Month: June 2012

My Kids Are Sucking The Brain Cells From My Skull

I’m devolving. In my next photo with other adults I’ll be putting rabbit ears behind someone’s head. Wait and see. It’ll happen.

Summer vacation is a mixed bag for me. It’s hard to give up my freedom when the little monkeys come home for the summer, but I do enjoy sleeping in and not making lunches and not stressing out with them over busywork school projects. Summers have become more of a blessing for me and less of a curse than they used to be. The boys are bigger and more independent. They amuse themselves and grab their own snacks. They play outside with friends for hours on end. There is far more freedom in my summers now than there used to be. I’m truly grateful for that.

Still, even with their absences from home, they’re still around many more hours now than they are during the school year. The decibel level in my house increases exponentially in summer. I had no idea I should expect this. One thing I heard before I had kids is that boys are not as talkative as girls. I can’t believe how misguided I was in believing that tall tale. My boys talk non-stop at me all day…and not always about the same things.

To exacerbate the situation, my sons aren’t talking to me non-stop about topics that interest me. We’re not spending hours together discussing alternative energy or world religions or cultural travel. They’re carrying on about their latest fixation, and I’m trying to stay plugged into what they’re saying because I’m supposed to be all zen and living in the moment. When the summer started, we were into Iron Man. From Iron Man, we went on to discover Thor and then Captain America. Of course, from there we were full on into The Avengers after seeing the movie. From the movie, we jumped to the cartoon series Avengers, which assaulted me for what seemed like years but was actually only about a week. After The Avengers, we springboarded right into the Fantastic Four, of course, before landing where we are now…smack dab in the middle of Skylanders. Yes. I am using the term “we” here because if they’re into it I get to be into it, whether I like it or not.

Today, the boys and I went out for a letterboxing hike. Letterboxing, for the uninitiated, is a hobby where you use written clues to find a treasure box. Inside the treasure box is a logbook so you can record your find and a rubber stamp so you can stamp the hider’s unique mark into your logbook. It’s a simple pastime the boys and I took on last year when I decided they needed to learn how to follow directions. (Don’t ask me how that’s going.) Anyway, we were hiking along in between two separate caches, and both boys were rambling simultaneously about equally mind-numbing topics. Joe was telling me the attributes of his Skylander characters while Luke was discussing inventions he thinks Tony Stark should create and market. At that precise moment I realized exactly why my ability to converse with adults has deteriorated to the point where I get the hives at the prospect of a cocktail party: my kids are sucking the brain cells out of my skull. One by one they are disappearing, vacuumed from my head by my Dyson-like children.

They were still chattering on like monkeys on four shots of espresso when I finally lost it.

“You boys are sucking the brain cells from my head. I’m going to need a drink by 3!”

This tirade caught their attention and for two complete seconds they stopped their spouting and looked at me. Then, Joe laughed and Luke raised his hand waited for me to acknowledge his intent to speak again. I shook my head.

I struggle as a parent to tune into what interests my boys. I don’t want them to think that I don’t care about their world. But, how many times a day can I honestly be expected to hear the words “hot lava” or “gunship” without wanting to hang myself? I know I chose this. I could work outside the home full-time, which would greatly decrease the number of hours a day I have to listen to them quiz each other over “Who would win? Thor and his hammer or four nuclear bombs?” If I were in an office, I could have adult conversations and perhaps then I wouldn’t notice my brain in the final stages of atrophy. But, then I remember that work is work, and I don’t like work. I’d much rather be hiking and then hitting Sonic before playing 18 holes of mini golf. I guess when I think about it that way, it’s really not such a bad trade off….a little mindless chattering in exchange for 7-day weekends. And, truthfully, how many brain cells do I need for mini golf, anyway?

 

Posted on by Me 7

Marking Your Territory

The victor and his spoils. Or is it the victor in his spoils? Either way…here is the victor.

My boys are usually the best of friends. For years, I’ve been amazed by their closeness and devotion to each other. Recently, though, I’ve noticed a decrease in their togetherness because some things they used to enjoy doing together they now realize they would rather do separately. One of these items is bathing. Their father and I were thrilled when they decided to stop sharing a bathtub because, quite frankly, they were getting way too old for it and we were a little tired of the bickering over who got “the deep end” and who was hogging the tub. What we discovered, however, is that their new love of privacy at bath time led to other issues, like who gets to shower first, who is taking too long, who used all the hot water, and who stole the clean towel.

