This year I received a surprise tax refund. I made less than I expected last year, thanks to my brief interlude being self-employed, and was pleasantly surprised to receive tax money back (rather than owe the IRS).
I had the money in my account for 24 hours, and during that time, I wondered aloud what I should spend it on. New furniture? A small vacation? A new camera I have been coveting? I commented to my family that for the first time since I started filing taxes, I didn't need to spend my refund on car repairs.
Then my son, D, came to visit. He drove to my house. It's his first car, one that he scrimped and saved for, and it was the first time he drove it to my house.
Being temporarily financially endowed, I offered to buy him a new set of tires. He was excited by that, so we drove his car to Pep Boys. It died in the parking lot. Two days later, the repair costs and new tires came out to more than $1,000.
He drove away this afternoon, in a nice-running car with tires that actually grip the road rather than slip and slide, and a full tank of gas. I was happy to see him drive away in a safer car.
My bank account is empty again. But my heart is full.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Lesson #42: What happens in the cubicle, stays in the cubicle.
I have worked in a number of offices with a variety of coworkers in different fields and even in different states of the union. No matter how different, there is one thing that every office has had in common:
Women who like to comment on what other women are having for lunch.
I would wager money that I could walk into any office anywhere in this country, peel an orange, and some woman is going to say, "I smell an orange! Someone has an orange!" I could microwave salmon, garlic pasta, or sausage spaghetti, and the result would be the same. Someone is going to hunt down "that smell."
What is a polite woman supposed to do in that situation?
Do I confess to being the barer of the smell?
Do I offer to share my meager left-overs?
I have never been good at small talk. And I'm not one of those women who finds it polite to comment on other people's private meals - particularly if they're hunkered down over a Tupperware container in their little cubicle or windowless office. It seems to me that leftovers for lunch are one of those things polite people shouldn't talk about -- like coworkers' salaries and what happens in the ladies room. For many years, I decided the easiest way to avoid this type of thing was to leave the office for lunch.
But I grew tired of being pirated out of my office by overactive nosey noses, so now I embrace the interaction. "Yes, that's my orange. It's a great orange! Do you want a slice?"
Women who like to comment on what other women are having for lunch.
I would wager money that I could walk into any office anywhere in this country, peel an orange, and some woman is going to say, "I smell an orange! Someone has an orange!" I could microwave salmon, garlic pasta, or sausage spaghetti, and the result would be the same. Someone is going to hunt down "that smell."
What is a polite woman supposed to do in that situation?
Do I confess to being the barer of the smell?
Do I offer to share my meager left-overs?
I have never been good at small talk. And I'm not one of those women who finds it polite to comment on other people's private meals - particularly if they're hunkered down over a Tupperware container in their little cubicle or windowless office. It seems to me that leftovers for lunch are one of those things polite people shouldn't talk about -- like coworkers' salaries and what happens in the ladies room. For many years, I decided the easiest way to avoid this type of thing was to leave the office for lunch.
But I grew tired of being pirated out of my office by overactive nosey noses, so now I embrace the interaction. "Yes, that's my orange. It's a great orange! Do you want a slice?"
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Lesson #41: Keep your eyes open when you ride the rollercoaster.
My youngest biological son, I, turned 13 last year. He's the 5th of our brood of 6 kids to do so.
I know what's coming. Tears. Innapropriate giggling. Long showers. Squeaky speech. Red cheeks. Impulsive stomping and door slamming.
When my oldest, D, turned 13, I really didn't know what I was in for. The first time D wailed and weeped and rolled around on the living room floor extolling how much he HATED his teachers and his counselors and his principal and me and and his father, I was horrified. I tried to reason with him. I tried tough love. I tried soft love and hippy hugs. Finally, I sent him outside and told him to hit the punching bag until he stopped crying.
Then I realized that the D in my living room was not the same sweet little boy I held at my breast so many years before. He was a young man, with all the angst and agony afforded to young men who haven't yet found their inner Swartzenegger. I had to give him time to navigate the hormonal waters of early teen-hood. And in time he found his way.
While it happened, though, I went through my own five-step process of watching the boy-into-man evolution.
1. Shock: "What the hell is going on with D?"
2. Anger: "Quit acting like a baby on crack and go to your room until you can act like a normal human being!"
3. Bargaining: "If you'll quit weeping, I'll make you your favorite peanut butter and jelly with no crusts!"
4. Depression: "I miss my baby D!"
5. Acceptance: "OK, so how many years until college?"
Now that I've seen the process a few times, I can skip straight to Number 5. Only 5 more years until I goes to college. Really, that's not very long at all. I've decided I'm going to enjoy as much of it as I can, caterwauling, high water bills and all.
I know what's coming. Tears. Innapropriate giggling. Long showers. Squeaky speech. Red cheeks. Impulsive stomping and door slamming.
When my oldest, D, turned 13, I really didn't know what I was in for. The first time D wailed and weeped and rolled around on the living room floor extolling how much he HATED his teachers and his counselors and his principal and me and and his father, I was horrified. I tried to reason with him. I tried tough love. I tried soft love and hippy hugs. Finally, I sent him outside and told him to hit the punching bag until he stopped crying.
Then I realized that the D in my living room was not the same sweet little boy I held at my breast so many years before. He was a young man, with all the angst and agony afforded to young men who haven't yet found their inner Swartzenegger. I had to give him time to navigate the hormonal waters of early teen-hood. And in time he found his way.
While it happened, though, I went through my own five-step process of watching the boy-into-man evolution.
