Skidmarks and Stupidity

Originally posted 9/8/2009

I woke up late today and stumbled my way to the kitchen on a coffee beeline that looked and felt like a yellow brick road, to discover my husband Dennis fully dressed for work and passed out on the couch. I thought it best to gently rouse him and let him know that he was supposed to be at work. As it turned out, he'd aggravated his sprained ankle buzzing around the house yesterday preparing for his return to work and had no plans to get up from the couch any time soon. It was sad and cute at the same time.

Not much later in the day the post-vacation, injured husband clutter got to me and I decided to make short work of it.

First stop on the tidy train: stinky laundry.

Dennis as Lily our one year old: Are those "browns"?

Me: Those are whites. Some of our whites have brown on them.

Dennis to Lily: Mom has little to no bowel control. If she had bowel control she wouldn't use it anyway. What would be the fun in that?

He says this as I tenderly fold his underwear and turn his socks inside themselves to form conveniently paired bundles.

Later yet, after an extended grocery shopping sojourn consisting of peach sniffing, cucumber thumping, and beer procuring, (the ancient checker actually eyed me suspiciously and asked my birth date causing me to choke on my 40 year old tongue wrinkle),  I returned home to the news that Dennis' doctor had called in his prescription not five minutes prior.

On the way to the pharmacy I turned on the radio, (yes, the radio... we old bats like old things), and was met with what sounded like static. I flicked the lever on my steering wheel to move it to the next station. The static grew louder. I flicked more vehemently. Flick flick FLICK flickflickflick. Suddenly I'm being blasted by Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon".

Who knew that that "Bark at the Moon" sounds like "Bazzrrxxxskkkzzxzz" in the lower volume ranges?

I would have happily Barked at the Moon in the first place so I did just that. I kept on barking even after my minivan ground to a halt at a stoplight. I envisioned a giant hair bow in the shape of a bat and checked myself out in the mirror. It wasn't there of course, but I was pleased with the look of it and continued to headbang my way into the hospital parking lot.

After a stop here and a doctor note grab there, I once again found myself approaching the pharmacy. It was packed and offered only two available seats; one next to a kindly senior citizen and another holding an empty water bottle and a worn copy of Coachella Valley Your Health Monthly. I smiled at the elderly gentleman and said, "Hello. Is this seat taken?"

This man had not one but two lazy eyes, and his face was clearly pointed in my direction, but he afforded me neither acknowledgment of my existence nor any response whatsoever. Upon realizing I couldn't be sure of his ability to hear, or of his sanity, I took a step back and plopped myself right on top of the water bottle.

I'm no fool. It was obvious that the only way to save what I like to think of as my natural aplomb was to snatch that magazine up faster than the speed of light, cross my legs and pretend I'd been sitting there for half an hour. So I did just that.

I flipped to a page about natural skin masks. Do I have dry skin or combination skin? Only one of my many beauty quandaries. I go with dry skin. Bad choice.

In a recipe that is obviously not meant for consumption I take in the words, "(no need to substitute Splenda in this recipe)". I wrote in "OMG", because I said the words out loud, violently flicked the page with my right hand and squinted at the lazy-eyed gentleman in a manner that shrieked, "Can you bah-lieve this?" Mercifully, I spotted Dennis' name on the put-you-out-of-your-misery board and hopped up behind a waiting couple.

After five and a half minutes of, "He said he was going to send down a note"'s, and "He's an idiot, I never liked him"'s it was my turn at bat. Inexplicably, the girl behind the register motions me over to the right. I comply. Again she motions to the right. Again I comply. She says, "You can come to this window too." I hand her my ticket. She heads back off to the left and types into a computer and eyes me nervously. I continue to smile. She goes on about how I could have come to that window, the one she motioned me to before hopping back to the left, until I say, "The 'Pick-up Prescription' sign is over where I was standing." She glares like I'm an idiot and says, "I'm just letting you know. For next time."

I smiled a broader smile. Her lips twitched. I plucked the bag out of her hand and made my way home.

Is it just me?

Brick Walls

Republish: Originally posted May 15, 2009

I was drop-kicked into yesterday morning by a bad dream. After tossing and turning for a bit, when it became irkfully apparent that I would not be falling back to sleep, it dawned on me that if I were to get out of bed that very moment I could expect to have roughly ONE hour to myself. ONE hour! I could network. I could blog uninterrupted. I could think deep thoughts. I could lounge on the toilet and read Better Homes & Gardens. High on life, I ripped off the covers and flung myself across the room and into the hallway.

On my way to my computer I noticed that Joe had opened his door and turned on his light in the middle of the night. Giggling at the rhyme of it all (remember, I was still high on life) I crept over to his room, turned off his light, and closed his door as gingerly as any human can hope to gingerly close a door. Not quite two seconds later Joe exploded into a highly vocal crying frenzy so fierce I expected to find him literally caught by the toe by a tiger.

Just then, my bowels churned and threatened to erupt, and left me with no choice other than to dash into the bathroom. After a few very unpleasant moments, I made my way back to Joe's room to save him from the tiger. My bowels churned again, and so it was back to the bathroom. (Bad chicken???!? Damn that chicken!) From the bathroom I heard Lily working herself up to a crying frenzy as well. Is it possible there were two toe-grabbing tigers? As I sat there on the toilet I almost began to cry myself. One uninterrupted hour had been so close I could almost taste it! Alas, it was not meant to be.

My bowels behaved long enough to allow me to make it to Lily and Joe's rooms, save them from those blasted tigers, and hoist them by the teardrops onto the living room rug. Bleary, I decided I was not ready to be entertaining and thus went searching for the remote. I pressed 8 for PBS only to be greeted with the Spanish version of "A Place of Our Own". I tried to explain to Joe that they were speaking a language called Spanish, and that we spoke English, but that someday hopefully he could speak both English and Spanish, but he just stared at me, his face devoid of any hint of future bilingual prowess.