Last night, after a long day at the pool followed by playing outside in the 100 degree heat, the boys unanimously decided they needed a bath. Not a joint bath, mind you. Two separate baths. Joe asked first, so he claimed first water rights. He filled the tub, got in, and began to relax. He was in the tub about fifteen minutes when an impatient Luke entered the bathroom and started pestering him to get out. I thought about intervening but decided instead to let them solve their own disagreement. Their bickering back and forth went on for about three minutes. Then I heard Luke take it up a notch.

“Get out, Joe,” he demanded.

“No. I haven’t been in here that long,” Joe replied.

“It’s my turn. Get out or I’m getting in.”

“It’s still my turn,” Joe argued.

“I’m getting in, then.” And, I heard the splash of Luke joining Joe in the tub.

For a few minutes, things were quiet. I was not thrilled they were in there together but, honestly, as long as they were quiet I didn’t see why I should rile them up. Then, just as quickly as the truce had been made, it was broken.

“Mom…Luke peed in the bathtub!” Joe exclaimed.

He did NOT just say what I think he said. I heard Joe climb from the tub. He ran down the hall to my room.

“What did you say?” was all I could muster.

“Luke peed in the tub. I had to get out,” Joe tattled.

I looked at him for a long, hard moment, standing there sopping wet in his towel, shooed out of his own bath. He looked so vulnerable that I nearly forgot that he had been egging his brother on, refusing to get out when his turn in the tub should have been over.

“Well, Joe, I’d like to be angry at him for you, but the truth is that you wouldn’t get out and he found a way to get you out. Next time maybe you won’t push him that way again.”

Joe looked at me, but didn’t bother to argue because he knew I was right. I knew he was no worse for the wear because he was wearing a half smile with his towel. I think he was secretly admiring Luke’s powerful negotiation skills. I did talk to Luke afterward to remind him that he probably could have found a less intrusive way to solve his problem. Luke has always been clever, if a bit devilish. He knows what he wants and can usually find a way to get it. As unorthodox as his tactics may be occasionally, I only wish I’d been as fearless with my young life as he is with his.

I suppose his behavior is not that extraordinary. From the dawn of time, men have found a way to appropriate things for themselves, their family, their faith, or their country. Men have plundered and pillaged and taken what they wanted by force. They have drawn up treaties and placed imaginary boundaries on a geographical landscape. Others have waged wars and coerced strangers into their beliefs. More orderly men filed paperwork and staked their claim. And some courageous men have even gone all the way to the moon and stuck their big, old flag in it. Luke’s behavior today was a childish prank tantamount to licking the last piece of cake to ensure no one else wants it. But, you’ve got to hand it to him. Quite Machiavellian, the ends justified the means and he got what he wanted. There truly is more than one way to skin a cat. You can always pee on it.

Posted on by Me 1

Head of the Vole Parole Board

Me and my catch of the day.

The boys were playing nicely in the basement with a couple of their friends, battling each other on the Skylanders Wii game. I was enjoying a few chaos-free moments alone. Suddenly, I heard Luke’s footsteps running up the stairs. You can always tell Luke’s steps because the kid hasn’t walked a day in his life. His first steps were at a run. I do not joke. I knew my peace and quiet were short-lived.

“Mom…you gotta come quick,” he panted, out of breath from his breakneck speed of life.

“Why?” I responded. I wasn’t ready to give up my stillness for just any old reason.

“There’s a mouse,” Luke replied.

That got my attention. In the ten years we’ve lived here, we’ve had no evidence of mice or voles in our actual domicile. I know many people in our neighborhood who’ve had rodent issues, but we haven’t. (Yes. I am knocking on wood right now.) I assume we’ve had no indoor rodent encounters because our dogs, left outside most of the time during the warm months, scare them off or…in the case of our last dog, Buddy…catch and eat them.

“A live mouse?”

“Yes. In the basement.”

“In the storage room?” I wondered out loud.

“No. Come quick. I’ll show you.”

