surfing. </div>
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I'm saying our choices are rather limited. </div>
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We chanced upon a rerun of <i>All in the Family </i>(as opposed, I suppose, to a current episode of <i>All in the Family</i>). We enjoyed it. It was still funny. During a commercial break, I turned to Tom and said, "I bet Archie and Edith are about our age." He pulled out his phone and before the commercial was over he had confirmed that Carroll O'Connor and Jean Stapleton were indeed right around our age when the show was being filmed -- just a smidge younger than us, actually, in the first season.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9trAff6oTOg_c5ZzA5xulTOvo37ss6Xw5c6L5i_YcLMdhyknubAv0FTfHbuAhkhm08GJNP9ifBIemh7vl4naX4kXFqsPQQh8oMZEDPy0sREKWPn13RzmXZG_TBMkogYaPn7Vzh8IwdBU/s1600/edith-archie-bunker-110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9trAff6oTOg_c5ZzA5xulTOvo37ss6Xw5c6L5i_YcLMdhyknubAv0FTfHbuAhkhm08GJNP9ifBIemh7vl4naX4kXFqsPQQh8oMZEDPy0sREKWPn13RzmXZG_TBMkogYaPn7Vzh8IwdBU/s1600/edith-archie-bunker-110.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo: http://www.morethings.com/fan/all_in_the_family/photo_gallery01.htm</td></tr>
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Well, that didn't quite seem right...</div>
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I mean, Archie and Edith were old! </div>
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I don't look like Edith! Tom doesn't look like Archie! For a nano-second, I entertained the notion that I was being vain. Maybe we DO look like that and I just can't see it. But that passed quickly, because nobody I know who's my age-ish is anything like them. And that's not only because of the narrow-minded racism thing.</div>
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When we were younger, that's what middle-age looked like. That's what 50 looked like. That is no longer the case. Not even, if I may say so myself, close.</div>
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I've always sort of scorned all of the 50 is the new 30 -- or anything is the new anything, for that matter -- platitudes. (<i>Orange is the New Black</i> is the exception. I don't scorn that even a little tiny bit. Quite the opposite. But thats not really relevant.) 50 is 50 and 30 is 30 and neither is inherently superior to the other. But watching that show -- trying to find a way to relate to those characters -- made me a little more sympathetic. I don't want to be middle-aged if THAT'S what middle-aged looks like! But guess what? That's NOT what 50 looks like anymore. 50 has not become 30. It is still 50. But it doesn't look like the Bunkers. I can't name a TV couple that it DOES look like, but that's another issue for another day. </div>
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That actually helped me a lot.</div>
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Now bring me a beer, huh?</div>
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mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-57620865597768987512014-05-18T08:48:00.000-07:002014-05-18T08:48:46.156-07:00Summer's (Almost) Here, and the Time is Right...<div style="text-align: justify;">
...for racing in the streets.</div>
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Ok -- I'm a suburban mom with an SUV. I don't really do much racing in the streets. I left the Johnstown com-pan-y years ago. I don't even have a screen door to slam. But I have been known to relive the glory days. And today -- today I just can't seem to stop the lyric, "There's a sadness in her pretty face -- a sadness all her own..." from running all around in my brain. </div>
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So many of the women I love are facing a sadness all their own. They can hide 'neath the covers and study their pain, but, ultimately they are still -- well -- lonely for words that ain't been spoken. </div>
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I feel like the lyric-speak needs to stop -- but honestly, all morning my brain has been playing snippets of Springsteen songs that meld into each other seamlessly. It sounds great, if only in my mind. But it is a melancholy soundtrack for such a beautiful day. </div>
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I can't tell you the stories that are hurting my friends, because they are theirs. The same as and different from the stories that might be hurting you and the stories that are hurting me. A sadness all their own. I can't tell you the stories that are hurting me because -- like most painful stories -- although the sadness may be all my own, the story is not only mine.</div>
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I guess I would just ask -- for compassion. Because we don't know each others trials. We can sympathize -- we can empathize with the parts that feel familiar -- but we can never actually know. That strikes me simultaneously as very sad and very wonderful. We are all so unique in our joys and triumphs as well as in our trials. </div>
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I know I have fallen into the trap of thinking that my problems are worse than anyone else's. You think YOU have it bad... Try living MY life for JUST ONE DAY and then we'll talk... I would be willing to bet a couple hard earned nickels that you've entertained the same notion, at least once or twice.</div>
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We can't really walk a mile in someone else's moccasins.</div>
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But I guess we (I) can acknowledge that ours (mine) isn't the only road that's rocky and treacherous and potentially inhabited by rodents of unusual size.</div>
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Maybe, though, as we intersect each other's roads, we can remind each other to roll down the windows and let the wind blow back our hair. Maybe instead of judging each other, we can help each other out when it feels hard to move on. 'Cause tramps like us, aw, you know what tramps like us were born to do.</div>
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Peace.</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-88064936495696133112014-05-15T08:21:00.001-07:002014-05-15T08:21:37.223-07:00Don't Let the Past Remind Us of What We Are Not Now (Throwback Thursday)<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ok, First things first.</div>
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I love Throwback Thursdays.</div>
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I love looking at your old pictures and I love looking through mine.</div>
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Some of you post songs or antiquated ads or movie clips and I love it all.</div>
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Trips down Memory Lane can be a blast. Groovy. Dy-no-mite. The bomb-diggity. Awesome. Sweet.</div>
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They can also be a little treacherous. Most non-non-non-triumphant.</div>
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Tom and I have discussed this at length.</div>
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We have both been known to assault people we've barely met with pictures of what we looked like 20 or 30 years ago. Wanting, I suppose, to assure them not to be fooled by the middle-aged camouflage we're wearing. They are, indeed meeting cool, relevant people who look good in bikinis and/or spandex. It's <i>important</i> to us that they know that.</div>
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So I have learned to approach Thursdays with caution.</div>
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I always go through old pictures on Throwback Thursday, whether I post them or not. Today I came across this photo:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dRHXU5HEJlkrFEzLbRQQi7sdsfRke8Yg5w4IbCXg2tRU4kDxk_JsK6wvfZ7UF-0mDoFsD1op_hrV28Zjx-FI8gjbqgW4hg2eVGW2t3mIKwnAcngcYlRQo_oAyWUPyO9obPcTdjHK8P8/s1600/shelby+christening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dRHXU5HEJlkrFEzLbRQQi7sdsfRke8Yg5w4IbCXg2tRU4kDxk_JsK6wvfZ7UF-0mDoFsD1op_hrV28Zjx-FI8gjbqgW4hg2eVGW2t3mIKwnAcngcYlRQo_oAyWUPyO9obPcTdjHK8P8/s1600/shelby+christening.jpg" height="320" width="298" /></a></div>
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I remember this weekend well. It was the weekend my beloved niece was christened. That's her -- crying in my sister's arms. My grandma is in the chair -- the only one looking at the camera. Hi, grandma. Miss you. My beautiful cousin is in white. Her eldest is looking over her shoulder at something outside the frame. If I had to guess, I'd say that something was probably a barely toddling Liv. Her youngest -- my Goddaughter -- seems to be looking at Lea. That's the back of her sweet head in the foreground. It's not a beautifully composed picture, but it is making me very happy today. </div>
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I remember this weekend well.</div>
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I have a souvenir.</div>
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Two, really.</div>
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They are two pairs of completely threadbare mens basketball shorts. </div>
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Now this was a time when there wasn't much money. The kids were little and I wasn't working -- any extra money we DID have went to buying clothes for them -- Liv still needed a new wardrobe about every three months; Lea about every six. I didn't get new clothes. I didn't get manicures. I didn't even get haircuts. I remember that about that day, too. My dress was very outdated -- and when I took the bandana off of my hair and faced the prospect of actually styling it for the christening, I was at a loss. I had no idea what to do with it. We all went shopping and I saw these shorts at a sidewalk sale. My mom felt bad for me, I think -- unable to afford anything and only wanting these stupid shorts -- and she bought them for me.</div>
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She had no idea what a big deal that was.</div>
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I hadn't had anything new for quite a while.</div>
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The elastic was shot long ago. There is a paint stain on the back of one of them that is a color we don't have anywhere in this house. I don't remember what I was painting, but whatever it was, I definitely backed into it. There used to be six pairs of shorts, but four of them were deemed unwearable years ago. </div>
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I wear these shorts EVERY week.</div>
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Since that picture was taken.</div>
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To give you some perspective, that crying baby is finishing up her freshman year in high school. That preschooler with her back to the camera is preparing for high school graduation. The young lady in the gray dress has been a teacher for a couple few years now and the one with the big white bow is a college graduate.</div>
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So -- yeah.</div>
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I've been wearing those shorts every week for a pretty long time.</div>
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If it will ease your horror any, I don't wear them as outerwear. I wear them under skirts. But still.</div>
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I have hung onto them, despite the fact that I probably shouldn't have, because I have never found a pair I like as much. </div>