I flicked the channel button up one notch and was greeted with some seminar footage. A man named Randy Pausch, may he rest in peace, was sharing childhood photos of himself at Disneyland. He went on to detail his efforts to secure a position as a Disneyland Imagineer after having obtained his PhD. He read to us from one of many rejection letters he received from The Land of Disney. He had, in fact, hit a brick wall.

And then he said it!

"The brick walls aren't built to keep you out. The brick walls are built to keep out the people who don't want it badly enough. They're built to keep other people out."

Wow. If only that notion had dawned upon me years ago! I've always been painfully apologetic of my existence in the world. As though my mere presence was an irritation to the people who really deserved to be existing. And loving. And laughing. And succeeding. Every now and then I'd poke my little chipmunk nose around the corner and give something a try. Expecting rejection, I was never surprised when I hit a brick wall. I was overstepping my bounds, after all. I would apologize to the brick wall and scurry back into the safety of the shadows that were meant to be my home.

It never occurred to me for one moment that brick walls were golden opportunities! If they were keeping me out, isn't it possible they were keeping other people out as well? That I could net myself an advantage simply by deciding not to be discouraged—to give it another try? And maybe even another? Dare I? Who do I think I am, anyway? In the past all this uppity thinking would have had me scuttling back under a rock. But not today. And not ever again. I've got brick walls to climb!

Can you dig it?

Image via Wikipedia

I was driving to get my toes splashed with color when the light flicked to “Whoa, now – you hear?” Off to my right a teen in pj bottoms was dancing a sign to life, announcing a Girl’s Club sale. I couldn’t help but smile and watch her as I pressed to a stop. When it was time to “Giddyap” I caught sight of another girl to my left hotfooting in slippers, waving a similar sign, completely devoid of self-consciousness or fear. White to the right of me, black to the left. Freckles. Giggles. Toes. It was as though God himself had opened up the Heavens and spat out a perfect moment just to remind me that he could.

I was warm and fuzzying myself into a Zen-like froth when but two blocks later I spied no fewer than six young men, only one white, giggling although I’m sure they would deny it and prancing and goofing with signs and a box one of them had turned into a makeshift car. Turns out the East Plano Football team had a fund-raiser going on at Sonic and they were there to siren us in.

It was all I could do not to pull to the side to double over with joy. It’s been that long, you see, since I’ve seen teenagers of any color unabashedly acting like children. Some preconceived notions I’d packed from California to Texas slipped out of me and seeped into the sewer where they belong.

Delight reared its ugly head. When I arrived at my destination I asked to have my toes painted a surly shade of OPI “Can you dig it?”

Turns out I can dig it. Ain't it cool?

Flatlanders, Hawks and Chickens

[caption id="" align="alignleft" width="240" caption="Image by Clover_1 via Flickr"][/caption]

I've long held the opinion that people, upon moving, should immerse themselves in the culture of their locale, rather than alter it to suit themselves with regard to their own familiarities.

When my family moved to Pollock Pines, California back in the early 1980's, I noticed that people displayed "Stomp Out Flatlanders" bumper stickers on their trucks. This, of course, begged the question: Exactly what is a Flatlander? Is a Flatlander a sub-species of homo sapiens with distinct, categorizable quirks and patterns? Or is a Flatlander somebody unfamiliar that you can't get a beat on, who therefore poses an unspoken threat?

I believe the definition is closer to the former. Flatlanderhood isn't comprised of any set number of qualities, but if one should possess certain qualities, one is most definitely a Flatlander.

Qualities that put one in the Flatlander category back in in 1981:

Metrosexual - We didn't have a word for it back then, but we knew it when we saw it.
Inappropriate Garb - Keds in a snowstorm, rather than moon boots.
Weird Car - And by weird I mean anything other than Ford or Chevy.
Classical Music - Are you kiddin'? If it don't got a fiddle they're gonna kick ya in the hey diddle diddle.
Keeping to Yourself - You think you're too good for us?
Excessive Friendliness - What do you want from us? Go away!
Overt Displays of Happiness - Get a real job! Get your hands dirty!
Sugarloaf - Thinking it is a Little Debbie product rather than a camp for kids.
Paying for a Cord of Wood - Git yer a*s out there and chop you some, sissy!

I could go on. But I won't. Because I'm starting to recognize myself.

I AM NOW THE FLATLANDER.

I'm new to the Dallas, Texas area and painfully out of the loop. I don't know how people here spend their weekends. I don't understand why there is a dance studio on every block, or why these people are so into donuts. They sell Mai Tai mix and Margarita salt in the aisle next to the milk, but you have to drive to a different county to procure a bottle of liquor.

Most homes don't have driveways in the front, but alleys in the back where you can access your garage. I do not understand the protocol associated with these alleyways. What do you do if you meet another car? Drive backwards for half a block? And why do you have to do it? Why don't they do it? What if you both do it at the same time, then stop and drive forward at the same time until you end up right back where you started?

Contrary to the general and uninformed opinion most native Californians have of Texans, these folks have really nice hair. Straight hair. Shiny hair. They're very well groomed - better groomed, in fact, than yours truly. Maybe a little too well-groomed. Appearances are important here, just as important as they are in most of California.

In Plano, people don't wear pajamas to Blockbuster the way they did in Yucca Valley, CA. They wear full makeup and nice boots. They're polite. If you reach for the same movie, they say things like, "Oh no, please - you take it!", but their smiles don't always meet their eyes.

Costco is a popular meeting place around lunch time. As in California, Texans linger around the free sample area. There are two apparent varieties - hawks and chickens. The hawks wait until the free sample hostess is involved in a conversation with somebody else, then swoop by with their cart, snag the little cup with the steak chili, eyes widening with the thrill of it, then soar on out of there, never stopping, never having missed a beat.

Chickens approach slowly and make an attempt to determine their appropriate place in line, then fill it. They smile at the people around them, and rub their hands together in anticipation. They'll tell you what their huband or wife thinks of this brand of chili because, as luck would have it, they've been purchasing it regularly for the last six months.