Before I go any further, I must tell you that I am fairly rodent friendly. I’m not afraid of them. I’ve set a few traps in the garage when in winter I’ve noticed they’ve moved in, but for the most part the furry little critters and I exist somewhat well on a strict “if-I-don’t-see-you-then-you’re-not-a-problem” policy.

I got downstairs and could tell all four boys were staring out the window into the window well where, indeed, a fat, brown vole was hunkered down near the base of the corrugated metal that surrounds the area. I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not be setting traps indoors. A vole, for those of you who have not encountered one, is a field mouse with a short, stubby tail, partially hidden ears, and a stout body. Several times a year, a hapless, sight-impaired vole falls into one of our window wells. Most survive the fall. Some do not. Either way, it’s my job as Chief Rodent Officer to remove them.

I kicked off my flip-flops, put on closed-toe shoes, and grabbed my work gloves. I lifted the window well grate and climbed down the ladder five feet into the well. The little vole was trying desperately to appear invisible. Alas. He was not. I caught him on my first try but when I opened the gloves a fraction to show the boys that I had him, he slipped the noose and jumped behind me. I swung around and chased him back to where he was originally and recaptured him. I grasped him tightly in my hands so he would not escape this time and held him up to show hubby. Examining him carefully, I realized with amusement that he had his mouth wrapped around the thumb of my glove, presumably hoping to inflict pain on his captor. Silly mouse. Still, I felt for the little bugger so I made sure the dog was out of range and then I released him onto the river rock in our backyard. He promptly scampered under a nearby bush.

The voles, the dog, and I have a weird relationship that reminds me of the criminal justice system. Ruby, our border collie, is the law. Like border patrol, she chases the voles who are illegals in her jurisdiction. The voles, running from the law, careen in the direction of the house and fall into the window well. After time served in solitary, the parole board (aka me) releases them on their promise that they are rehabilitated and will not return. I like to imagine they run off with plans to at last escape the system and live on in peace. Yet, this cycle persists. Perhaps the voles, like many criminals, have become enmeshed in the system and feel comfortable there, which is why rather than leaving when they are freed they rush right back into familiar territory? Perhaps this explains their recidivism rate? Maybe there’s some sort of vole gang dynamics whereby they taunt each other into drawing the dog out in some sort of hazing ritual? I’m not sure. The only thing I know is that as long as a live vole is in my window well, I will forgive him his crime and set him free. I believe in second chances, even if Ruby does not.

Posted on by Me 3

It’s Not A Webby, But It’s As Close As I’ll Ever Get

If my kids gave me an award, I bet it would look an awful lot like this.

A couple days ago, a very kind fellow blogger who goes by memyselfandkids nominated my blog for a Word Press Blogging Award which, as far as I can tell, is simply a nice way to recognize someone who has written something that appealed to you. These kinds of awards pass around often on Word Press, so actually they’re something between a chain letter and a blog advertisment rather than a true award. Still, I was quite flattered that someone would share a link to my work on their blog. Maybe that’s because I don’t 100% believe that anyone reads what I write on livenowandzen.com, even though I put it out there. My blog is writing practice, a way to work out the plethora of information in my busy mind.

One of the things I was asked to do upon receiving this award was mention some personal things about myself that perhaps are unknown. Here they are:

1) In 2002, after a long-standing, bitter feud with my body, my gallbladder and I parted ways. My appendix followed suit in 2009. Apparently, my internal organs get the seven year itch.

2) I do not like root beer.

3) My favorite color is apple green.

4) I have hypermobile metacarpophalangeal joints. (I can bend my fingers back to form a 90-degree angle with my hand.)

5) The other day while on my way home from a walk I picked up a dead snake from the road where it had been squished and tossed it into an open field with my bare hands just to ensure it had a more private final resting spot. I believe in the dignity of life and death, even for snakes. (Yes. I did wash my hands immediately afterward.)

6) My Myers-Briggs personality type is INTJ.

7) If I’d won PowerBall yesterday, I’d be writing this from a luxury resort somewhere in the South Pacific today.

 

Because it’s only fair to share love, here are 9 places I’ve found something to relate to, contemplate, and enjoy:

1) memyselfandkids

2) ourboler

3) clotildajamcracker

4) raisingarealist

5) rcgale

6) candidconcourse

7) goalhabits

8) eternaldomnation

9) broadside

I’m going to keep on writing. Not because I expect any awards or am seeking some sort of fan base for my site, but because it’s one of the hardest things I do and still manage to love. Thanks for thinking of me, memyselfandkids. I appreciate the shout out.

