Category: Not Quite Zen Thoughts

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

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.

Posted on by Me 2

It Registered At Idiot On the Moron Scale

Luke picking up the pieces while Joe tries to look contrite.

A while back, the boys and I were in the car and they started discussing terms for people who are lacking in intelligence. The conversation went something like this.

“Mom…Luke called me an idiot.”

“Luke, please don’t call your brother an idiot.”

“But, he was acting like one,” Luke argued.

“Still,” I replied, “it’s really not nice to call your brother an idiot.”

“Well, what can I call him then? Can I call him stupid?” Luke asked.

“Stupid is somewhat better than idiot, but it’s still not nice.”

“Dumb, then?” Luke continued.

“Okay. If you’re really looking for clarification,” I responded, “here’s what I think. I would say that dumb is probably the least harmful. Stupid is a bit worse. Idiot is truly unkind. I’d prefer you not call each other idiot, even if the other one is acting like one.”

“There’s another word, Mom,” Joe added. “I hear you say it in the car sometimes. It starts with a J.”

Caught. I do utter the word “jackass” while driving. It’s the only swear word that my kids hear me say. I try to refrain from swearing too much in front of them, although it is difficult because when they’re not around I can keep up with a sailor.

“Okay, then. Put the J-word after idiot in terms of being bad. So, if you hear me telling another driver they’re a jackass, then they’ve escalated right to the top of the moron scale.” And, that’s how the moron scale was born.

Today, my boys were playing Legos together. Luke is the Lego King. He is (and always has been) amazing with Legos. Joe? Not so much. It’s not only difficult for Joe to build Legos, but it seems to be difficult for him to keep them in tact. He has many times been punished for messing with Luke’s built Lego sets and destroying them, presumably by accident. At any rate, Joe was struggling to put two pieces together today, and Luke was waiting on him. Luke could not understand what Joe’s problem was because, by his mind, this was an easy task. Then, I heard the tattletale call from the living room.

“Mom…Luke called me stupid. And then he called me an idiot.”

The I-word is grounds for trouble in our house, so I called Luke in to talk to me.

“Luke…I’ve told you before. Do not call your brother an idiot.”

“Well, he was being an idiot. He couldn’t get these two Lego pieces together. It’s so easy!”

“Hey, Luke,” I told him, “Legos are more difficult for Joe. You need to cut him some slack. If you call him an idiot again today there will be a consequence and you will likely be cut-off from Lego You Tube videos for at least a day.”

“Okay. Okay,” Luke whined.

As he was walking back to meet his brother in the living room, I heard a big crash. I rounded the corner to see Joe standing there with what was left of a Lego plane Luke had built earlier this morning. Half the ship was in his hands. The other half was in pieces on the floor. Without missing a beat, Luke turned around and looked at me with a see-what-I-mean expression.

“Now can I call him an idiot?” was all he said.

I love my boys. They don’t always get along, but their predictability is amusing.

Posted on by Me 1

Don’t Answer That…A Lesson For Every Penis-Packing Person

The photo in question

This afternoon my boys and I were sitting on the couch watching a documentary film in air-conditioned comfort while the temps soared above 90 degrees outside. As we were watching frigate birds in the Galapagos, a new message popped into my email inbox on my laptop. It was a photo hubby had taken of my sisters and I at Kathy’s wedding rehearsal lunch today. I downloaded the photo onto my laptop and examined it. We look pretty good for a few old ladies, I thought. (Only one of us is under 40…and that one will be 40 in less than a year.)

Then, I got curious about something. I paused the movie, turned my computer so the boys could see it, and asked them a question.

“Who is the prettiest?” I inquired, showing them the photo.

They looked at me like I was crazy and said nothing. They were not interested in playing my reindeer game. I looked at Joe who is by far the more honest, less polished child.

“This isn’t a trick question. I promise,” I said.

He scanned my face but his expression said it all. He had no intention of touching my question with a 15 foot pole. He uttered not a single word. So, I turned to Luke. He smiled at me.

“What do YOU think?” I asked, staring into his cute little face.

With the ease of a future politician, he answered, “You’re all pretty.”

“Uh huh,” came my reply. I could see right through him, so I pressed a little harder. “You think we’re all equally pretty?”

“Yes,” he asserted, sounding 100% convinced. I had to give it to him. The kid is slick. I gave up on him and focused again on Joe. I was certain Joe would crack under the scrutiny. His honesty would betray him. I knew it.

“I promise I won’t get mad if you say it’s not me,” I pressed. “Really. I’m just curious what you think.”