They'll smile at your baby girl and try to make you feel better by admitting that their daughter didn't have much hair at that age either, and that her lack of hair is probably an indication of future curliness. It just gets stuck, you see, until it grows strong enough to corkscrew its way out. They'll act it out for you.

You don't know if they're wearing a wig or if that's their real hair. This holds true no matter the age or gender of the chicken. You try not to stare at the hair and fail, but the chicken doesn't seem to mind. They pat you on the arm and smile and wink at you.

Chickens don't care that you're different. A chicken will take you in even if you are a stinkin' ole Flatlander.

Someday, I want to be a chicken too.

Let's get it back!

Image by miss_blackbutterfly via Flickr

You know how it is.

You accidentally kick out a light bulb while dancing on the ceiling.

Your mini Dachshund rips out an oak tree in the back yard leaving a gaping, potentially dangerous hole.

You drive into a gated community and stop to read a sign on the gate, dumb to the fact that the gate is slowly closing on you, until you shock into life and peel out to the sound of said gate scraping along the side of your van, faintly reminiscent of the Loch Ness Monster being strangled by Mothra.

You fix none of this. You want to. The visual reminders niggle at you every. single. day. But who has the time? The money? The energy?

It's the same for me. I've been letting things slide lately. To be specific, I've been letting myself slide. I haven't been tending to my physical, mental or spiritual fitness. My body is in a state, and it's not one of the cool ones shaped like a boot. Oops, that's Italy.

My hair is in a tizzy, in the mornings slightly frizzy, and way too dark. I look like a vampire with carpet bags under her eyes. My body resembles a hairless older cat sitting atop a bag of battling birds. I'm lethargic. Can't concentrate to save my life. My nails, undone. Toes, unforgivably untended. Spirit, vacant and scooped out by the giant melon baller that is everyday life.

Mismanaged your money and can't pay the auto bill on time? Scoop, splat.

Wondering if you've made a horrible mistake by uprooting part of your family and moving half way across the country? Scoop, splat.

Best friend from back in the day scheduled for neurosurgery in early February with "a good chance of survival"? Scoop, splat. Can't breathe.

I've been spiraling away from the light. I know so many have it so much worse. This isn't about realizing how lucky I am. This is about faith. Faith in the rightness of The Universe. Faith in oneself.

Do I have the ability to put things back the way they ought to be? To scrape my hope and confidence off the sides of the microwave, where they exploded away from me sometime mid-December, and plop them back into the bowl of me?

Like you, I want things to be good. Heck, even great. So I will do it. I'm starting to learn that picking up the pieces of ourselves and having another go at it is a necessary part of life if we want to be whole.

Starting small, of course. I started taking prenatal vitamins again. I bought a horse hair brush to coax my hair into growing. I purchased some grapes, and an eggplant. Eventually I will eat them.

When the weather gets better I will rise with Dennis' alarm and take a bike ride, then come back and shower and put on a nice outfit and full hair and makeup, regardless of my plans for the day or lack of them.

Like a car revving behind the checkered flag, I will be ready.

I will get strong and stay strong because there are so many people I love, and so many I want to love, and there is so much to do.

Those of you who are my friends on Facebook who haven't blocked me out of self-preservation know that I used to post LIVE videos all the time. Now I'm going to inflict them upon you here. Because today is a good day for LIVE.

Operation Spirit
by LIVE

Heard a lot of talk about the ocean
Heard a lot of talk about the sea
Heard a lot of talk about a lot of things
Never meant that much to me
.
Heard a lot of talk about my spirit
Heard a lot of talk about my soul
But I decided that anxiety and pain
Were better friends
So I let it go
.
Did you let it go?
Let's get it back
Let's get it back together
.
Heard a lot of talk about this Jesus
A man of love, and a man of strength
But what a man was two thousand years ago
means nothing at all to me today
.
He could have been telling me about my
higher self
But he only lives inside my prayer
So what he was may have been beautiful
But the pain is right now
And right here
.
Let it go!
Let it go!
Let it go, my friend
And let's get it back
Let's get it back together

Texas, Heather. Heather, Texas.

Image by velo_city via Flickr

I'm writing to get over the hump. I've never before written in this state, this town, or this room. I don't associate my present surroundings with writing. I don't associate my present surroundings with anything. It's all new and unfamiliar. Grey, cold, and confusing.

I lost it the other day. Freaked out and panicked. I thought we'd made a huge mistake in coming here to Texas. I've moved a lot, but always within the lap of Mother California. One town is as good as the next was my way of thinking. Wherever you go, there you are, and there's always something good about any place new, something to be discovered and learned from. Each move has marked a new era in my life. Some good, some not so good, but most downright enlightening.

The unknown has a way of making our demons scramble for a better foothold, and they temporarily reveal themselves in the process.

Here in Texas things look similar, but feel different. I have no ties that bind. I am floating. I can't feel a memory off to my left, across town, where I sought a book and chased Joe Joe around the corner of an aisle in Barnes & Noble, heady with the scent of wordlust, simmering ideas, and Starbucks coffee.

I associate my former home with writing. It was there that I sat awake reading the Twilight series, and wondering to myself if perhaps I might be capable of writing something like that someday. It was there that I woke up early, too early, and plunked myself down in my chair and stared at my computer and typed away my subconscious concerns.

Not here. Here it is cold and scary and foreign. People are really into chicken here. I mean really into it. And steak. I've seen lots of gray sky, and naked trees, gas stations with unfamiliar names, and chicken joints.

And so I will crawl out of my hole and begin the process of nesting. My top priorities for our new home are comfort and function. Home must feel good, and feel like us, and serve us well. I will place my scent on the trees in our yard, and on the brittle winter grass. If I am feeling brave I might even watch and see the frisky squirrels as my neighbors, and resist the urge to snap their picture because they will be here tomorrow, and so will I.