Posted on by Me 3

It’s Not All Or Nothing…A Little Something Will Always Beat A Lot Of Nothing

Yesterday I wrote that we would be riding 80 miles today. Our bike team calls this particular route “The Flat 80,” presumably because there is only 1100 feet of elevation gain in a nearly 80-mile ride. We met at the appointed 6:45 a.m. time and were off on our bikes on schedule promptly at 7 a.m. The weather forecast was a mixed blessing. It was to be overcast and cool in the morning before warming up to 80; then the storm clouds would roll in. I so wanted to avoid getting stormed on, so I promised myself I would be fast today.

There were six of us biking together. I was the only female and I was, by far, the slowest. At first, it didn’t really bother me. But, as I rode along, I began thinking about something another teammate mentioned. Last week, when they had ridden 100 miles rather than just 80, there was a woman who rode with them who kept pace. Not only had she kept up with the guys, but she’d done it riding 100 miles rather than 80 miles in 90 degree temps. The more I thought about that, the more I wondered what was wrong with me. Why aren’t I faster? Am I that much worse of a rider than my teammates are? For a good 5-10 miles I stewed over this, my legs slowed even further by my own self-doubt.

After lunch, I had a surge of energy and started going a bit faster. I sensed the others had slowed a bit because I was in with the pack of riders for about 10 miles. I felt pretty good about it. The clouds were rolling in, and I wanted to avoid the lightning and rain so I did my best to keep pace. After our last stop at REI, 18 miles from our starting point, though, I got tired. Although I’ve put in over 800 miles on my bike so far this year, most of them were logged on my stationary trainer. This was only my third ride outside over 20 miles, and I hadn’t ridden over 40 miles yet this year. So, the push to get to 80 was definitely a stretch. Still, I knew I was capable of doing it.

I plugged along, playing the caboose the entire way. We managed to wait out the last of the storm as it passed by, but when we got back on our bikes I found that our long rest stop had taken its toll on me. I was D-O-N-E, and we still had about 8 miles to go. Those 8 miles contained most of the day’s hills, and the winds had picked up. I spent the last four miles swearing profusely, cursing Steve, and wanting to quit. My knees were getting sore. My tush had officially declared war on me. I wanted to be finished, but I wasn’t. Finally, I stopped whining long enough to pull on my big girl panties and get ‘er done.

I felt bad about the ride for the rest of the day. I was disappointed in myself for being the weakest link. Then, as I was going through the Facebook posts I missed today, I saw that a friend had completed his ultramarathon, nearly 51 miles of running. His post mentioned how painfully difficult it was and how he felt lucky he was able to finish it at all. In a million years I could NEVER run 50 miles. Heck. I can barely bring myself to do 3. An ultramarathon is a tremendous accomplishment. I was sad that my friend didn’t feel better about it. Then, I thought about my ride today. Why was I displeased with my performance? I’d done it. I rode 80 miles, my longest biking distance ever. Was I super fast? No. But, when it was over, I could still walk. I remembered a saying I saw a few months back: “No matter how slow you go, you’re lapping everyone on the couch.” It didn’t matter that I didn’t finish in a fantastic time. After all, it was an 80-mile ride, not an 80-mile race.

It’s funny how hard we are on ourselves sometimes. Rather than wasting energy being concerned about being too slow, I should have been cheering myself on for being out there at all. Along our ride, we passed a tandem bicycle. The woman on the back was blind. The smile on her face, though, was pure joy. She was free. I can’t get that image out of my head. She understands so much better than I do that the journey is what matters, not how fast we reach the finish line.

Posted on by Me

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling….Rawhide!

Me and my riding shadow.