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Not even nearly. </div>
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And believe me, I've tried.</div>
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When I bought these shorts, I weighed -- a number. I lost 50 pounds and continued to wear those shorts all the way down. I gained 80 pounds and wore those shorts all the way up. I lost 70, then gained 65. Never missed a week of wearing those shorts. All of that yo-yo-ing probably put more stress on my body than I put on those shorts.</div>
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They are awesome shorts.</div>
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And their days are numbered.</div>
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But we do this, no?</div>
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This isn't just me.</div>
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We find something we love and we cling to it. </div>
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When I was gearing up for that 50 pound weight loss mentioned above, I bought 5 pairs of yoga pants to work out in. </div>
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They were -- are -- perfect.</div>
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They come up high enough to cover my ass no matter how much I stretch or bend, yet they sit low enough that they aren't automatically dismissed as mom pants. They flare just enough at the bottom and are just the right length. They do not -- and some of you will appreciate how magical this is -- pill. Anywhere. And they are so soft... </div>
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As it takes a little time to go -50+80-70+65, you can rest assured that I've had these a long time. Not quite as long as the shorts, but -- you know -- long. Three pairs have not passed the test of time, but two have. Until yesterday. When bleach landed on one of them. I was horrified. </div>
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And then there was one.</div>
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Now these are not -- like -- Lululemon yoga pants or anything. Mostly because Lululemon doesn't think women who are built like me need to exercise -- or deserve to -- or something -- I don't really know, the conversation revolving around that particular fiasco became too offensive for me to keep up with really quickly. No -- these were Kohl's house brand. So they were not only perfect, they were pretty cheap. I mean, inexpensive. Because if they were cheap they probably wouldn't have lasted quite as long.</div>
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Anyway.</div>
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They don't make that particular cut anymore. </div>
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I have never found a pair I like as much. </div>
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Not even nearly. </div>
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And believe me, I've tried.</div>
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Like Tom and I clinging to the visual of our former selves, I am clinging to the comfort of these shorts and these yoga pants. It's just as stupid. It's time to step out of the comfort (literally, in this case) zone of nostalgia and step into the present.</div>
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I can't find yoga pants like that anymore. Bummer. But I like compression pants. And if I can find long enough T-shirts (hello mens department and Pinterest!) I can put together a new gym look that will probably actually suit me better. As for the shorts -- since they are only worn as underwear -- maybe instead of looking for comparable mens gym shorts to replace them I should be looking at satiny, lacy tap pants.</div>
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The past is good.</div>
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But maybe the future can be better.</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-10823842340695084652014-05-10T12:12:00.001-07:002014-05-10T12:12:37.621-07:00Quinoa, Diet Coke and Humble Pie<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One thing I cannot abide is people who will not admit it when they are wrong.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am stubborn and bull-headed and opinionated, but when I realize I've been wrong, I'll tuck my tail between my legs and apologize. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's really just to soothe my own delicate ego. I think people who are cocky and sure of themselves to the point where they will not even entertain the notion that there is a remote possibility that they are wrong -- or even that there might be another way to be right -- are among the most unattractive people I know. It's an obnoxious trait. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A little humility can be uncomfortable, but it's almost always the high road. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first thing I need to confess that I was wrong about is quinoa. I avoided it (pretty vocally) when I started watching carbs because I thought it was a grain. It looks like a grain, it cooks like a grain and it's used like a grain, so it was a pretty honest misconception. I thought it was just one of those trendy miracle foods that make their flash in the pan and are forgotten when the next hot thing comes along. You probably already knew this -- because you're probably not as bull-headed as I am -- but it is indeed not a grain. It's a seed and<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">a member of the same food family that contains spinach, Swiss chard, and beets. Perfectly legit for a low-carb diet, as well as versatile and delicious.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If I ever argued with you about quinoa, I was wr. I was wr--wr--. I was wrong, ok? I will eat it in a boat and I will eat it with a goat -- I would eat it here or there, I would eat it anywhere. I admit! This stuff is not a scam! It's true! I like it, Tam I am.</span></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tDsOiktIUTq6SCspvKWVaoQ6xwyx9WVqIkA_isp9uVLjZqknfjeBBnihD9UPtljl10HK2inBhF7SIGv2gqbsubnorv1SNPfHJBIx42oNT1Bj7D6GK7m45tseyqHv67uNzAW4FU_kiUc/s1600/green+eggs+and+ham.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tDsOiktIUTq6SCspvKWVaoQ6xwyx9WVqIkA_isp9uVLjZqknfjeBBnihD9UPtljl10HK2inBhF7SIGv2gqbsubnorv1SNPfHJBIx42oNT1Bj7D6GK7m45tseyqHv67uNzAW4FU_kiUc/s1600/green+eggs+and+ham.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm pretty sure that's quinoa on the plate. I told you it was versatile.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next one is bigger and harder.</span></span></div>
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Not so terribly long ago, I posted a status about having a cup of coffee in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other and still being exhausted. It was meant as a light little slice of life observation and I was completely caught off guard when more than one person jumped all over me about the evils of diet soda. I defended my choice and was confused and a little angry at the people who had taken my innocent little statement and turned it into an opportunity for a lecture. Like many other humans, I don't respond well to being told what to do. I bucked it a little bit publicly and a lot privately. How dare they? What the fuck? There were a lot worse habits I could be -- and wasn't, for Pete's sake! -- indulging in.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirO9pCKgFbUNloK3lg0keVMrc3YIKzwEv94z7DV1Frk4JteZ5DKANOFU9U4yE6mm2fZoU-5ox2MaE383uXsTRHJ2ZxG3I81abj1nmjqic_e0PhFzceY4a29QmT_hellH8YQOvMrUp3GNo/s1600/diet+coke+addiction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirO9pCKgFbUNloK3lg0keVMrc3YIKzwEv94z7DV1Frk4JteZ5DKANOFU9U4yE6mm2fZoU-5ox2MaE383uXsTRHJ2ZxG3I81abj1nmjqic_e0PhFzceY4a29QmT_hellH8YQOvMrUp3GNo/s1600/diet+coke+addiction.jpg" height="200" width="93" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit: isagenixguru.blogspot.com<br />Overly dramatic? Maybe... </td></tr>
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Fast forward to 6 weeks ago. I decided that it was time to give up carbs again because I was tired of feeling crummy all the time, but every attempt I made had been a miserable failure. I'd done it before -- and very successfully -- but I just couldn't find my way back. So I decided to go slow -- first eliminating sugars, sugar substitutes and all manner of sweeteners, then, after a few weeks, flour -- bread and pasta and such, then starchy vegetables like potatoes and corn and eventually fruit. I set a start date, enjoyed a last hurrah, and eliminated everything sweet (with the exception of fruit) from my diet. I was still eating bread and pasta and pizza -- those things would be next -- but for that week or so, just sweeteners.</div>
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It went well.</div>
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I craved nothing.</div>
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Except Diet Coke. </div>
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I swear, I woke up wanting one, felt the urge to grab one several times each day, and went to sleep wanting one.</div>
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Every day.</div>
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In two weeks I cut out the bread, pasta and pizza. </div>
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I craved nothing.</div>
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Except Diet Coke.</div>
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Dammit, did all of those people who jumped down my throat have a point? I mean, I was clearly dealing with an addiction. I love sweets and sandwiches and pasta and most especially pizza, but I had walked away from all of those things in their turn without a backward glance. But Diet Coke? I'll tell you -- even writing about it now I'm starting to salivate and shake a little bit.</div>
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It's been 6 weeks since I've had one. </div>
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And I still want one ALL the time. </div>
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So to those of you who attacked me -- I'm sorry I responded in anger instead of in earnest interest in what you had to say. Because you were right and I was wr. I was wr--wr--. I was wrong, ok?</div>
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So there. I've eaten a little humble pie. Without the crust, of course. And it went down ok.</div>
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If you are one of the folks I wronged, I hope you'll accept this apology.</div>
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But a word to the wise: wisdom imparted is usually better received when it is given with respect than when it is given in judgment. Just for future reference. Because I'm sure I'll be wrong again.</div>
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Me and the Fonz. Ayyyy.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/WkqgDoo_eZE" width="420"></iframe></div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-50550879371612900302014-04-13T09:06:00.001-07:002014-04-13T09:06:43.622-07:00Bored Peggy Puts a Bird on It<div style="text-align: justify;">
My friend Sara is always steering me towards fun craft ideas.</div>