It is time to peer out through my fingers and eyes at all that surrounds me, to take in the stark beauty of winter in our new home, and appreciate it, and fully open myself to the joy and mystery of a new life and new adventures.

I can't see

Re-post: Originally posted August 12, 2009.

Image by d ha rm e sh via Flickr

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he'd rather be
He says, Bill I believe this is killing me
As the smile ran away from his face
Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place
From: The Piano Man by Billy Joel

Billy Joel sees what I can't. I've lived forty years inside my head, a landscape with which I am all too familiar. It is possible to bring the world into focus, but it's the exception and not the rule. When I encounter another I routinely avert my eyes lest he should volley a pleasantry for which I have no reply. I don't look at people. I feel them. I get a beat on their intentions by osmosis. I don't see them.

I am a coward.

Since I can not remember and describe that which I can not see I will duct tape my eyelids to my brows. When I walk past people I will look them square in the eye and elevate the corner of my mouth just so. I will perform the quick chin jerk that is the universal signal of acknowledgment in the land of men. I will practice the eyebrow lift, nod and audible release of breath followed by sheepish grin commonly offered to women with small children.

Is this seeing? I have a feeling it isn't enough. How can I exercise my vision without inspiring shudders of discomfort in the subjects of my consideration? Only creepy people stare.

Perhaps it's better to start small. I shall position my children in various places about the house and observe them and jot down what comes to mind.

It hurts my head to think about this. I'm not sure I can do this. I tried once and my efforts resulted in a page of prose worthy of submission to The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. Is doing something very badly better than doing it passably? Is there a flip side to that joker?

I'll do it. I'll write what I see with no thought to the nausea it inspires. Shortly thereafter I will summon my old friend edit . Edit's cup overfloweth with forgiveness and second chances. After all, I can't do it alone.

We can learn something from Tyler Durden

Re-Post: Originally posted 11/25/2008
I'm still down with the stomach flu, as is Dennis, but there is a light at the end of that tunnel! Hope you all have a fabulous Tuesday. ~ Heather

The other day I happened upon a link to a fun little left brain right brain test that I will not post here due to gratuitous nippleage. I shared the link with The Bitter Half who clicked on one of the side links and found Tyler Durden's 8 Rules of Innovation. Tyler Durden, of course, being a character from Chuck Palahniuk's "Fight Club". He began reading them aloud to me, a fire in his eyes I hadn't seen in months. "You know Heather, this sounds like what you're doing", he said. At the mention of my name, the glaze that had begun to form over my brain evaporated and I began to actually listen to what he was saying.

Tyler’s First Rule of Innovation:

“No fear. No distractions. The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.”

You can spend a lifetime pouring your energy into anything and everything except what truly matters to you. I think it's helpful to plop yourself down in a comfy chair with a pad and pen and literally jot down what makes you happy, engaged and passionate. You might even want to form an outline of sorts based upon that list to include things that support and encourage, or are important to sustain your passions. You do the same when organizing your house—toss anything that you don't consider to be beautiful or useful.

Items on this list may include your family, friends, work, art, sports, health, beauty, love.

If you're feeling exceedingly industrious you may even want to do a flip-side list. Jot down everything in your life that makes you feel sad or angry, drained, or bored. If these items don't coincide items on your passion outline, or are not absolutely critical to sustaining them, make a vow to erase them from your life.

Items on this list may include members of your family, a friend, your job, a workout, etc. You get the picture.

Tyler’s Second Rule of Innovation:

“No fear! No distractions! The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide!”

Gotcha. This is no joke.

Tyler’s Third Rule of Innovation:

“I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let’s evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”

Take chances. Fail. Take another chance. Fail again. Become a whirling dervish. Try anything and everything that comes to your mind. It is only through this process of attempting and failing that we can whittle down our list of might-be's and hone in on what is truly important to us. What we want. If we don't know what we want we aren't ever going to get it. Who knows, during this process we may accidentally discover hidden talents and gain a new sense of possibility.

Tyler’s Fourth Rule of Innovation:

“It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.”

We can become encumbered by things we thought necessary to sustain us. A job we despise. A relationship. Our mortgage. Our stuff. Things like job loss, breakups and foreclosures can and should be seen as golden opportunities. They just might be the universe's way of shoving us onto the road less traveled. The road that will make all the difference. Sometimes life takes action to do the thing we can not, and as a consequence we are set free.

Tyler’s Fifth Rule of Innovation:

“You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your f*%#ing khakis.”

We are what we are when we lose all of these things. The same us that we were before we had them. Now I think it's okay to have a job, money in the bank and wallet, a car and khakis (if your butt can pull them off), but they are only window dressing. We can not seek to be defined by stuff. Stuff is dead.

It's okay to own some Blahnik's or a BMW if they are on your list of passions or things that sustain your passions. If you find them to be beautiful or useful. Just know that they are not you. They don't make you a better or more beautiful person. They are just shoes or a car and some day they will break or be gone, and that's okay because you will still be there.

Tyler’s Sixth Rule of Innovation:

“People do it everyday, they talk to themselves… they see themselves as they’d like to be, they don’t have the courage you have, to just run with it.”

This is critical. Much harder of course if you are a breadwinner and/or a caregiver and have people who depend on you. But it can be done. Go to night school. Work on your projects whenever and wherever you can. It doesn't really matter if you ever achieve your goal. The pursuit of happiness is a form of happiness.

Tyler’s Seventh Rule of Innovation:

“Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.”

We can be the best that we can be, not the best that she can be. I've been a lot happier since being given the opportunity to stay home and take care of my babies. In the doing of this I have been able to shed decades of false fronts and armor. A suit is a uniform. Although I was good at my job, the business I was in was never a passion of mine, so that uniform became a prison that starved my creative soul.

Every day I am getting to know me a little better. I wish I'd laid down my arms decades ago. And I am thankful to have such a loving and supportive husband who took one look in my eyes the week I was due to return to work after having Joe and said, "You must not go". I simply could not be away from my son. We hadn't planned for it and could not afford it. We've lost a lot of money and things because of it. But it was the best decision we ever made and it has made all the difference.