Tonight the kids are staying with their aunts, so hubby and I are enjoying a quiet, relaxing dinner and a bottle of wine, right? That’s what any rational American couple temporarily released from the bonds of parenting would be doing with their free night at home. That’s not, however, how it works in our lives. Instead of savoring the solitude of an eerily vacant house, we’re getting our bike gear together because we’re meeting friends at 6:45 a.m. tomorrow. It’s almost 10:30 and on our night off we’re getting ready to go to bed. No. Really. To bed. To sleep. Our Saturday plan is to get in a vigorous 80-mile bike ride, hopefully before the skies open up and we get hailed on. Why are we doing this? Because it’s our final opportunity for a serious training ride before we do the Colorado Bike MS 150-mile ride two weekends from now and because, well, we’re insane. That’s the only logical explanation I can come up with right now.

I like to ride my bike, especially with friends. I enjoy it as much as I can enjoy any activity that is technically exercise and therefore is good for me. But, the getting ready, the gearing up, the waking up early, and the first ten minutes of the ride are pure torture. Once I get going, I truly do like riding. It’s the getting there that kills me. I try to live in the moment. I do. But, right now, I wish I could fast forward to 4 p.m. tomorrow when I’ll be finished doing the 80-miles, feeling the rider’s endorphin high after burning about 3,000 calories. Sitting here in bed in this moment, though, I am already exhausted simply thinking about 80 miles tomorrow. I would give my sons to the devil if he could make the next sixteen hours finish in an instant. All right. Maybe I wouldn’t give my darling boys to Satan, but I’d be tempted.

I know I will have a wonderful time tomorrow. I know I will enjoy it, even when it gets tough, because deep down I relish the opportunity to push myself a bit. But, as the idea of tomorrow stretches out before me, I am not enthusiastic. I am tired and I am going to sleep. And, I am praying that my forty-four year old legs are well rested, my new bike tires repel sharp debris, and the 800+ miles I’ve put in so far this year on my bike (mostly on its indoor trainer) will make this outdoor ride bearable. No matter what happens tomorrow, I can guarantee you two things: 1) tomorrow at 4 p.m. I will be drinking a beer that I truly earned and 2) tomorrow night I will sleep like the dead. Wait. Maybe that’s why I do this? 😉

Posted on by Me 1

My Goal: Sons Who Are At Least One Evolutionary Step Above Primates

Hats off at the dinner table, boys.

I firmly believe in picking your battles. As a mother, I make choices every day about which wars to wage and which ones deserve a white flag. One crusade I’ve chosen is to raise young men who are polite, have good table manners, and are properly groomed. Oh. My. God. What the hell was I thinking when I picked up my sword and marched headlong into this fray? Did I not realize that I have two small primates living in my house? We’re barely one step above flinging feces here.

I spend roughly 2/3rds of my waking hours talking to myself (because no one is listening), repeating suggestions, pleas, and ultimatums all having to do with proper etiquette. I don’t care that much if my sons’ rooms are a mess or if they leave their shoes on the floor by the front door. But, it makes me crazy when they chew with their mouths open, barge into a room without knocking, or fail to flush a toilet. My life is a litany of commands (all of which are normally followed by “please” because I try to practice what I preach).

  • Get your finger out of your nose and use a tissue
  • Wash that gunk off your face
  • Hold the door
  • Say “please”
  • Say “thank you”
  • Say “excuse me”
  • Knock before you open the door
  • Use your fork, not your fingers
  • Use a napkin, not your shirt
  • Brush your teeth
  • Close your mouth when you chew
  • Don’t wipe your boogers on the walls
  • Turn the fan on when you’re in the bathroom
  • For heaven’s sake, flush the stupid toilet already

These words are on an endless, repetitive loop echoing from my otherwise empty head. It’s no wonder I feel I’ve forgotten the fine art of conversation. I don’t know how to talk to someone unless they forget to put their napkin on their lap.

One ritual I absolutely insist on is thank you notes for gifts received. While we sometimes we fail to get cards in the mail to thank a great aunt for a $10 bill slated for Easter candy, birthday and Christmas gifts must be acknowledged with a handwritten note. Steve and I both come from families where these notes are compulsory. (Exhibit A. My 81 year old father-in-law still sends us thank you notes on personalized stationery.) Because our boys’ birthdays are three weeks apart (with my birthday sandwiched in between), we write a truckload of notes before the end of June. My sons hate this with a passion that matches their hatred for American Girl dolls, but I make them do it because it’s the right thing to do. People say they don’t need it, but I bet you’d be hard-pressed to find a person who doesn’t appreciate receiving handwritten acknowledgment of their kindess. These notes, while perhaps antiquated in today’s email and text society, is simply a polite gesture I want my boys to feel is not elective. Someday, when they’re interviewing for a coveted job and they land it because the boss appreciated their gracious, interview thank you note, they will see how truly wise I am and they will thank me because they know they should.