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A while ago she sent me this. (Oh my gosh, I love Pinterest so much...)</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrbOxat6zjRw7shLNptW2Ejg9Zea-vSvRl3PfPx5-Rq3vbspGkzWCJH-1bC8AxhByw5xNtg4PZpO9gyOVoj1xrpxpsNuyOIexJKYkQiUDhs0geDhS4o9SvF6THkRNty3DIuJDpz7AV2A/s1600/floral+cross+stitch.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrbOxat6zjRw7shLNptW2Ejg9Zea-vSvRl3PfPx5-Rq3vbspGkzWCJH-1bC8AxhByw5xNtg4PZpO9gyOVoj1xrpxpsNuyOIexJKYkQiUDhs0geDhS4o9SvF6THkRNty3DIuJDpz7AV2A/s320/floral+cross+stitch.png" height="320" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo: curioussofa.blogspot.com</td></tr>
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During a recent bout of moving things around, the acoustic guitars that had been proudly displayed on the relatively large wall behind our sofa found new homes and we were left with a big empty wall and an empty guitar rack. The timing seemed right.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEchKwiL7-I9tw_Or2zScwkxMICAqStPP01miNNzZ4gCK1PHDIXRiBIwcQuGiBUKlZKgqXbe9PgiRGAibqxWyPjKhuGmBcxD2eJDsL303flj2E4zyebcH2lruGeHkC4ewnU7xXpjvYcZA/s1600/bare+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEchKwiL7-I9tw_Or2zScwkxMICAqStPP01miNNzZ4gCK1PHDIXRiBIwcQuGiBUKlZKgqXbe9PgiRGAibqxWyPjKhuGmBcxD2eJDsL303flj2E4zyebcH2lruGeHkC4ewnU7xXpjvYcZA/s1600/bare+wall.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a lot of empty...</td></tr>
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I perused cross stitch patterns, seeking something that would be simple enough to still look good when done in huge -- 1 inch! -- crosses on a super-large surface. I opted for a silhouette. I loved the shaded floral of the example, but couldn't find anything in that style that I thought was a good fit for my space. (Plus -- the silhouette took 2 skeins of super chunky yarn. The cost of this amazingly -- um -- frugal project would've increased pretty quickly if I'd introduced a lot of colors.)</div>
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It took me weeks to actually buy the peg board. Partially because I just couldn't manage to remember that term. I kept saying,"Let's go pick up that cork board." No one could figure out why I wanted cork board. Mostly because I didn't. "Peg board. Peg board. Peg board. Why can't I remember peg board? Peg, Peggy, Peggy Hill, Peggy Sue Got Married, Peggy Bundy, Peggy board, Peggy is bored, bored Peggy." I pictured Peg Bundy sitting on my sofa with the big empty wall behind her, skin tight leopard clad legs furiously tapping a brightly colored pump encased foot. I never forgot the term again and my project was christened Bored Peggy.</div>
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I bought the peg board, but decided the dark brown color it came in might not provide enough contrast with the black yarn I'd be using for the silhouette, so I spray painted it tan. I painted it on a breezy day, which was also windy. Spray painting did not go quite as well as I'd hoped. The wind created a sort of mottled effect that -- ok, I'd be lying if I told you I didn't dig it. Absolutely a happy accident.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioCQG0asugeDbxSaKUtgcqmZqlcn4Q6zQ9Sq_lS-RTZ9jzoE8XHfT2pzOAebuba8bHjKQzZrU6hgYM2qop0A86Vg1HcOAyfjiUvv1ZRgdk647XQkpkF8gK3OKfhPWhgMvUiK4GmJSNPjM/s1600/peg+board.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioCQG0asugeDbxSaKUtgcqmZqlcn4Q6zQ9Sq_lS-RTZ9jzoE8XHfT2pzOAebuba8bHjKQzZrU6hgYM2qop0A86Vg1HcOAyfjiUvv1ZRgdk647XQkpkF8gK3OKfhPWhgMvUiK4GmJSNPjM/s1600/peg+board.jpg" /></a></div>
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A 4'X8' peg board is not exactly something you can work on in your lap while watching TV (as its namesake Peggy Bundy would've no doubt preferred), but I figured it out. It was a two person job. Liv sat behind the board and I sat in front and we passed the needle back and forth. We talked and we didn't and we just generally enjoyed hanging out together. She is already planning a similar project (on a slightly smaller scale) for her bedroom. I'll be proud and happy to sit behind the board to assist her with that.</div>
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Tom added 2X4s for stability and dimension then hung it on the wall that we had freshly painted purple because it's really hard to be unhappy in a room with a huge purple wall. Not too shabby, eh?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6uaiL1-cZLyqoa9dlPFH9h72ufX5paFU14QMsL-YCUfGHEBwIZCpmTeUpds77hhDMN95xz5I5KLoveTJzP-WWKI9VqnK8wbYKpmI0LTthXONqH9xJ9mLKo5ANkJbo1XY5QZlbPeHl9A/s1600/bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6uaiL1-cZLyqoa9dlPFH9h72ufX5paFU14QMsL-YCUfGHEBwIZCpmTeUpds77hhDMN95xz5I5KLoveTJzP-WWKI9VqnK8wbYKpmI0LTthXONqH9xJ9mLKo5ANkJbo1XY5QZlbPeHl9A/s1600/bird.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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We're a little late to the game, but when we put a bird on it we PUT a mother loving BIRD on it.</div>
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Hey -- the day I'm afraid to dust off a dated pop culture reference is the day monkeys might fly out of my butt.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/QOKociU8t_Q" width="560"></iframe>mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-48015101652496269262014-03-18T13:51:00.000-07:002014-03-18T13:51:50.758-07:00A Cosmopolitan Woman<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I was a freshman in college, I bought a subscription to <i><b>Cosmopolitan</b></i>. It made me feel very sophisticated and mature. Not a steel town girl. Not a small college town girl. A cosmopolitan<i> </i>woman. Don't you forget it.</div>
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Oh -- that reminds me of another thing I did freshman year: I pledged a sorority. One thing my sorority sisters -- and therefore I -- would not stand for was being called girls. We were women, thank you very much. Women whose parents were still footing the bills while we dipped our toes into adulthood -- women whose parents were, in most cases, still doing our laundry -- but women all the same.</div>
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Women who read <b><i>Cosmopolitan</i></b>. Hear us roar.</div>
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I also subscribed to <b><i>Playgirl</i></b>, but that's not really relevant to today's story. Although it might go a long way towards explaining my attraction to men doing mundane things. I haven't opened a <b><i>Playgirl</i></b> in 30 years or so, so I have no idea if this is still a valid reference, but at the time every photo spread featured non-threatening naked or mostly naked men doing mundane things -- yard work, car maintenance, etc. There were also usually a fair contingency of firefighters and cowboys and -- you know, all the Village People professions. I remember thinking that based on my admittedly meager exposure to girly magazines, it seemed that photos of naked women designed to entice just made you think things like, "There's a naked lady. She sure is naked. She's awfully pretty, all naked like that." I don't know. I'm as straight as the day is long. Those were the sort of things that I thought when I looked at girly mags. Your mileage may vary. But <b><i>Playgir</i></b>l? It was like I was supposed to imagine a conversation like, "Excuse me, Mr. Construction Worker Man. Where are your pants?"</div>
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"Well, little lady,"</div>
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"I am a woman. I am not a little lady."</div>
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"Well, little -- er, um -- well, Woman, I had pants on when I came to work this morning, but they were chafing me a little bit, so I doffed them. Besides, I like the way the fresh air and sunshine feels on my pert well-muscled bum as I swing a hammer and do otherwise manly things."</div>
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"I see. Well, that's very nice. Carry on."</div>
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I didn't subscribe to <b><i>Playgirl </i></b>for very long. I found it far more silly than sexy.</div>
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But <b><i>Cosmopolitan</i></b> -- oh, <b><i>Cosmopolitan</i></b>.</div>
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I read each issue cover to cover, then saved it on my bookshelf. When year two of my subscription began, I started noticing a trend. If I compared January to January, it was almost the same issue. Even the colors of the spines of the magazines worked through a 12 issue spectrum. It was very predictable. As the third year began, I knew I was ready to give it up. I still thought of myself as cosmopolitan and sophisticated -- or at least, as POTENTIALLY cosmopolitan and sophisticated -- but I had already READ these articles. Very little changed year to year. </div>
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This saddened me tremendously. </div>
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If the life of a cosmopolitan woman was predictable and boring, what chance did I -- a steel town girl, a small college town girl -- have at an interesting life?</div>
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These thoughts occurred to me as I found myself thrilled today at the changing of the season. It's not warm yet, but it's getting there. There's promise. The magazine cover for my life this month would probably be a bright green and would tease such articles as: </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>New Season, New You! </b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Spring Cleaning Tips that will Have your House Party Ready in No Time! </b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Lose That Winter Gut! Step Up Your Game in the Gym and in the Kitchen </b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Fresh Recipes to Help you Shake off the Winter Blahs and Get Moving Again! </b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>5 Simple Moves to Get You Out of Hibernation and Onto That Bike! </b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Find Your Style -- Simple Wardrobe Fixes for Any Budget That will Keep Your Look Up to Date </b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Just A Number -- Makeup and Fashion Tips to Help You Look Your Best at Any Age</b></span></blockquote>
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I could probably go on, but I think you get the idea.</div>
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The same articles that would've been featured last year at this time. Heading out of the same articles that were featured last winter. </div>
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It's a rut. It's not necessarily a bad rut -- there is always something to do -- always something to look forward to -- but they're the same things I did -- looked forward to -- last year and the year before that. I think I need something -- new. That steel town girl wanted so badly to be that cosmopolitan woman. This suburban mom doesn't even know how to articulate the longing.</div>