He continued to look at me, saying nothing. He was glancing over my shoulder at Luke. I spun around quickly to see Luke pointing at me. He was prompting his brother, lest Joe should offer up what they assumed would be an incorrect response. I rolled my eyes and gave up. They clearly did not believe me when I said I was merely curious and that there would be no repercussions for admitting that I was not the prettiest girl in the photo.

And, you know what? Good for them. Although I truly wasn’t testing them and was simply curious about their opinions of their old mom and their aunts, had I been testing them they would have passed with flying colors. I was impressed by their ability to spot a potential land mine of feminine wiles and avoid all pitfalls. Joe is smart enough to keep his mouth shut when cornered. He’s definitely learned that it’s better not to say anything when you’re not sure. And Luke, with his textbook, female-friendly answers, will be very popular with the girls someday. Every once in a while I get the rare opportunity to see how staying home with my boys and talking openly and honestly with them, especially about how to deal with women, has influenced what kind of young men they are becoming. Today was one of those days, and today I got an A. Yay, me! Now, if I could just get them to put the toilet seat down, I’d finally earn that A+.

Posted on by Me 3

Bat Crap Crazy Beats Boring Any Day

Oh…how I despise hosting garage sales.

My sister is getting married on Saturday. I am so excited for her. We’ve been talking about this wedding since last August and now here we are, down to her last few days as a single gal. Tomorrow at 11 a.m. my three boys and I will report to the wedding location for a rehearsal before heading out with Kathy and her soon-t0-be husband and his family to lunch. This entire week has been spent tying up last minute details for the wedding. Today I hemmed the boys’ khaki pants for the ceremony and reception. Tomorrow afternoon after the rehearsal I will help my mom put some finishing touches on my bridesmaid’s dress. Then, I get to try to figure out an appropriate, meaningful, and fun toast for my sister and Chris on their wedding day because I am serving as the matron of honor. So much to do, so little time left to do it in because the wedding is at 10:30 a.m. on Saturday.

So you’ll never guess what, in the midst of all this last-minute, wedding craziness, I decided to do. I thought we might be able to squeak in a few hours at the crack of roosters tomorrow morning selling some things during our Community Garage Sale (that only happens once a year) before quickly showering and making it to the 11 a.m. wedding rehearsal. I made this brilliant decision, I suppose, because I just didn’t think I had enough going on right now. I thrive on chaos and eat stress cookies for lunch. Clearly, I am certifiable, genuine, bat-crap crazy. Plus…we really need to unload some stuff so I can funnel more money into my savings account for the trip to Hawaii I’ve been planning while hubby has been dreaming of appropriating the savings for new camera equipment.

Tonight, when I should have been pressing the boys’ outfits and working on my wedding toast, hubby and I were in the basement sorting through miscellaneous items in our storage room, which is inundated with things we once “had” to have. These items taunt us. They are a reminder of the truth: we could have been to Hawaii twice by now if we hadn’t bought some of this junk. Seriously. As Steve attempted to free his once oft-used Bowflex machine from the back of the space, he handed me the Celestron telescope we bought for stargazing, used once, and then gave up on after realizing we really would have to read the instructions to work it properly. We tripped over outgrown children’s toys, from Lincoln Logs to Chutes and Ladders, simply trying to liberate some larger items from what had become their permanent home in our basement. Our need to purge overwhelmed our need to prepare for the wedding.

As we hauled stuff up to the garage and I stuck prices on larger items with blue painter’s tape, it occurred to me how absolutely insane I am for deciding to participate in a garage sale on the same morning as my sister’s wedding rehearsal. I’m nuts. That’s all there is to it. Why would anyone do this to themselves? Now I will get six hours’ worth of sleep in the hopes of jettisoning some of our baggage and maybe, just maybe, making a few extra bucks in the process. It’s probably not even remotely worth the effort. Truth is, though, that you can’t stop crazy. It takes over. If I could control it, it would be sanity. But, let’s face it. Sane people are dull with their lists and their timeliness and their level heads. I prefer to think that all my irrational behavior merely makes me more interesting. Yeah. That’s it. Please promise you’ll remember me fondly when they haul me off to a room where I cannot hurt myself or hold garage sales.

Posted on by Me 1

That’ll Teach You To Keep Your Schweddy Balls Out Of My Bike Shorts

Hubby and I enjoy cycling and both happen to own size medium Pearl Izumi bike shorts. Not good.

My husband and I share a lot of things. I never worry that we will become one of those couples who have nothing to talk about once the kids leave home. One of our common interests is road cycling, which he got me into and which I have spent years using as my excuse to exercise. Cycling receives the highest accolade I can offer any type of exercise; I don’t hate it.