Tyler’s Eighth Rule of Innovation:

“This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.”

Act now. Do not allow yourself the opportunity to talk yourself out of making the changes that must be made. It will take some work and some doing, but it will be worth it. I once knew somebody who wanted an MBA. She calculated the time it would take her to achieve her goal by going to night school and said, "I won't have that MBA until I'm forty!". A wise soul said to her, "You will be forty anyway. Wouldn't you rather be forty with an MBA?".

To quote my favorite Star Trek Captain Jean-Luc Picard, "Engage!".

It actually IS me!

Hello everybody. I just wanted to let y'all know that I guest posted at Damien Riley's blog Postcards From the Funny Farm this morning. Here's a link to "It's Not You, It's Me".

Thank you Damien for the opportunity, and for having me. It was a lot of fun.

I turned the comments off on this post so you don't feel obligated to say nice things to me, because I know you hate that. :wink:

Hyenas and Secret Cheerleaders

[caption id="attachment_2212" align="alignleft" width="283" caption="ON THE WAY TO LIGHT AND FREEDOM by Jonas Glock"] [/caption]

Originally posted January 19, 2009. I am re-posting not because I am having hyena trouble, but as a tribute to my present "secret cheerleaders" and to those who have inspired me to secretly, and not-so-secretly, cheer for them.

**********************

Here are some fairly "new to me" concepts that I'm going to blow by you. I've only recently had light bulb moments with regards to some time and attention-related issues.

If people give you a "can't put your finger on it" creepy-crawly feeling, trust your instincts.

I've finally learned to pull the plug on relationships with people who make me feel odd sensations. Hyenas. Jellyfishers. Possible predators. Stalkers. Haters. People who want to use me. Weird people who imagine a closeness and intimacy that does not exist and try to tell me what to do. Or people who think their own situations would be better if I were not around. And I don't feel guilty about it. I owe no explanations. No guilt. I've got other projects to pursue, other people to give my attention to. I will no longer waste my time and my energy on people who give me the feeling that they are either misrepresenting themselves or have hidden agendas. I'm not going to get paranoid. I'm not going to make dramatic scenes. I'm going to quietly slip out the back door.

People who have good intentions do not give you creepy crawly feelings. It's just that simple.

I will give my time and attention to those who are responsive to me.

I'm from the old school of people pleasers. My numero uno rule was to slosh my attentions all over people who did not deserve them. It was partly about being accepted. It was partly about "saving" people. And the more I needed to be saved, the more I ignored my own needs and tried to save others. I think the real intent was to save myself by proxy without having to admit that I had a problem, and to avoid spending any time thinking about myself. If I didn't see myself, I could pretend that I didn't exist. And if I didn't exist, it was easy to drink too much, stay up too late, put myself in dangerous situations, abuse my body, compromise my principles and be generally unkind to myself.

I didn't know it, but I was angry about some things, and took that anger out on myself instead of an appropriate target, or better yet - letting it evaporate into the light. I ignored those who were consistent in liking me, in being responsive to me, and in just "being there". I already had them, so there was no work to be done there. And who wants to be a part of any club that will have me for a member, anyway? Why do they like me? There must be something fundamentally wrong with their character. Better to be around people who cared nothing about me and allowed me to harm myself. As a numbed-out zombie, at least in harming myself I could feel something, anything, as proof that I was in fact still alive.

STUPID! No more. I'm going to give my time and attention to those who are responsive and reciprocal. They don't have to be a major part of my life, but I will no longer chase the attentions of people who ignore me or who are not good for me. If you've been friendly and supportive and kind to me and I've ignored you, I am so incredibly sorry. It was no reflection on you. It was a reflection on me. To those who responded to me, like The Bitter Half, when you showed me myself I became someone else—myself. Thank you for seeing me, and for illuminating my reflection in your mirror.

I will thank my lucky stars for my secret cheerleaders.

I'm beginning to realize that we all have secret cheerleaders. They root for us and pray for us behind the scenes. Either intentionally or incidentally, they fly under our radar. We might be alerted to the presence of our secret cheerleaders during a conflict or personal challenge. It is during these times that we fully expect our best and closest friends to step up to the plate and support us, or to gently get in our faces and tell us the honest truth. We may be surprised when instead, people on the periphery of our lives, about whom we never thought much or expected to be thought of by, are the ones who poke in their heads, uplift us and point us in the direction of the sun.

If only there were a way to identify them when the chips are still up.

Thank you secret cheerleaders. I'm going to be somebody's secret cheerleader too.

Goals for 2010: Blogging or Writing?

What am I trying to do here?

I have no clue. That's not entirely true. Some days I have a clue. The next days I can't find it.

What is my blogging goal for 2010? If I don't know where I want to be my chances of reaching my destination are zippo, zilch, nada. Wait, not nada. That means nothing. Not zippo either, that's a type of collectible lighter.

As is my way, I'm not going to consider what is possible, I'm going to consider what I actually want. Assuming the reality that my net achievements will fall somewhere in-between where I am now, and where I want to be, if I were to lower my brass ring to a reachable level, odds are I would achieve less in the coming year than if I were to toss it away from the carousel and onto the beach, into the waves, where it would most likely be carried out to sea by a passing crab and inevitably swallowed by a curious dolphin. This dolphin would not get sick. The ring would simply tickle the inside of its belly and make it laugh up rainbow bubbles to the surface of the water where they would burst upon the air, their gentle scent eventually wafting back to the boardwalk and infusing it with an air of lightness, hope, and possibility for not only myself, but for all creatures in my vicinity, living and undead alike.

I don't know who I am as a blogger. We need to know who we are to know what we want and what we need. As somebody who does not know who she is, I know I want and need to figure out who I am. A good place to start is by figuring out who I am not.

• I am not nor will I ever be a SEO expert.