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I'll figure it out. And if I don't I can at least look forward to <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Making a Summer Oasis in My Own Backyard</b></span> and maybe <b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">7 Cocktails to Keep You Cool When it's Hot Outside.</span></b></div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-15883060669426009372014-01-15T10:22:00.001-08:002014-01-15T11:28:49.240-08:001985<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lea was controlling the music in the car. Lea is always controlling the music in the car. It's fine. I realize that the things that make me smile or sing along or tap out the rhythm on the steering wheel or bang my head at stop lights ceased to be relevant decades ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I love this song!" she says, turning up the volume. I'm going to need to turn that down after she gets out of the car, I remind myself, or it's going to be really shocking the next time I turn the key.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/K38xNqZvBJI" width="420"></iframe><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ah. 1985. When is this stupid song going to stop feeling so relatable? I might change a few of the specific references, but the gist sure is uncomfortably accurate.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1985.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was in grad school in Texas at the beginning of 1985 -- thousands of miles from home -- still feeling the sting of a broken engagement. MTV was on 24/7. My roommate and I knew every ladies' night and beer special in town and we were out pretty much every night. I had started up a rebound romance that was as doomed as rebound romance generally are. When they make the movie, the part of the rebound boyfriend will be played by John Cusack. Hopefully he moved on to someone who treated him much nicer than I did. He wasn't a bad guy, it was just a bad time. I wasn't a bad girl, it was just -- oh, who am I kidding? I sucked. I was a lousy girlfriend and a lousy roommate. My shit was definitely not what you might want to call pulled together in the early months of 1985.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Late winter turned into spring and spring turned into summer and summer saw me moving briefly back home, then to Maryland where I got to be a lousy roommate again -- this time to two of my friends instead of one. I met Evil Tom before the year was out and began a spiral I needed to actually be rescued from.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yay.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I've made it sound awful!</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wasn't!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean -- parts of it were. I DID end one bad romance and begin another all before I'd gotten over mourning the one from before... I DID find out that the one from before had gotten married -- because I called -- I never called him because I knew it was stupid and there was always someone around and I didn't want to look stupid in front of anyone, but one weekend my roommates left me unsupervised and I called and his dad said he couldn't come to the phone because he was on his honeymoon and I lost my shit in the most epic meltdown you can possibly begin to imagine. And I WAS a bad girlfriend to a good boyfriend, and a bad roommate, and a good girlfriend to a bad boyfriend -- all of that is true -- but there was more.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was -- Springsteen, Madonna...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was all this potential -- life could've taken me anywhere.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now I've got two kids in high school (to tell me that I'm not cool). My dishwasher is broken. I wash dishes an average of 4 times a day. Between errands. In the SUV. Which isn't yellow, but it IS an SUV. And this is my life. I don't know that I ever aspired to shake my ass on the hood of Whitesnake's car -- but I sure never envisioned this.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not in 1985.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But again, I've made it sound worse than it is. Not that I love doing dishes and driving. Because I'd be hard pressed to come up with two things I like less. Pretentious people, I guess. I like pretentious people less. And inequality. That's something I really can't get behind. But I've digressed.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have stability.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It isn't as exciting as unlimited potential.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But it is warm and comfortable and sweet. It is deep and real and good.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I would never trade it for 1985.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Never.</span><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remember an evening, in the late summer of 1985, drinking wine with my roommates and discussing our married friends and wondering, somewhat wistfully, if we'd ever have that. We longed for someone to love -- and for someone to love us -- and for a house to keep.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, I wouldn't trade even a moment of what I have now for what I had in 1985.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I reserve the right to indulge, from time to time, in a little preoccupation.</span></div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-65062010472967478782014-01-06T05:11:00.003-08:002014-01-06T05:11:57.378-08:00I Set My Sights on Monday<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have been hearing the opening verse of America's <i>Sister Golden Hair</i> in my head for almost a week now.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
Well I tried to make it someday, but I got so damn depressed, that I set my sights on Monday...</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yeah.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Except the actual lyric is <i>I tried to make it Sunday</i>, which essentially renders my whole interpretation invalid. So -- for the purposes of this post -- let's go with the perceived lyric rather than the actual one. You can call me out on this if and only if you have never misheard a lyric yourself. I'm not expecting much flack -- not from honest people, anyway.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't make New Years resolutions. But I get them. We like to start new things at the beginning. The first of the year, the first of the month, the first of the week -- all good days to get started on a new goal or a new endeavor. I've always liked to start things on Monday. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I set my sights on Monday.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I tried to make it someday. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It has been clear for months that I need to get my shit together. I took hits last year that I only recovered from in a superficial manner. I needed to pull things together for real. While I continue to believe in the concept of Health at Every Size, I had stopped being healthy. I could whine about how hard it is to eat right and exercise and stay big -- I've whined about it before and, frankly, I think it's a pretty legitimate reason to whine. It's unfair and it sucks. I don't look much different now -- as an unfit fat woman -- than I did nine months ago as a fit fat woman. In the appearance-oriented society that we live in, that is not exactly a huge motivator. I can look like this and work out every day and give up the food and the drinks (oh, God, the drinks) that I love-- or I can look like this and indulge in anything I want. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Um. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
That doesn't seem like a hard choice.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Except that I feel yucky now, and I felt confident and -- well -- healthy then.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And I'm tired of feeling yucky.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I sure have enjoyed the nine month carb-fest, though. Not gonna lie.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But it's time to crawl out of myself. If I allow myself to continue to wallow in self-pity and depression over what looks like the coldest winter in recent history, I might never make it out. This is not entirely melodrama. It is a danger that was becoming more real every day.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So I set my sights on Monday.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Now I remember reading once that if you are setting a start date -- and waiting for that date to start a lifestyle change -- that you are not ready to change. When you're ready -- when it's real -- you'll start right that minute. No making it someday. No setting your sights on Monday. Just do it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I disagree.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I think a few days to celebrate those indulgences -- whether they be carbs or cigarettes or booze or whatever you love but know you'd be better off without -- is a good thing. Experience them. Enjoy them. Treat each instance of indulgence like it may be your last. Like it WILL be your last. Then hit that date -- set your sights on Monday -- and let it go. Someday is over.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I had set my sights on Monday.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I had a plan.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have a plan.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm tired of feeling yucky. I'm tired of looking yucky, too, but that is something I just need to accept. Feeling yucky is not.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So it's Monday.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Record low temperatures don't make going to the gym too enticing. Heck, they don't make going to my home gym in the basement too enticing. Y'know what <i>is</i> enticing in this weather? Hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls and intermittent naps under a warm blanket on the sofa.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I mean -- it's cold. And I think I might be getting sick. Again. And everyone else is huddled under blankets. Too cold for school. Too cold for work. Too cold. And there's always next Monday...</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But that sounds a lot like someday. And someday isn't a valid goal. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I set my sights on Monday. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today is Monday. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Let's roll.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/XIycEe59Auc" width="420"></iframe>mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-70096782486267154642013-12-08T10:14:00.000-08:002013-12-08T10:14:49.901-08:00Santa, Baby<div style="text-align: justify;">
Santa Baby, </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I've been bad more often than I've been good since your last visit. I'm sure that stoolie, the Elf on the Shelf has already gleefully relayed all of that -- unkind thoughts, jealousy, resentment, quick-to-temper, selfish, blah, blah, mother-fucking blah. Oh, and cussing, too.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Here's the thing, Santa -- I'm not going to make excuses or even offer explanations. Bad behavior is bad behavior. Guilty as charged. I'm working on it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Anyway.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Some of your minions -- the good toy-maker type elves, not the tattletale snitch elves -- have been asking what I want/need for Christmas. I am at a loss to answer. What do I want? I want more counter space. I want a real vacation. I want the will to make the mundane seem sublime. I want acceptance for all people and marriage equality and the de-stigmatization of mental illness. I want to be beautiful and vital and strong. Oh, there is such a long list of things that I want!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