Today, hubby came home after a couple hours with the kids at his parents’ place and said he wanted to take a ride. I had hoped to get a ride in too, but because I could have done it while he was gone and chose instead to tackle the Everest-sized pile of ironing in our room, I was in no position to cry “not fair” on him. He got geared up and told me he was leaving. I was still ironing and lost in the middle of the latest episode of Mad Men, so I didn’t pay much attention to him before he left. In fact, I’m pretty sure that as he was telling me for the third time that he was leaving I uttered a barely interested, “Aren’t you gone yet?”

When he returned, he got showered and went downstairs. I again didn’t pay much attention to him as I was still ironing (did I mention this pile was huge?). When I had at last finished my epic pile of laundry, I realized it was too late for a ride and went to take a shower. When I walked into the bathroom, I noted with disdain that Steve had left his sweat-soaked bike clothes in a pile on the edge of the bathtub. I hate that. Then I looked at the pile again more closely. Those looked like my bike shorts. I felt my forehead crinkle, my brow furrow, and my head cock to one side. Had he really worn my bike shorts by mistake? Certainly there was no way that could have happened. I walked downstairs.

“Ummm…I think you might have worn my bike shorts on your ride,” I announced.

He looked at me. “No. Those were mine,” he answered confidently.

“I don’t think so. I think your bike shorts have a different type material in the crotch than mine do.”

“They were in with my stuff,” he said, as if the pile of gear he had in his office was impervious to mix-ups.

I didn’t feel like arguing with him, so I shrugged it off and went to get in the shower. First, though, unsatisfied with his pronouncement, I checked my sports-bottoms drawer. My shorts were not there. Curiouser and curiouser. I was now absolutely certain he’d worn my shorts. He must have suspected the same thing because he came up to inspect the dirty shorts. Then he confirmed what I already knew; he had indeed worn my bike shorts on his hour-long ride.

“Wow,” I said, unhappily. “That’s scary.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I think that I was actually faster today while wearing them,” he said.

“Nope. Not helping.” I paused thoughtfully and then continued. “I’m not sure if I am more disappointed that you’re small enough to wear my clothes or more depressed that my bike clothes are big enough for a man to wear.”

“Well, I think the key to remember here is that those shorts are spandex. They stretch a lot.” He was trying really hard to make us both feel a measure better.

“I’m going to need to go shopping tomorrow,” I told him.

“For new bike shorts?” he replied.

“Yep. I mean, I can’t wash those shorts in water hot enough to undo the damage you’ve done to them.”

“Listen,” he said, “this is as bad for me as it is for you. Let’s not speak of this ever again.”

I agreed. And then, for extra insurance that he never carelessly places his Schweddy balls in my bike shorts again, I wrote a blog about it. 😉

Posted on by Me 2

The Player

The point when Steve called in the big guns.

I like to play games. And, by games, I mostly mean board games, although any sort of game that involves mental exercise will do. There are all kinds of board games out there. My favorite ones are not the social ones where you interact with other people verbally or the chance ones where you’re relying on the roll of the dice but the ones where you try to outsmart and outmaneuver other people quietly. I openly admit that I used Luke’s birthday this year as an excuse to buy a board game I’ve had my eye on for a while called Qwirkle. The game has won a Parent’s Choice Gold Award as well as a Mensa Select Award. I figured that any game that Mensa found award worthy was probably something I should play, not because I’m a candidate for Mensa (I’m not qualified to be in the top 2% of any group unless you’re talking about the top 2% of wives that drive their husbands insane on a daily basis) but because this is obviously a thinking game and I am obviously a thinking gal.

So tonight I pulled out the game and forced hubby to learn it with me. I’m sure he was thrilled. He always loves it when I drag him into this stuff. But, I know he’s smart (although not quite as smart as me because he scored two points below me on an IQ test we both took), so it’s fun to play strategic games with him. We read the directions, gathered our tiles, and started play. Being the generous gal I am, I even allowed him to go first. The game started out slowly while we were still discovering the ins and outs of play and scoring, but it was intriguing enough to continue. I could tell I was truly going to like this game. About halfway through the game tiles, I started to pull ahead in the scoring and that’s when things really became fun.

“Let’s see,” I said, sizing up my scoring in a particularly good run, “12 points for my Qwirkle and then 3 points for that row and 5 points for that row. That’s…..”

Hubby cut me off. “If you can’t count high enough to add the points, then I don’t think you should get the points.”

“Har, har,” I said, adding 20 to my score column. “Your turn.”

He took his turn and scored 7 points.

“That’s good,” I said, trying to be encouraging.

“Don’t patronize bunny rabbits,” he said. “What’s the score?”