• I am not nor will I ever be a Social Media expert.


• I am not nor will I ever be a Blog Monetization expert.


• I am not nor will I ever be a Giveaway Queen. (That takes planning, yee Gods!)


• I am not particularly technologically proficient.


• I am not a dung beetle.


• I am not comfortable networking only with other "Mommy bloggers".


• I am not competitive.


• I am not simply a humor blogger, although life and chances of success would certainly be greater if I were. (Or weren't??)


• I am not a provider of answers (as I learned via the construction of this post).


• I don't want to be tied to my computer, living on the edge of an Alexa rating, fearful that should I take a day or two away to attend to my family or my self, my blog will suffer. I don't want to live my life desperately chasing numbers.


• I am not my blog. I am myself, a wife and mother, daughter, sister, cousin, co-conspirator, buddy, and blogger. The state of my blog should have no bearing on my self-esteem and sense of self.

Where does that leave me? Things look pretty bleak. What hope do I have for success? And what does success mean to me? I need to determine this in order to determine which activities will move me further towards my goals, and which will coax me away from them.

• I wish to cultivate a variety of contacts to whom I can not only relate and find comfort with, but who amuse and fascinate me with their powerful intellects, alternate realities and their knowledge and confidence of self. For this I must look both within and outside of traditional Mommy-blogging circles.


• I would like to expand my readership and create a sense of community herein. I want my readers and commenters to eventually recognize and interact amongst themselves, as well as with me. I want them to have fun in my comments section and look forward to their visits, rather than see them as an obligation of sorts.


• I want to toughen up. It seems that people are not always willing to be kind. I need to not only be prepared for the possibility but expect that sometimes people will leave comments and send emails that are ugly, and that I shouldn't let them effect me in a negative manner. Their negativity is about them, not about me.


• I have no hope of being considered an expert at anything, so for my blogging success I am going to have to shoot for that ridiculously unattainable goal: to achieve a readership based upon who I am and my ability to express myself and connect with other human beings. That's right. I'm hoping that people will want to visit my blog and interact with me and my other readers simply based upon the fact that they like, or are entertained by me in some way. Now that I've determined this I need to make a vow to myself and my readers to always be myself. I can't hover and agonize over my keyboard before pounding out each post, worrying who I might offend if when I say the word poop. I need to be able to relate the details of my crazy, silly life without worrying that my readers will consider me vapid, or worse - ungrateful and unappreciative of the gifts that life has provided me with. I can't provide something helpful and useful in ever post. I can simply be.


• My wish, apparently, is to gain blogging success based upon being myself and providing no value whatsoever to my readership other than entertainment, commiseration, schaudenfraude and possibly pathos.


• To what end? I want to make some money. Blogging alone is a source of satisfaction, but the reality of my situation is that I need to make some money. I am not independently wealthy. I want to do what I love (blogging) and make some money from it. There, I said it. Hmm... the sun is still perched just above a frog-shaped cloud. Earth did not turn on its axis. A sea of spit did not make its way to my face, nor is it currently dripping into my bra.
  
  
  
  • Problem: I can't sell worth a darn. I've tried. I simply don't have that relentless pursuit of victory thing when it comes to separating people from their money.
  
  
  • Problem: Ads won't work on my site because my regular readers don't want to click on Google Ads that lead them to a better iPod carrying case, nor do I particularly want them to.
  
  
  • Problem: My stupid flipping Google Page Rank sits there at PR1 even though I have ten times the readership I did when my blog had a PR3. And you need PR3 or above in order to gander any type of reasonable opportunity with regards to paid blogging.
  
  
  
  

I want to learn to be a good writer. Hopefully upon achievement of that goal I can become a successful writer. Magazine articles? Books? Airport leaflets? STOP signs? Who knows.

Which leads me to this...

• Can one be a successful blogger and a successful writer? I used to assume that the two were natural bed-buddies, but now I'm not so sure. To be a successful writer I will have to do lots of back-end, behind-the-scenes exercises and activities, and submit writings to other places, taking time away from posting here at Happymaking. My posts here help to sharpen my writing skills, but, unfortunately, not the type of writing skills others are willing to pay for. I would like to be a columnist, but since the advent of blogging, I'm not sure the discipline still exists since most blogs are basically self-published columns.


• Let's say I push and squirm and make a deal with the devil and over time my name becomes well-known in the blogdom. What could possibly come of that? Advertising revenue? A book deal? Work-from-home employment opportunities? Paid writing gigs? I simply do not know.

If any of you know what one might hope for upon becoming a well-known "personality" blogger, please do share the wealth of your knowledge. This information will help me form my goals for 2010, and hopefully others as well. I do not seek to be a well-known blogger to appease my ego, but as a means of making a living that allows me to be at home with my children. Since I do not harbor net-translatable knowledge or skills for which others are willing to pay, it is simply my only hope for blogging success.

Should there be no means of procuring a little kaching-ching upon becoming a popular blogger, I'm probably going to have to step off the blogging a bit, and focus my efforts on writing. But at least I will know. Disillusionment can be a wonderful thing!

Thanks for riding alongside me on this journey. Here's to goal-setting and success for us all in the coming year!

All I Want for Christmas is...

[caption id="attachment_2115" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="My Christmas angel from Grandma"][/caption]

My brother wowed my mother and I today with a comment to her upon receiving our gift packages and placing the presents under his tree...

"...It's so nice to finally have some presents under the tree. Christmas trees are like houses, they need presents under them just like houses need people to shelter."

There is something beautiful about a house, a tree, a person coming to full glory in the realization of their true purpose. Something can be beautiful - an empty house, a Christmas tree standing alone in the corner of a well-decorated room, without being truly alive.

This brings to mind The Velveteen Rabbit, and how he became real upon being loved, needed, and eroded to a sloppy state by hugs and tears.