We’ve made some progress. My boys now hold the door open for me when we walk into the house. They voluntarily help me carry in groceries. They ask to be excused from the table and they clear their own place settings. And, if they happen upon a piece of “chewy” steak, they spit it quietly without fuss into a paper napkin (although they occasionally leave the napkin behind for me to find). The whole manners gig is much more difficult for Joe because of his ADHD but, God bless him, he tries. I hold out hope that someday my sons will be the teenage boys who impress their friends’ mothers with their thoughtfulness…and not in that smarmy, Eddie-Haskell kind of way. That’s the goal, anyway. And, if I can’t achieve that, I’ll settle for sons who are at least not the worst of the bunch. In the manners game, anything better than “the worst” is something. Some days are better than others, and it’s like shoveling snow in a blizzard, but we’re making progress. As long as they don’t start picking nits off each other and eating them in front of others, I think we’re on the right track.

Posted on by Me 6

Let It Be

This is, for me, one of the faces of inner peace.

“We are not animals. We are not a product of what has happened to us in our past. We have the power of choice.”  ~Stephen Covey

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on what a shame it is when people can’t bring themselves to let go of unpleasantness in their past. Often, those memories from yesterday prevent them from enjoying a more productive and healthy present. I know people who are living daily with the negative reverberations of actions that happened decades ago. When I think about the brief time we have on this planet, I can’t fathom why anyone would willingly choose to waste a second of life stuck on past slights. Perhaps these people fail to grasp the downward, miserable spiral that is perpetuated when you let your past seep into your present? When you spend today reliving the pain of your past, you’re merely making today into a continuation of the very thing that is vexing you, which then means that your future will reflect more of the same misery, disappointment, and pain. Why would anyone make that choice?

Then it occurred to me…these people don’t realize they have a choice. They are so cut off and unaware of their response to their world, so convinced that all that is wrong in their life is the direct result of other people’s actions and not their own thoughts and behavior, that they are unable to comprehend the power they have to change their lives. Of all the human conditions, the lack of awareness regarding personal power is the saddest one I can imagine. Some people spend dozens of years convinced that their entire unhappy life is the result of what has happened to them. There is no acknowledgment that the only power we have in this life is over our reactions to the situations we encounter. The easiest way to perpetuate personal misery is to believe you are a victim, to live from that paradigm, and to refuse steadfastly to move beyond it. Indeed, some unfortunate things will befall you, but you choose whether those heartbreaks will break you or whether you will move forward unabated.

A while back I read A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle. It was a life-changing book for me because it pointed out truths I long knew in my heart but was refusing to acknowledge in my mind. One of the most powerful messages I got from the book came from a quote by J. Krishnamurti, and Indian philosopher and spiritual teacher, who offered up his secret for contentment. He stated simply this: “I don’t mind what happens.” How powerful that statement is. When you don’t mind what happens, when you let it wash over you and accept it for what it is, when you remove your emotion from it, there is stillness and peace and the room to let it go. It certainly is not easy achieve, but it’s worth the effort to keep it in mind.

I wish I could impart to those people in my life who can’t let go of the past the beauty of not minding what happens. Of acknowledging it, accepting it, and not owning it as anything more than another event in a hopefully long life. When I was a child, my mother and father owned The Beatles’ Let It Be album. I played that record (yes…record) until I thought I would wear it out. The lyrics from the title track have stuck with me. And when my children were infants and I would rock them in the middle of the night when they could not sleep and needed comfort, those are the words I would sing because they brought me peace in that moment when I was exhausted and too was seeking rest. So, as you go through the remainder of this week, my hope is that at least once you will stop reacting when something unexpected and unwelcome is happening and let it wash over you and see what peace comes from letting it be and not minding what happens. I promise to try it if you will too.