If I try really hard to behave better, maybe next year Santa Baby, maybe next year you could slip some of that under my tree. I'll pass on this year completely if you think you could make that so, big guy.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sincerely Trying,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Tam</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-8414913943971593912013-11-08T05:56:00.003-08:002013-11-08T05:56:49.283-08:00Radical Acceptance<div style="text-align: justify;">
Life has thrown me some curves.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This makes me absolutely the opposite of unique. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
For the past eight months or so, I have allowed my demons to consume me. I was helpless to change things -- so I accepted them -- but I did so while harboring a huge load of resentment. I resented the circumstances that changed my life. I resented everyone who wasn't dealing with those circumstances. I resented the people who were able to craft escapes from their own circumstances in one way or another. I became bitter and found it difficult to cultivate even the smallest seed of joy.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It was miserable to be me and it was miserable to be around me.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Then, things took a turn for the worse.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And the damndest thing happened.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I accepted it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I accepted it almost calmly.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I accepted it rationally.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I accepted it -- radically.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I wasn't yet familiar with the concept of radical acceptance, but I was experiencing it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It washed over me unexpectedly. This is my reality and I will be living with it. I may as well live with it harmoniously.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My thoughts had turned -- as I suspect the thoughts of many folks my age do -- to "What is my life worth? Is this all there is?" It's a really helpless, hopeless thought and it was difficult to bear.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Until I really considered it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What if this really <i>is</i> all there is? </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have the chance to see something beautiful every day.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I listen to music that moves me.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Every now and then I get to spend some time near the sea. I have mementos.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDWJum7d5-6HC8LCvF3QQeWHxn_Na2h-y0j9U7j7WRDaVY6a522pZQD6-d-VyQf7jWMb53rFh_2ZjDILPl2TNggdsMEKtIglgkKtTn25tM80iHrBTY9AIiKKkCX8FAfHT4aWh7kkN9kJ4/s1600/seashell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDWJum7d5-6HC8LCvF3QQeWHxn_Na2h-y0j9U7j7WRDaVY6a522pZQD6-d-VyQf7jWMb53rFh_2ZjDILPl2TNggdsMEKtIglgkKtTn25tM80iHrBTY9AIiKKkCX8FAfHT4aWh7kkN9kJ4/s1600/seashell.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I spend time with clever people who make me laugh.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
I have a hobby that feeds my creative side as well as my personal need to touch fabulous fibers.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaqLMURqp0Qe9QmqCgAKPYNIzPxLpRgCd47naY6O-GNuqrEJdV0XpshLzdyX_MGTzFMpeXRf46I72UG7vcjQbw-Pg7vG5bId_b-pqP4coR5v7Ee7c4Z5z5_bL3ZUIA20uaD2giwrAchGo/s1600/yarn+basket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaqLMURqp0Qe9QmqCgAKPYNIzPxLpRgCd47naY6O-GNuqrEJdV0XpshLzdyX_MGTzFMpeXRf46I72UG7vcjQbw-Pg7vG5bId_b-pqP4coR5v7Ee7c4Z5z5_bL3ZUIA20uaD2giwrAchGo/s320/yarn+basket.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I drink good coffee in the morning and good wine in the evening and I eat good food more often than I don't.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaQu5unKDzsqUtV20F2jhNfIWcx-PE8PvJjrG8ftBRXi6SwPfFTjn_pQbYj4ClNmQAxFoeI5ErC5gmqDr9uJPCjxcLsiiVLCkDCqPpLCtYmk0L5SDEGCabFJuoRxW6gE4_vVM2OhuTCcA/s1600/wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaQu5unKDzsqUtV20F2jhNfIWcx-PE8PvJjrG8ftBRXi6SwPfFTjn_pQbYj4ClNmQAxFoeI5ErC5gmqDr9uJPCjxcLsiiVLCkDCqPpLCtYmk0L5SDEGCabFJuoRxW6gE4_vVM2OhuTCcA/s320/wine.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I love the people in my life and I suspect that they love me in return.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A kitten is purring in my lap as I type.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsXl6znXcnxjJqNvqgVL9WHYRRSND_vFN3-fQgoW3TDLJ7cMpiREP9Oeln1Nzil6-efG5gKD2uW_1a9lF1Ru0tEJgtM271madItQsMdQMIscI6HN9UCiWquESi-5vEN8jG0LkoPZYwEY/s1600/loki+tam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsXl6znXcnxjJqNvqgVL9WHYRRSND_vFN3-fQgoW3TDLJ7cMpiREP9Oeln1Nzil6-efG5gKD2uW_1a9lF1Ru0tEJgtM271madItQsMdQMIscI6HN9UCiWquESi-5vEN8jG0LkoPZYwEY/s1600/loki+tam.jpg" /></a></div>
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Like the song says, I've got the sun in the morning and the moon at night.</div>
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If that's all there is -- is that so bad? What am I looking for? What am I waiting for? Who could really want more?</div>
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Is my reality like yours? Nope. And yours isn't like his and his isn't like hers and so on and so on, scooby doobie doobie. But mine isn't so bad. I bet yours isn't, either. It's not what I would have chosen if I'd been provided with a drop-down menu, but it's not so bad.</div>
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Radical acceptance occurs in that moment when you stop fighting reality. When you accept things totally and completely as they are. No <i>what ifs</i> or <i>if onlys </i>or <i>not fairs</i>. Serenity, courage and wisdom, and all that.</div>
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I am completely at peace with my present. That feels pretty awesome right now -- almost blissful after all of that time buried under bitterness and resentment. I suspect that the bliss will wear off, but I hope that the peace will remain.</div>
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I couldn't really hope for anything more.</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-2495926131959061042013-08-23T07:38:00.003-07:002013-08-23T07:52:37.720-07:00The Moment<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yesterday Lea and I went to our local Farmer's Market, as we have every Thursday all summer. It is a small Farmer's Market, but a nice one. Every week we walk through once to see what everyone has, then we walk through again and make our purchases. The whole process takes about 15 minutes. There was no reason to think that last night's visit would be any different. It was just another box to check off on our long weekly to-do list.</div>
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I would be hard put to tell you what shifted to make this visit different.</div>
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I suppose part of it is that my schedule is completely filled with meeting other people's needs. To be honest, I had allowed some resentment to build up around this. I'm not proud of that, but it's true. Give and take had turned into give and give and -- while I'd love to tell you that I rose to the challenge selflessly and without complaint, the truth is that I did indeed rise to the challenge, but I did so with a big-ass chip on my shoulder.</div>
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So there I was, in my usual-of-late grumpy state, completing my first round and ready to make my purchases when Lea ran into a couple friends. "Great." I sighed, "Now she's going to argue with me about leaving. Just what I need. Super." And then I stopped. As part of Lea's Dialectic Behavioral Therapy (DBT) she has been working on mindfulness -- on being in the moment. I looked at her talking to her friends -- happy -- carefree in that moment. Why would I want to take a pleasant moment from her? Was our schedule really that tight? It was not. I backed off and decided to appreciate the moment myself. </div>
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Earlier in the week, a friend had said something that had really settled into my brain and made itself at home. Essentially, she said that if we don't make the most of the situations in which we find ourselves we are doomed to wallow in resentment. That was precisely what I was doing. I was allowing myself to resent everyone and everything that was causing me to put my own interests on hold. I was trying to think of ways to make my new situation palatable and I was hitting the wall with each suggestion. To say that I was frustrated would be a rather dramatic understatement.</div>
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So I looked at Lea -- just enjoying a late-summer moment -- and I followed her lead. </div>
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I took note of the sunshine, and the way it felt especially nice after the light summer rain. I became aware of the smell of the homemade warm donuts that were being made and decided to treat us to a bag. The girls had asked for them before, but I'd always said no. This felt more like a yes moment. As I waited in line, I listened to the street musician, singing songs from my youth and from his heart. I thought about how much my dad loved homemade donuts and I missed him, but in a warm nostalgic way, not in a painful empty way. I took a bite then lifted the rest in a toast. Cheers, Tut. I turned the resentment aside and started letting the love flow in. How appropriate that Lea and Tut were the ones that created the impetus for this. The negative drained out as quickly as the positive flowed in. It was summer, I had a bag full of delicious fresh produce in one hand and a bag full of hot fresh donuts in the other. Yin and Yang. Balance. The sun was shining, my daughter was smiling, my thoughts were loving and all was well in my universe.</div>
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Just for a moment.</div>
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Of course the rest of the daily obligations remained. We didn't stay forever. It wasn't forever. It was a moment.</div>
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A really nice moment that put the rest of the day into perspective.</div>
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Maybe there's something to this.</div>
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Maybe I can find the good in this less than optimal situation I find myself in. </div>
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I've been looking at the big picture.</div>
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Which is sometimes the right thing to do.</div>
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But for me, right now, I think I might fare better if I put the big picture in the background and concentrate on the details.</div>
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Take the time to smell the donuts.</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-66567660987230600102013-08-04T23:31:00.000-07:002013-08-04T23:31:04.088-07:00People Are People (No Matter Where They Shop)<div style="text-align: justify;">
It has taken me almost a year to be ready to write this post.</div>
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Last fall, we were all geared up for a high school football game with our cross-town rivals. Both teams were undefeated at that point and it promised to be a great game. I think I was more interested in high school football last year than I was when I was in high school myself. We pre-purchased our tickets because a sold out crowd was anticipated. I wore team colors -- purple and black -- to work that day, as I did every Friday, so that we could head straight to the game when I got home. I was psyched.</div>