It is the time of year for Christmas and Hanukkah. So many of us are suffering a gut-wrenching sadness and sense of failure at our inability to present a suitable picture of ourselves, and of our families, to the world. Shouldn't we be perfectly coiffed, our beaming and well-groomed children in our laps, on the Christmas and holiday cards that we mailed out a week ago? Cards that are meant to include lengthy, hand-written sentiments to everyone who cares about us or has done us a nicety or provided a service to us during this past year? Shouldn't the perfect gift to them soon follow? The one that is both needed and appreciated? The one that makes the receiver well with emotion upon realizing that we have come to know who they truly are on the inside, all they mean to us, and the depth of our feelings for them? Followed by organic vegan fudge?

Don't they deserve this? If we do not deliver, aren't we slighting them in a way that will permanently damage their ability to give and receive love?

I used to believe that. Christmas, once my favorite time of the year, was becoming reduced to a time of immeasurable stress and unattainable self-imposed expectations. It got worse after I had children. I lost my head and bought Joe a ton of gifts last year, more than we could afford. A video game unit for the television. A tricycle that he wasn't yet able to ride. More, more and more. He, of course, was overwhelmed and had a hard time focusing. I think he spent most of his time hiding and playing in an empty box.

This year I have been dealing with the same stress, sadness and guilt, compounded by our impending move to Texas. We made the decision not to fully decorate so we didn't have to worry about packing everything right before the move. The other day I was sorting through our 30,001 bins of Christmas things, setting aside as many items as I could bear to part with for charity. The new sights and pretty things to touch inspired Joe to spring to life in a way I hadn't seen him do all year. At one point he even ran to the table and pronounced, "I love you, Mommy." Words I desperately wanted to hear, and so rarely get to hear, from my beloved son. I've waited my whole life to be able to share my love of Christmas with my children. Joe is finally ready to get into it, and we have to deprive him this year. Oh, I can barely stand it.

[caption id="attachment_2116" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="No, they aren't allowed to touch the outlets"][/caption]

But that night as I saw Joe and Lily giggling and batting around cheap garlands and shiny bows saved from Christmases past, I realized that they don't know or care about the Grinch ornaments I won't be putting out this year, or the angel candle I have been lugging around since childhood. They just like bright, shiny things. A little tree from Fresh and Easy, wrapped with disposable garlands and a string of lights, topped by the one thing I allowed myself not to pack and placed on the top of the tree by my husband in a fit of clairvoyance no doubt, the angel crocheted by my late and much beloved Grandma, is all they need. We will put two or three age-appropriate non-mechanical toys under the tree, and I am now fully confident that they will be delighted come Christmas morning.

What they are really wanting, more than age-appropriate gifts or Christmas cookies, is a smiling Mommy and happy Daddy to roll around on the floor with them, read them books and share fond memories. I will be working on shedding layers of stress and false ideas in the coming days so that I may provide them with the gift they are wanting from me both this year, and in the coming years when we are not moving, and are tempted to overdo things. I wasn't able to do it for myself, but I'll be damned if I'm not going to get myself together in time to do it for them. To finally pull that off is all I want for Christmas this year.

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On a side note, my Mom emailed me a TIME article about the Top 10 Dubious Toys around this Christmas and Hanukkah season.

The American Girl Co. has caused an uproar with the release of its limited-edition Gwen doll, who's cute and cuddly and also happens to be homeless. TIME takes a look at some other toys that have made jaws drop.

If you have time and the interest to read it, please share your thoughts in the comments area below. I'm very interested in your take on the state of the toy world. Have a wonderful day and please... go easy on yourself this month. Peace be with you.

My Cyber Cabin in the Woods

Image via Wikipedia

I've been spending way too much time online lately. I always do that when things in my personal life get nutty, as with our impending move to Dallas. I use the internet as a refuge.

Can't find a house? No problem. Go into your Wordpress dashboard and play house there. Tweak Thesis to within one inch of its life.

A garage filled with crap to be sorted through? Time to take a hard look at your Twitter followers and weed out some of the people who are no longer participating.

Aware that you will need to discard baby items that have sentimental value because you can't keep them all? Make a post about your children, or upload photos to Facebook.

The internet is hardly a world over which we have total control, but it does allow us to hide and dream and think that perhaps we are connecting with others and improving our personal organizational situations. Yet, I have two crochet projects that sit on my shelves, unfinished. I should be packing. Christmas shopping. Scrubbing the bathroom floor. Walking. Interacting with my children as often as possible.

So why do I find myself here with increasing frequency? In my mind, while everything around me is swept up in toddler tornadoes and cross-country move panic, I can come in here and build upon something concrete. Slowly and surely, brick by hard-won brick, I will have carved out a little place for myself in the midst of the deluge—my own little cyber cabin in the woods.

As is the way of the internet, my little cabin is hardly safe, and might even slide down a hill if the rain gets too heavy. I think that, perhaps, instead of spending too much time on the drapery and pillow covers, I should also work on its foundations. It's not nearly as fun, but ten times as necessary. What are some things I should be doing?

• Learning about security and safety, but not overdoing it. There is always something to fear, but the thing we must fear the most, you may have heard, is fear itself.


• Determining my goal. If I don't know what I'm aiming for I will surely never achieve it.


• Mastering SEO techniques. If I didn't want people to visit my cabin I would be posting offline.


• Seeking out and supporting a list of like-minded bloggers. Taking a hard look at my current list of contacts.


• Setting up a daily routine with a time limit. (Oh, how I hate time limits and routines!) Something like, reading and commenting on blogs, one hour, posting, half an hour, etc. I might even want to expand this into a weekly schedule so everything gets covered.


• Perhaps expand the schedule to include a blog posting schedule. This way I could include a mix of diary posts for my own sanity, and potentially entertaining and helpful posts.


• After the move, make time for daily writing exercises. This is really where my blogging heart is, and learning to be a better writer can only have a positive impact on not only this blog, but on all of my communication attempts.