Posted on by Me 2

Life In My Turtle Shell

“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.”              ~Siddhartha Gautama

I don’t understand people. I really don’t. For a while, trying to puzzle them out was a source of some amusement for my overactive mind. But, the more I started to figure them out, the more cynical I became about them and the less interesting they became to me. Nowadays, I go out of my way not to become involved with trying to understand them or wondering about them at all. I prefer to remain ignorant because the truth about them is, more often than not, more than I can bear. True story.

A friend asked me tonight about our HOA. The vast majority of homes in Denver are in neighborhoods controlled by Homeowner’s Associations. While I understand the purpose of them and why they can be helpful, I also know they can be an incredibly expensive nuisance. We have a Facebook page for our HOA, and I’m able to access conversations between folks in our neighborhood. I used to receive updates when people posted there, but I had to opt of that because I was getting depressed reading the commentary. The pettiness, whining, and finger pointing, while perhaps amusing to some, became abhorrent to me. I swear I lost IQ points reading some of the conversations there.

I had to go back onto our HOA page tonight to look up something for a friend, and I was immediately reminded of why I stopped visiting that page. I used to volunteer in our neighborhood. Yes. Volunteer. As in work for free. I did this on both the Communications Committee (ie…newsletter) and the Social Committee (think Easter Egg Hunt for the kiddos). After three years of volunteering and working for free for my neighbors, I finally reached my tolerance level and quit. The people drove me crazy.

Perhaps that is partially the reason I’ve become something of an isolationist. I prefer to live in my own little world. I hardly watch the news (preferring, instead, to read it from different sources) because I can’t stand the sensationalism. I stopped following politics because it seemed to be the same story with different faces. And, now I’ve stopped paying attention within the confines of our neighborhood because I despise the conversations. In my case, ignorance truly is bliss. I’m a much happier person when I don’t think about the things that I see are wrong with the world. If I focus instead on myself and my family and making our small space better, my attitude improves greatly.

Sometimes I feel a bit guilty for unplugging and for not being more involved with things around me. I’m a smart woman, and it’s honestly sad that I would prefer to remain ignorant to maintain a positive attitude and a sense of peace about my surroundings. Still, part of finding zen is understanding which things to let go and which things never to take on in the first place. If peace comes from within, then I might be on the right track.

Posted on by Me 1

Twisted Panty Censorship

Nothing like Daffy Duck on a big screen at Red Rocks.

So, we’re on our way home after seeing Iron Man at Film on the Rocks as part of Joe’s 11th birthday celebration. It’s 11:10 p.m. and it occurs to me I have not written anything today. Although we live only 20 minutes from Red Rocks, the traffic cops have closed off our quick route home. It’s times like these that I am infinitely grateful for my trusty iPhone with its Word Press app so I can blog on the fly. It’s an amazing gift to be able to write without restriction.

Last night, I spent time crafting a blog about something my crazy 9 year old said. As usual, I posted it just before my self-imposed midnight deadline and linked it to my Facebook page. This morning when I logged onto Facebook, however, my blog was not there. Curious, I thought. But then I reasoned that perhaps in my exhaustion last night I only thought I had posted it to my page, but it hadn’t gone through. I tried again and received a Facebook pop-up message stating that this link was inaccessible because it was being investigated for being “spammy or unsafe.” What? That made no sense so, determined fool I am, I tried once again to post it. Same message. Bizarre.

I tried to figure out what I had written yesterday that would make someone suggest that my blog was unsafe. Then it hit me that it might be that I used one small swear word. Could that be it? No. Surely “jackass” was not the straw that convinced someone to report my post? Honestly, though, I can think of nothing else in what I said that would warrant flagging as “unsafe.” Luckily, the security reviewers at Facebook saw my post as it was intended to be seen, as a lighthearted, innocuous tale about my two boys, and reposted it to my page once they got it all sorted out.

Maybe we’ve all become a bit too uptight and overly sensitive? I write for myself and publish only as a way to keep myself accountable. If you’re reading along and realize I’ve shared some unsavory language that upsets you, I am sorry. I do not intend to offend. I know we all have different sensitivities. But, if something I write gets your panties in a twist, please do me a favor…simply stop reading. While you may be bothered by what I write, someone else might enjoy it. Reading what shows up in your news feed is a voluntary act. Don’t be a post Nazi and report things merely because you don’t like or agree with them. Tell you what. If you dislike my blog, block my news feed updates or unfriend me all together. I promise I won’t care.

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