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It was a rough day at work. My supervisor kept me after my shift was over to deliver <a href="http://randomthoughts-tammy.blogspot.com/2012/09/im-great.html">a nasty blow</a>. This was not only devastating personally and professionally, but it made me late getting home which made us late for this sold out game. Being late, of course, meant that we had to park farther away which made us have to walk farther which made us even later. Still stinging from my supervisor's words, I had barely spoken to my family throughout this -- fearful that words would lead, as they so often do when I am vulnerable and hurt, to tears.</div>
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There's no crying in football.</div>
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When we finally made it into the stadium -- still a few minutes shy of the pre-game show -- the stands were packed. There was absolutely not a single place to sit. The throngs of people standing on the sidelines were thick. As I am on the shorter side of tall, any glimpse I got of the field was stolen. Awesome. I listened to the pre-game show, then followed the game as well as I could by listening to the announcer and watching the score board.</div>
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By half-time, my back was in as much pain as my ego. The arthritis in my knee was screaming louder than the pep squad. Feel free to throw in some other figures of speech of your choice to illustrate my physical and emotional misery and/or exhaustion. I was miserable. I was exhausted. You could've put a fork in me kids, 'cause I was done.</div>
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At this point, I just absolutely needed to give my back some relief. I knew it would look stupid, but I couldn't go another moment without stretching it out. As I bent over to touch my hands to the ground I heard a girl say, "Oh my God!" and mid bend I caught a glimpse of her nudging her boyfriend and pointing at me. As my fingertips grazed the track and I experienced a millisecond of relief, I saw a flash and heard a click.</div>
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She had taken my picture.<br />
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She. Had taken. My picture.<br />
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I know there are cultures that believe taking your picture steals your soul and in that moment I briefly grokked that notion. She had stolen something from me.</div>
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I rose to standing and narrowed my eyes at her. She caught my gaze then quickly dropped it, turning and walking away. She was pretty -- in a generic teenage girl sort of way. Not drop dead, head-turning, oh-my-God pretty, but pretty the way hoards of high school girls seem to be. Pretty because she was young and her hair was long and blonde and her jeans came from the smaller end of the juniors department. She was no different than dozens -- perhaps hundreds -- of other girls there that night. She oozed a casual confidence that she would be young and pretty forever. </div>
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I wasn't a person to her -- I was just a punchline. She didn't know what lead to me feeling compelled to bend over in what I knew was an unflattering manner -- nor do I imagine that she would have cared. A fat lady bent over. That was all she needed to know. That's funny stuff right there, kids, I'll tell you what.</div>
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People of Walmart are still people.</div>
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People who don't dress well, or who have the unmitigated balls to be fat in your presence, or who deviate in any other way from the arbitrary norms are still people. They deserve to go about their daily business as much as well-dressed people with perfect bodies do without being exploited for the amusement of the lowbrow masses. That we, as a society, find it so generally acceptable to shame and dehumanize those who don't fit into our personal aesthetic standards is deplorable.</div>
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A few months later a woman was in my office telling us a <i>hilarious</i> story about how she had been shopping with her teenaged daughter and they saw a transgendered person in the store. They -- this adult woman and her teenaged daughter -- nudged each other and giggled. Then the mother encouraged the daughter to snap a picture because her own phone was not charged. Her daughter refused, saying that she didn't want to be caught. Think about that. The mother was encouraging her daughter to dehumanize someone whose appearance she found bizarre. The daughter -- while amused -- refused to take it to the next level, and good on her for that, at least. Do we need a clearer example that this hateful behavior is taught?</div>
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Taught, and encouraged and widely accepted as harmless.</div>
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It is not harmless.</div>
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When someone I used to call a friend recently posted a picture of her neighbor -- a woman who clearly did not meet her standards of beauty -- getting the mail -- I was afraid to walk out of my door for days; fearful that one of my own neighbors might be lurking in the bushes, ready to expose my not-usually-exactly-carefully-polished mail-retrieving look to the world. It was the football game all over again. <span style="font-size: x-small;">(We won, by the way. So there was that.)</span></div>
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My heart broke for this woman whose adult (A very vocal Christian, by the way. WWJD - Who Would Jesus Dehumanize?) neighbor viewed her as nothing more than an opportunity to attempt to make a few of her friends giggle.</div>
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But I'll bet she has a story.</div>
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I have a story.</div>
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You have a story.</div>
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Every single person of Walmart has a story, too.</div>
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mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-72673287187698705372013-07-24T14:02:00.000-07:002013-07-24T14:02:31.443-07:00Groundhog Day<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have followed a pattern my entire adult life. </div>
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The world tells me that I should be unhappy with the way I look. It's hard not to listen. But every now and then I break through it and decide: <i>screw that action. I'm big. So what. I can be the best looking big girl it's possible for me to be. </i>This shift in attitude usually leads to a shopping spree. Out with the outfits designed to most effectively hide my bulk -- and me -- from the world and in with the outfits designed to fit and flatter and make me feel great. This shopping spree inevitably leads me to the makeup counter where I decide that an updated wardrobe deserves an updated overall look. New clothes and new makeup lead to renewed confidence and I start to feel good about who I am. When I feel good I am more active. I am able to completely accept and indulge -- almost celebrate -- who I (temporarily) unapologetically am.</div>
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This is a very good place.</div>
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I ALWAYS end up at the gym from this place. </div>
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This is also, of course, good.</div>
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Because I love lifting. I really, really do. But it is hard to drag oneself to the gym -- even for something one loves -- when one feels frumpy and lumpy and worthless. But when I feel good, it's one of the first things I want to do.</div>
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Then I lose a little weight. My proud new wardrobe becomes loose and I start to replace key items in a smaller size. This is exhilarating! This is the point in the pattern where I stop being content with myself. I don't want to lose a little weight, I want to lose a lot of weight. I want to lose ALL the weight! Maybe if I change my eating habits... </div>
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I am no longer unapologetic or accepting at this point, but I am motivated and encouraged. I can do this! I start projecting. If I lost THIS much weight and THIS many sizes in THIS amount of time, then by THIS date I should reach my goal.</div>
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Whoa.</div>
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Let's backtrack for a moment.</div>
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Shouldn't the goal be to be happy? Didn't I reach that goal earlier in the pattern? The part where I was -- um -- <i>happy</i> with myself and with my life? Isn't that ALWAYS the goal? But by the time I get to this stage I am no longer happy with myself as I am. I am, however, pretty sure that I can get myself to a place that will make me happy if I just work hard enough. I'm not happy NOW, but I can BE happy. I'll DESERVE to be happy when I'm in a smaller dress size. Oh, boy -- I sure will be happy then!</div>
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So my workouts become less fun and more -- well -- work. Meals are obsessed over. They are still delicious -- I'm not a TOTAL martyr -- but food becomes almost all I think about. I am eating one meal while thinking about the next. There is no spontaneity at this point, and if there is it is horrifying rather than delightful.</div>
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The scale moves a little, but not much.</div>
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And then it stops.</div>
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We're not talking about a plateau for a week or a month or a couple weeks or a couple months. It stops. I up the exercise. The scale won't move. I cut out more food. The scale won't move. Nothing works. </div>
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I become desperate.</div>
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Then sad.</div>
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Then desperately sad.</div>
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I don't want to lift -- why bother?</div>
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I want all the carbs -- who the hell cares?</div>
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Quickly quickly quickly I regain all the weight I've lost plus a little for good measure.</div>
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Eventually, I start to accept myself.</div>
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And the cycle begins again.</div>
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This cycle has repeated itself more times than I care to tell you.</div>
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This time, though -- this time it is a little different.</div>
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Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, I learn little lessons each time the same events repeat themselves. </div>