I'm in my personal comfort zone when winging it. But, as I recall, when I worked in an office I liked to have strict control over my activities to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks. What was absolutely imperative was done first thing in the morning so that when urgent and unexpected situations presented themselves I was still firmly on track. If I were to approach my blogging activities through the eyes of a professional rather than those of a dabbler, I just might be able to manifest a highly satisfying experience for myself and my readers. Should I discover this to be impossible, at least I will know I did everything possible to make it happen, instead of waiting for it to happen to me.

Oh, and I should probably pack, too. :o

What is my purpose?

I'm starting to realize that the more I communicate with other human beings, the less likely I am to write. Also, the more regular regular readers I am lucky enough to procure through arm-twisting and bribery, the more likely I am to want to please them with my posts, rather than blogging for me.

But you haven't been pleasing me, you may be thinking. You've been blogging crap lately.

I know. I know, right? And it's your fault. :wink: When I gander the spectre of you on my shoulder I am prompted to write things that I think might be of interest to you. But since I only have it in me to be me these days, my decades of natural, habitual and possibly pathological people-pleasing long behind me, this errant desire to please functions in my psyche as sand would in the guts of a pocket watch.

Or perhaps it's not your fault. Perhaps it was my decision to monetize my blog that is making me think of cutting my hair and dressing for success rather than embracing and developing my peculiarity. And isn't it justifiably so?

When you work for sponsors, or to attract them, isn't it necessary to attend the mandatory drinking of their kool-aid? You owe the people who pay you. Exactly what you owe them I'm still trying to figure out. In an office setting it is simple. Adhere to the dress code. Read between the lines and step things up. Go above and beyond the usual means in order to please and represent them. When people pay you to perform a function aren't you meant to lose yourself in order to become the function? And if you want people to pay you, shouldn't you proactively become the function in order to attract them?

What am I supposed to be doing? What is my purpose? Perhaps I should look to my own posts for the solution. It would seem my natural inclination is right before my eyes.

I don't answer questions. I ask them. And it has always been this way.

There, I can work with that.

I'm going to continue to be myself here at Happymaking. Hopefully sponsors will be  attracted to me and want to throw money at me for being weird. Barring that, I am also going to start two niche blogs and focus directed material at them. I would like to thank DiTesco of iBlogZone for sharing his expertise with me via private consultation and for answering my questions about niche blogging.

In the meantime, if you have any answers that need questions, you know where to find me.

Does Motherhood Make Us Bossy?

I've never been bossy.

I can distinctly remember several times when, as a girl, my Mom took one playmate or another aside and lectured her about bossing me around. Nobody's Mom ever took me aside and gave me the bossy girl lecture. In retrospect my Mom has mentioned quite a few times that she wishes she'd let me handle my own problems more often as a child, but that's another issue. (There are many, many issues.)

I've always been a sidekick, an appendage.

Until I became a Mother.

I don't know what did it. It could have been the complete exhaustion. Or the full arms. Or the ever-present current of panic and drama tinged with love and responsibility. All the forces of nature came at me in just the right quantities and suddenly I was *gasp* asking for help. (Can you believe that? I know, it's so unlike me.)

I was pointing, pleading, prodding. Phrases like "Honey, can you grab me a towel?" were reverberating off of my lips in such an inexcusably smooth manner that I began to wonder what sort of monster I'd have turned out to be had I birthed my first child at a sensibly young age.

The other day when my stepson Brian was over I asked my husband if he wouldn't be more comfortable in a pair of shorts and held them up for his consideration. He retaliated with, "You're not the boss of me, Devil Woman!" and a sideways conspiratorial grin at Brian.

Have I taken things too far?

I don't want to become like Kate Gosselin who publicly berated her imbecilic husband Jon (Why not John? But that's another issue.) on a routine basis. I refuse to give in to the temptation to martyr myself, and then lash out at my husband for not anticipating and undertaking what I needed him to be doing at the exact second and in the manner I thought best.

I say "Please?" a lot. And "Would you mind...", "Since you're over there, do you think you can...". I wince. I overcompensate.

Men have no clue what help we want and need. Yes, to us it seems flagrantly obvious, but to our guys it would be insulting for them to insinuate us to that we don't have things perfectly in hand. Or they've attempted to anticipate our needs and crashed and burned so many times that they're afraid to even try anymore. Or perhaps they're just as exhausted as we are. Or feeling lazy that day.

Should any Dads be reading this, please know that we won't be insulted, and we think it's refreshingly cute when you try to help but miss the mark. We catalog. We remember. We appreciate. We understand . We love.

And we know that you do too. ♥

Sunday morning brain freeze

[caption id="attachment_514" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Image Source: Quinn.Anya via Flickr"][/caption]

I can't write anymore.

Don't you hate it when you wake up before your brain does?

Brump Brump Brump Brump.

Perhaps I will look at some Avon stuff. I am almost out of bubble bath for the kids.

Brump Brump Brump.

Maybe I should crochet some granny squares and sew them into the shape of underwear and market them as granny panties. But with all those holes they would hardly be practical. Or stretchy. Nobody wants to see a woman with granny panties around her ankles by the water cooler at work.

*Suckles pinky finger*

Or I could eat.

Oh no, I hear Dennis in the other room firmly asking Joe to, "Give me that!" I wonder what he's got? Sharpie? Disposable razor? Blow torch? Hmmm...

*Inspects fingernails*

I really need to clip them. Why do fingernails grow at different paces? The nail on my ring finger is shorter than the nail on my middle finger. I wonder if it's designed that way for a reason?

*Stretches and almost locks up back*

I want that Touch N Brush. That's a good idea. But it's $19.99 and I can expect to wait 2-6 weeks for delivery. Two to SIX weeks? Quite a spread. What's that all about? I wish I could say, "Your dinner will be ready in two to six hours."

*Picks at lip*

Perhaps I will hang some pictures today. I keep putting it off because I can't locate a laser picture hanging helper device like ever. Where do they go? We only have like fifty of them.

*Publishes post*