“You’ve got 134 and I’m at 177, but it’s my turn so we’ll see after that.”

Just then Luke walked over. “Who’s winning?” he inquired.

“Your mom is.”

Luke looked at Steve’s tiles and then at the table and then back at Steve’s tiles.

“I think I can help you, Dad,” he said.

“Hey…wait a minute.” I stopped him. “Do you really think it’s fair to play two against one?”

“Well, if Luke wants to help, we should let him. It is his game,” Steve answered.

“Well…if you need a 9 year old to help you win, that’s fine by me,” I countered.

The game continued. Luke was able to help Steve make up some of his deficit, but I still beat them by 30 points. As soon as the game was done, Steve started swiping the tiles from the table into the cloth bag to put them away.

I tried to get the boys to play, but it was after 9 and they were tired and ready for bed. I really hate it when I’m high on a victory and no one will humor me with another game. Some people prefer to quit while they’re ahead. Not me. When I’m winning, I’ll keep right on playing. When I lose, it’s time to find something else to do. Apparently that’s Steve’s M.O. too because he was off after our game faster than a dress on prom night. Oh well. I may not quite be Mensa smart, but I’m clever enough to know that if you want people to continue playing with you, you’ve got to be not only a good player but also a gracious winner. I can do that. I can take a break for the night. I can always kick Steve’s butt again tomorrow.

(PS…Another thing I know about playing games…a round of trash talk will get you another game faster than a polite request. Just saying.)

Posted on by Me

By Order Of The Queen Of LaLa Land

Joe…out and about as we did our Adopt-A-Highway time today

If I were the Queen, I would make quite a few changes.

1) Every person over the age of the 18 would be required to work at least one hour unpaid per month serving in their community by working at shelters (people or pet), picking up trash outside, assisting the elderly, or otherwise aiding the less fortunate.

2) Anyone demonstrating a lack of understanding between “yield” and “merge” would be put in the dungeon.

3) Gummi bears would contain no calories and comprise the largest portion of the Food Pyramid.

4) The punishment for tossing a cigarette butt of a car window would be beheading.

5) Every model would be a size 8, and not the current size 8 (which is actually a size 12).

6) Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, headwriters for the now defunct, popular ABC drama LOST, would have to explain every single mystery they left unanswered from the show. I’m not kidding. Just because the show was called LOST does not mean it should have ended with every single viewer actually being lost.

7) Every household would be required to recycle at least 50% of their household trash.

8) No man over the age of 19 would be allowed to wear plastic, white sunglasses…unless he was Shaun White.

9) Wolves would be reintroduced in all lower 48 states to help control the deer population. They might eat a few people too, but that would simply prove Darwin’s Survival of the Fittest postulation.

10) Justin Bieber and Lindsey Lohan would be placed in a rocket and launched into outer space where they might actually be happy together, but no one would care.

11) Women’s uteruses would be free from government legislation, same-sex marriages would be not only granted but socially accepted, and stay-at-home parenting would be the most highly regarded profession.

12) Tattoos of any Disney, Looney Tunes, or other cartoon-like character would have to be placed on a body part not seen by the general public.

13) All men would be required to lift the toilet seat before peeing and place it gently back down into place afterward. Any man caught in non-compliance would be forced to clean every toilet in their home every day for a full year.

14) My husband (who is not the king, by the way) would be locked in shackles for an indeterminate amount of time for stealing the covers and then complaining about how hot it was while he was sleeping.

Perhaps my queenly wishes seem a bit ridiculous. I suppose you think the only thing I am the Queen of is LaLa Land. There’s no way even a queen as powerful as I am could bring about the kind of sweeping change I’m espousing here. You silly fool! It’s not my job to figure out how to make these things happen. That’s your job. I’m the Queen and you do my bidding. End of story. Now, get busy or off with your head.

Posted on by Me

Pregnant Pause

What the dress looked like in my head when I put it on for the party

Today, in honor of my son’s birthday party, from my newly set up summer closet I pulled out a cute dress that I’ve been dying to wear. It’s actually a tunic top that many women have to wear with leggings, but I get to wear it as a mini-dress because I’m height challenged. I love the dress because it’s soft and comfortable, the pattern is fun, and it’s green (I love green). At any rate, an hour before the party I threw the dress on and felt pretty good in it. So, I left it on.

I wore it for the entire party, never once feeling self-conscious in it. When the party was over, hubby downloaded the photos. That was when I freaked out. The dress was not nearly as flattering on me as I had imagined it was. I’d just spent 3 hours entertaining 20 people and, now that they were all gone, I could see what I looked like to them through the camera’s eye. Not good.