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This time, I never completely stopped lifting. I backed off. I didn't hit it with the intensity with which I hit it when all is well, but I never quit. I gained back a third of what I'd lost then stopped. I stopped before I gained it all. I stopped well before I gained it all and then some. </div>
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Cool.</div>
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Lately I've been buying clothes like it's my job. And I've noticed that I linger in the beauty aisle -- I've brought home new eyeshadow, lipstick and nail polish in the past couple weeks. Could I be getting back on at the top of the cycle before I completely bottom out? It would appear that I am. This has never happened before. The cycle is changing.</div>
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Woo and might I add a hearty Hoo.</div>
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Now.</div>
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The trick will be to stay here -- to stay here at the top -- exercising and eating well and dressing in a way that makes me happy and generally feeling good without falling into the formerly inevitable traps that await me.</div>
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Can I do it?</div>
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I hope so.</div>
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If not this time, maybe the next.</div>
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Like Mr. Murray, I am damned tired of repeating the same cycle over and over. It's stupid and it's futile and life is too short.</div>
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It's time to learn my lessons and get it right.</div>
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<br />mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-63585410819909054322013-07-18T07:09:00.000-07:002013-07-18T07:09:56.715-07:00All the World's Indeed a Stage<div style="text-align: justify;">
When things get particularly out of control with my life, one of the coping mechanisms I turn to is to picture the events as they are unfolding as if they were a movie. Maybe that's crazy, maybe that's egotistical maybe it's a form of disassociation but it has often helped me to gain perspective. Would I be rooting for my character? Would I like her? Quite often the answer is no.</div>
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While that bothers me immensely, it doesn't always result in a change in my behavior. Real life isn't the movies. Traits that come across as plucky, quirky and delightful in the movies are often just plain weird in real life. And NO ONE wants to watch a movie about a mature adult making rational decisions. It's boring. When that character exists, it is presented as a stern and oppressive foil to the free spirits that surround it. The spirits that we root for. We root for the characters who live on the edge. We want them to be enough like us to be recognizable but they need to take chances we can't, won't or shouldn't take.</div>
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Lately I am certain that if my life was a movie and you were watching it, you would be rooting for everyone but me. I'm surrounded by people who are living -- or at least pursuing -- the lives they want. They are plucky, quirky and delightful. You would love them. They take risks; I advise caution. They pursue their interests;. I gripe about practical concerns. I resent being cast as the straight-laced repressed middle-aged resentful fat woman. Is it bad form to use two versions of the same word in one sentence? Technically, yes. But it's a word that would be used multiple times in describing my character. I resentfully resent being resented.</div>
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So I think -- if I were writing the story, how could I give my character a redemption arc? How could I -- as the playwright -- manipulate things so that this character was able to have her needs met without squelching the enthusiasm of those around her? </div>
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I'm just not that talented as a playwright. Clearly this character needs to be less of a bitch if she is to gain public approval. (Or more, if we're going for the anti-hero angle.) But she can't just roll over and play dead -- she can't be given a supporting part in her own story. Nobody likes that character. I certainly don't.</div>
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I don't have the answers yet. The rest of this story is unwritten at this point. But isn't that exciting? It could go anywhere! I've cast the role in my head, though. The actress has the convictions of Susan Sarandon with eyes that are determined and maybe more than a little bit crazy. She will defend her children like a mother bear and dance with her friends with wild abandon. She is non-traditional yet classic and not too hard on the eyes. She'll also have a little Sandra Bullock in her -- she's in over her head and frazzled and the worse the situation becomes the more adorable she appears. Obviously there's a little Melissa McCarthy in the mix as well. She's sassy and brassy and cusses fluently, but more importantly she's the current fat girl. And whoever played me would have to be a fat girl. It shouldn't matter, but it does. It puts a different spin on every situation. These are not necessarily my favorite actresses, but I think they would combine well to play the part. Now I just have to feed this gorgeous hybrid some saucy lines and turn things around for her. </div>
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Wish me luck.</div>
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<br />mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-60154561139073418392013-06-30T07:57:00.001-07:002013-06-30T07:57:19.734-07:00Everybody Sings the Blues Sometimes<div style="text-align: justify;">
On my way to Kroger this morning, I was struck by the particular blueness of the wildflowers on the side of the road. ( I think if I ever searched my posts for all of the times I've used variations of the phrase "on my way to Kroger" I would die of embarrassment. Or sheer depression. But I've digressed.) These flowers -- some might call them weeds, because they are unplanned and not carefully placed in carefully tended gardens, but I've always liked wild, unplanned flowers more than I like cultivated ones -- really called to me today. Perhaps it was the way the early morning sun was lighting them -- giving them an almost unearthly glow and definition. Perhaps I was just in the right frame of mind to be beckoned by something wild and beautiful. For whatever reason, their role in the landscape took on more importance than it perhaps deserved as I made my emergency run for half and half.</div>
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I mused on their lovely hue -- and how it resembled the blue of the sky when the sky is such that you can't help but be happy. Blue flowers, I thought, blue skies, blue jeans, blue moon, blue blue my world is blue, blue jean baby, somebody turned the blues on me, I got the Sunday morning out of half and half running to Kroger blues.</div>
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Would you think I was making it up for the sake of the story to say that I parked next to a blue van when I got there? Because I'm totally not.</div>
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We almost bought a blue car this week.</div>
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I am not a car chick. Tom will argue this point -- because I turn to goo at the sight of old muscle cars or new muscle cars that look like old muscle cars or even some high end performance sport cars. They appeal to me on an almost visceral level for one and only one reason -- they are beautiful. My attraction is entirely superficial. I like the sexy, powerful lines. Open the hood to show off the hooziewhatsits and that's where a true car chick or car dude will start to show signs of what often appears to be physical arousal. I'll take a glance at it then wander back to reverently touch the upholstery or the dashboard. True car chicks and dudes are cringing -- amazed that I don't want to wax rhapsodic about torques or valves or any other number of things that hold absolutely no interest or meaning for me whatsoever except for the fact that they're housed in a bitchin' chassis.</div>
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My favorite favorite, bar none, is a Mustang. Make it a convertible and I become sort of incoherent.</div>
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My Accord is on its last legs and my life is -- hmmmm -- not where I'd expected it to be in these, the middle years. Tom thought maybe putting me in my dream car would put me back on the road to things making sense. I do like that Tom. Long story short, we ended up test-driving a couple Mustangs that we thought were in our price range. Both were blue. Like sunny skies and wild flowers and everything that is good and right and sweet and true. But when we actually brought ourselves out of the clouds and thought about it we realized that it is not quite the right time for us. I could run to Kroger and pick up half and half, maybe, but I couldn't haul the groceries for the four of us for the week. I could get the girls to their appointments and lessons and practices, but it would be cramped and uncomfortable for them. It just wasn't worth pushing our budget to its absolute limit so that I could soothe what is probably essentially a midlife crisis. </div>
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Opting out was the right thing to do and we both slept better once the decision was made.</div>
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And we did just buy an uh-maze-ing new tandem which we should take possession of by the middle of this week. Tom says we'll need new shoes and helmets. Maybe they come in blue.</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-49377534393271635762013-06-03T06:32:00.001-07:002013-06-03T06:32:05.867-07:00My Three Gripes<div style="text-align: justify;">
Since becoming a stay-at-home again, I have had to make a lot of adjustments. My self-esteem took a hit, my financial situation took a hit and my schedule took a hit. I am actually busier now than I was when I was working. The major difference (aside from the aforementioned hits), is that now I get to watch TV between chores.</div>
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We gave up cable years ago and dedicated ourselves to Netflix, but recently friends gave us rabbit ears so we can get a few channels. It's enough.</div>
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I had a little routine for my daytime watching, saving all the Netflix business for when Tom gets home. In case you're interested, my days looked something like this: Local News, My Three Sons, Donna Reed, That Girl, I Love Lucy, Leave It To Beaver, Rachael Ray, Anderson Cooper, Local News, Days of Our Lives, The Talk, Katie, Ellen DeGeneres. It's not like I watch all of those shows straight through every day -- I don't. Ever. But that's the schedule. That's what's on when I'm home. And to continue to be clear -- just because it's on, doesn't mean I'm sitting passively watching it. I do knock out a chore or two throughout the day. And when I AM sitting, I'm knitting. And you know what? I don't have to defend myself to you. It's not like every minute of your every day is filled to the brim with scholarly pursuits. If it was, you wouldn't be reading this.</div>
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Anyway.</div>
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Most of it is just background noise, but I almost always sat down and attended to My Three Sons and Donna Reed. My Three Sons is an old favorite, so there's a nostalgia factor, but there's more to it than that. First of all, like me, Ernie is adopted. Just like in real life, this is totally not a big deal. It is not ignored, but neither is it emphasized. It just is. I love that. But Ernie isn't my favorite, oh no. Like a good parent, I like all of the sons equally. The sons are not without their charm, but that Steve Douglas... Now there's a man worth watching. What I love the most about his character is his ability to put everyone he encounters at ease. Sometimes he does it with a little twinkle in his eye, but he always does it. He is my parenting role model. He allows the boys to make their mistakes and pay the consequences in a spirit of gentle lovingness. He is the Mister Rogers of TV fathers. I want to be the sort of parent and friend that Steve Douglas is. I'm not. But I really want to.</div>
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And speaking of role models -- next on my viewing agenda is the venerable Donna Reed. I have never watched Donna Reed before. It was a little before my time when it was first run and I always sort of thought of it like a Leave It To Beaver sort of sappy salute to a perfect time that didn't really exist. I thought she was the quintessential submissive housewife and I really wanted no part of it. What a happy surprise it has been to discover that I was wrong. </div>
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Of course ALL of the sitcoms mentioned also give me the added bonus of teaching me a valuable social lesson every day. Thanks to my viewing habits, I now know that it's wrong to lie to or manipulate or use people. I know that family is more important than money. And, thanks to Lucy and Donna and June I know that just because I'm unemployed doesn't mean I can't wear a nice new fit-and-flare dress and fix my hair. Even if Ricky -- I mean, Tom -- thinks I already have enough dresses.</div>
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So this morning, after dropping Liv off at school, I hurried home to pour my coffee and enjoy my daily dose of gentle wholesomeness with Steve and his boys.</div>
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I was not pleased when the familiar instrumental did not involve three animated sets of shoes tapping their toes and junk. MeTV had changed their schedule without consulting me, which seems rude, since they have <b>Me</b> right in their name. Family Affair is not the same. It's not even a good substitute. Now, if I want to spend a half hour feeling reassured by Fred MacMurray, I'll have to do it at 5:30. Which is, I suppose, a more pleasant way to wake up than the Local News. I'll adjust, but I won't be happy about it.</div>
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I looked into the rest of the changes -- I Love Lucy has been subbed out for The Lucy Show, which is NOT the same thing.</div>
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*pouts*</div>
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I adjusted to staying at home and to a new normal. Fine. But now I have to adjust my TV viewing habit, too? Enough. </div>
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Uncle Bill is no Steve Douglas.</div>
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Mr. French is no Uncle Charley.</div>
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And I? Am crying uncle.</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-17877677348215018842013-05-30T10:42:00.000-07:002013-05-30T10:42:29.364-07:00There Is Beauty In ItIsn't this pretty?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTI0PKaDDMTjgx-Yroelo5e05L_njzdUwPt2TGnqaydXGNDX5wlBoMEjADE8E4z-NOwJxrbRKnnV6sWqz1NbQpxmmhvxmIIR6nzhMI-IcFDX3FN6wC7-yYXRe67DAKXUUh6qodYf7zumw/s1600/flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTI0PKaDDMTjgx-Yroelo5e05L_njzdUwPt2TGnqaydXGNDX5wlBoMEjADE8E4z-NOwJxrbRKnnV6sWqz1NbQpxmmhvxmIIR6nzhMI-IcFDX3FN6wC7-yYXRe67DAKXUUh6qodYf7zumw/s320/flower.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I took it on my deck last night.</div>
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I bet you think I have a beautiful deck.</div>
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I sure was able to take an awfully pretty picture there, and everyone knows the camera doesn't lie.</div>
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That picture was taken with a macro-lens focusing in very closely on a tiny little part of this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3B8FpEcSst2TqiqvrumzRARW4RzHvYIL_90NHRQTDYCpOA5qPQLmllwa48Gl0K4vapMvd1jz0FxX1mUEHtxVkJ0kg-bejAoKOw4AP4C-EcDoAHj9ztEvuavPKyhcY0mvUy_PHSUvTuOw/s1600/weeds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3B8FpEcSst2TqiqvrumzRARW4RzHvYIL_90NHRQTDYCpOA5qPQLmllwa48Gl0K4vapMvd1jz0FxX1mUEHtxVkJ0kg-bejAoKOw4AP4C-EcDoAHj9ztEvuavPKyhcY0mvUy_PHSUvTuOw/s320/weeds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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That's right. To the embarrassment of everyone in my family and, no doubt, the chagrin of many of my neighbors, weeds grow right up through my deck. It is wild and ugly and out of control.</div>
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Kind of like my life has been recently.</div>
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And yet -- when you take the time to look really, really closely -- just like the weeds on my deck -- there is beauty in it.</div>
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At first glance, it's a mess. Things that I do not nurture or welcome are growing and tangling around themselves and ensnaring everything in their path. They are manipulating the environment and dominating it. I cut them down, but they come back. They render me helpless.</div>
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Things only make sense when I slow down and accept them for what they are -- when I take the time to sort through the mess and magnify and emphasize the tiny instances of unexpected beauty.</div>
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Because they are there.</div>
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They are always, always, always there.</div>
mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1058548553330112542.post-88232487897033143232013-04-10T06:35:00.000-07:002013-04-10T06:35:20.456-07:00Day 100<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's the 100th day of 2013. 100 is a nice, round, even number. Why wait until December to reflect upon the year that was? I am a reflective sort of chickadee -- I'm going to use the 100 day mark as an excuse to reflect.</div>
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I know it is the 100th day of the year because of the photo a day project I have embarked upon along with a couple friends. I tag my daily offerings <i>pic a day</i>, but one of my friends has numbered hers which -- in retrospect -- was a really good idea and if I ever do this again it is one I will almost certainly use. Her photo yesterday was day 99, so being the smarty-pants that I am I was pretty quickly able to surmise that today would be 100.</div>
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This project has been a real learning experience for me and a lot of fun.</div>
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Originally I intended to be in every picture. I thought it would force me to do something worth documenting every day. I also thought it would allow me to get used to the way I look in pictures, because looking at pictures of myself has always been a sort of shocking experience. I figured if I was ever going to get comfortable with myself, I better know what I look like. At the 100 day mark I must admit that I strayed from the goal of being in every picture pretty quickly. It turned into a documentation of my life rather than of me. Nobody wants to look at a new picture of the same old person every day. Ain't nobody got time for that. Plus, I think it portrayed me as someone who was really into herself and that was not how I wanted to present at all. So I branched out and took pictures of other people and of things and of places and I think the project is better for it. I still make sure to get myself in there on a pretty regular basis.</div>
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Some things I have learned from this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy63bKttMqbnl3uxZOysZohCpdb4dwRDYvs-uPSplfVnKamc6rQEB-avRwc9pmzyaAckw3jztIT_uEk8F2MiWU7t-gEQ_Rz5uvHAjAHp835hV21aiqoamnYqfX2TQ1gRvhzGNui-YWvIM/s1600/old+navy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy63bKttMqbnl3uxZOysZohCpdb4dwRDYvs-uPSplfVnKamc6rQEB-avRwc9pmzyaAckw3jztIT_uEk8F2MiWU7t-gEQ_Rz5uvHAjAHp835hV21aiqoamnYqfX2TQ1gRvhzGNui-YWvIM/s320/old+navy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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When I posted this pic in early January, I got a pretty positive response. It documented my first time buying jeans in a straight size store since I don't even remember when. People said nice things. I said this:</div>
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I really ought to learn to wear makeup -- and I have such healthy DARK hair -- it wouldn't kill me to spend a few minutes styling it -- and I need a better fitting bra -- and I still have a crap-ton of weight to lose...</blockquote>
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Tom called me out on that comment -- as he tends to do when I get too self-deprecating -- but after I wrote it I realized that (almost) ALL of those things were in my control.</div>
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So I got a haircut, bought some makeup, picked up some new bras (boy, was I wearing the wrong size!) and proceeded to feel a whole lot better about myself.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQeaM-pQOVz0h1DE0Zs8qy5EVmI1ZFU4cmJhBsZh6ZF2uka4OoFuaUPA_RJYX8sPVsfoW0ashTRyQ4rSXfc7bQmpQWewP9x2GyUsEtuGvxxeUahViKAMQmQ_sv81-1VsuXtwCARpiS0LE/s1600/thumbs+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQeaM-pQOVz0h1DE0Zs8qy5EVmI1ZFU4cmJhBsZh6ZF2uka4OoFuaUPA_RJYX8sPVsfoW0ashTRyQ4rSXfc7bQmpQWewP9x2GyUsEtuGvxxeUahViKAMQmQ_sv81-1VsuXtwCARpiS0LE/s1600/thumbs+up.jpg" /></a></div>
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Thanks, pic a day!</div>
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I missed a few days -- when I was just too sad to bother -- but I quickly learned that it was a great tool for that, too -- finding something positive or beautiful or worth documenting every single day. Even on those lowest days there is something. There is always something. I forgot that a couple times in the past few weeks, but I intend to try to use it in the future to motivate myself. Visual gratefulness. Make it a goal, on a bad day, to find that one good thing -- just one, no matter how tiny -- then photograph it and post it and make it real -- make it as real as the bad things -- make it MORE real.</div>
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Or, you know, skip a day here or there. Whatever.</div>
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100 days in I would say I am definitely well on my way to achieving my goal for this project -- recognizing myself. Embracing the flaws I can't do a thing about and working on the ones I can.</div>
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It's a process.</div>
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Here's to the next 100 days!</div>
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<br />mommakinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18138745092234541349noreply@blogger.com2