Depressed and disappointed in myself for being oblivious of the obvious, I stopped looking at the party photos and went to sit on the couch with my family. Finally, with the photos still reeling around my head, I asked my three boys what they thought about my outfit today. Steve, ever positive, said he loved it. Luke said he thought I looked pretty like I always do. (He’s a natural born politician.) I rolled my eyes. I knew they were being disingenuous. I asked for some honesty. Joe gave it to me.

“Well…when I first saw you in it, I did think you looked a tiny bit pregnant.”

“What?” I gasped.

“Not a lot. Just a little,” he hedged, sensing his brutal honesty might have been a tiny bit of a mistake.

My head was swimming. A tiny bit pregnant. As if looking a tiny bit pregnant when you’re not is better than looking a lot pregnant when you’re not. Looking any bit of pregnant when you’re about to turn 44 and are most certainly not pregnant is never a good thing. End of story.

In reality, what the dress looks like when you’re a tiny bit pregnant or merely like cupcakes a little bit too much.

“Joe,” Steve said, hoping to ameliorate the rapidly declining situation, “your mother does not look pregnant.”

“I didn’t say she looks pregnant,” he replied. “I said she looks a tiny bit pregnant. Besides, she told me to be honest.”

I reached down toward my chest, plucked the arrow from my heart, closed my hand over the gaping wound there, and tried desperately to keep from bleeding out all over our family room sofa. I know I am not at my lowest weight ever. I know I haven’t been to as many yoga classes recently as I should have been. But, pregnant? That was almost more than I could bear. I snuggled closer to my new favorite son, Luke, and tried to walk toward the light. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

I realize that I am overly self-critical and my own worst enemy. I also realize that most people at the party probably did not think I looked as horrific as I felt when I saw the photos. I further understand that no one was paying that much attention to me in any case. Still, I can’t help but feel a bit scalded by the truth in Joe’s words. At the very least, I will never again feel the same way in that dress as I did before his comments.

He’s right. I did ask for it. I went seeking their honest opinions and I’m not sure I can fault Joe for offering his, especially when I know that he was right. Still, the entire situation left me with a tiny bit of a pregnant pause.

 

Posted on by Me 2

To Infinity and Beyond

Sometimes the universe just tests me for fun.

I realized this morning while driving my kids to school that this blog could go on forever. The purpose of it was to use writing to reflect on finding more peace, joy, and gratitude in my life. The problem with this notion is that the thing that most frustrates and annoys me is people. Yes. People. And, as you know, people are everywhere. Well, maybe it’s not all people, but it certainly is the ones who are stupid, self-serving, or inconsiderate, and especially those who are all three of those things combined.

Every day I drive. I drive quite a bit. On a rare, low-travel day, I spend maybe just an hour in my car. On a busy day, I might spend as many as 4 hours in my car. Do you know what? People drive, or at least they try to, and I am out there on the road with them. Despite my best efforts, I cannot find a way to get over the little annoyances in traffic and get to my happy place. This is how I know that zen is still a long way off for me.

I admit it. I do get thoroughly exasperated when the woman across from me at a two-way stop crossing a busy street expects me to read her mind and go first when traffic abates (even though she was at the intersection first and therefore I am yielding my right-of-way to her). I get even more frustrated when she starts waving her arms at me as if to say, “Go already, you idiot.” Oh…I’m sorry lady. I’m a little rusty with my psychic skills. I didn’t realize you wanted me to go first because you didn’t let me know that with a polite hand gesture before you started cursing me out. My bad. The correct response in this situation would be to take a deep breath, smile politely, wave to thank her, and then let that moment and that cranky woman fall from my mind. Instead, I’m sitting here writing about it. Totally not zen.

I could go to infinity and beyond listing the ways that people annoy me, but that would only prove that I need therapy and probably anger management classes too. Yesterday I wrote about how the universe is continually giving me lessons about getting out of my head and living in the moment. Perhaps the people annoying me are part of the long-term lesson plan the universe has in mind for me? If that’s the case, it seems to be working overtime because I sure do encounter a copious amount of aggressive, distracted, and otherwise traffic-law-impaired drivers. (You know I’m talking about the people who don’t understand there is a distinct and legitimate difference between the meanings of the words “yield” and “merge.”)

I promise, Universe, I will try to release my frustrations with people. I will. I will take deep breaths and stop mentally yelling at them. Will you please do me one favor, though, and keep that white Ford SUV out of MY regular space at Target?  Twice this week it’s been parked there. It sure would encourage my unquestioning faith in your powers if you could work that out for me.

Yeah. I’m going to be working on this zen thing for a long, long time, I think. 😉

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