1. Shock: "What the hell is going on with D?"
2. Anger: "Quit acting like a baby on crack and go to your room until you can act like a normal human being!"
3. Bargaining: "If you'll quit weeping, I'll make you your favorite peanut butter and jelly with no crusts!"
4. Depression: "I miss my baby D!"
5. Acceptance: "OK, so how many years until college?"
Now that I've seen the process a few times, I can skip straight to Number 5. Only 5 more years until I goes to college. Really, that's not very long at all. I've decided I'm going to enjoy as much of it as I can, caterwauling, high water bills and all.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Lesson #40: Don't worry.
We have a songbird in our house.
C -- the youngest of the Brady Bunch -- loves to sing. He knows all the words to:
But still, there is nothing more sweet than hearing a 3-year-old trill, "Every little thing's gonna be all right." Sometimes I need to hear that. For some reason, I can believe it when I hear it from an innocent babe.
Though I'd probably feel all right if I was chillin' in Jamaica, too.
C -- the youngest of the Brady Bunch -- loves to sing. He knows all the words to:
- Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
- Now I Know My ABCs
- Bob Marley's Three Birds
- House of Pain's Jump Around
- Bloodhound Gang's Three Point One Four
- and another song that K made up just for him when he plays with his train set.
But still, there is nothing more sweet than hearing a 3-year-old trill, "Every little thing's gonna be all right." Sometimes I need to hear that. For some reason, I can believe it when I hear it from an innocent babe.
Though I'd probably feel all right if I was chillin' in Jamaica, too.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Lesson #39: The Mouths of Babes are Filled with Truths
Today is the one-year anniversary of the loss of our eldest child. The One We Lost is never far -- he keeps popping up in dreams (that end in my sobbing that I'll never see him again). He keeps appearing in my husband's eyes when he weeps all of a sudden (and to see a man you love suddenly start weeping is the strangest and most heart-wrenching of things). My sons talk about him and strive to emulate him. I haven't learned to say I have five children, because with him, I have six, and always will.
Yesterday, I spent the day cooking casseroles to take to my uncle and cousin's house. My aunt died that morning. After spending the day with them, and leaving them when I saw my uncle grow weary of being strong for his guests, I went home and cried myself to sleep. I couldn't get my aunt's beautiful, strong voice out of my head. I felt her bear hug wrap me in warmth. And I missed her, already.
There has been so much grief for my family lately. Our son, my husband's uncle and grandfather (the two men who glued the family togehter, a family that has since completely fallen apart), and now my aunt, all passing in the space of a year. My beloved aunt -- A woman who taught me to be proud of my name, who taught me I could be a strong woman, a career woman, a writing woman. Whose strength rests in me still.
With her passing, I became the matriarch of the family, the oldest living female on that side of the family. The oldest woman and the one who has to keep the stories of our heritage, passed down from my aunt to me. It hit me recently that it's my responsibility to teach our children and their children about the beautiful ones who passed away before they came, the ones who came before them. But I have been so heavily burdened with grief this past year, I wasn't sure I could rise to the challenge
A couple of days ago, one of the young ones showed me how it is to be done. C, the baby, loves to watch Harold and the Purple Crayon, a cartoon about a little boy who draws his reality using a magic purple crayon. Months ago, I let him borrow a necklace of mine that reminded him of the purple crayon. As one would expect in giving a three year old a necklace, he lost it. He felt bad about it too and said he was sorry. At Christmas, he picked out a giant pink pen, and his mama wrapped it up for him. He was so proud to give it to me. His mama said that he picked it out for me because he knows I like to write. I thanked him, put it away and forgot about it.
The other night, C and I were playing together in a rare moment alone. He found the pen and held it up to me. "Do you like the purple crayon I got you?" he asked.
"Oh yes," I answered. "Thank you for my purple crayon."
How could C -- he's only 3 -- remember all these months that he owed me a purple crayon? How could he know I needed one now, so badly, to draw myself a happy world to hide from the sadness I live in now?
It doesn't matter how. He knew.
C and I spent the evening drawing rainbows and waterfalls and zebras to ride in the air around us. He and I escaped some of our grief for the moment. C showed me the promise of youth again, in a time when I had forgotten it existed. Death robs us of promise. It robs us of joy and hope and those things that youth takes for granted.
That's really why youth is so filled with promise. Because the future has yet to be drawn. It's a blank palette, an empty canvas. The colors to work with are only vibrant and new, they aren't yet tainted with shadow.
But with a purple crayon in our hands, we can recreate whatever we want in a world that has been destroyed by grief.
Yesterday, I spent the day cooking casseroles to take to my uncle and cousin's house. My aunt died that morning. After spending the day with them, and leaving them when I saw my uncle grow weary of being strong for his guests, I went home and cried myself to sleep. I couldn't get my aunt's beautiful, strong voice out of my head. I felt her bear hug wrap me in warmth. And I missed her, already.
There has been so much grief for my family lately. Our son, my husband's uncle and grandfather (the two men who glued the family togehter, a family that has since completely fallen apart), and now my aunt, all passing in the space of a year. My beloved aunt -- A woman who taught me to be proud of my name, who taught me I could be a strong woman, a career woman, a writing woman. Whose strength rests in me still.
With her passing, I became the matriarch of the family, the oldest living female on that side of the family. The oldest woman and the one who has to keep the stories of our heritage, passed down from my aunt to me. It hit me recently that it's my responsibility to teach our children and their children about the beautiful ones who passed away before they came, the ones who came before them. But I have been so heavily burdened with grief this past year, I wasn't sure I could rise to the challenge
A couple of days ago, one of the young ones showed me how it is to be done. C, the baby, loves to watch Harold and the Purple Crayon, a cartoon about a little boy who draws his reality using a magic purple crayon. Months ago, I let him borrow a necklace of mine that reminded him of the purple crayon. As one would expect in giving a three year old a necklace, he lost it. He felt bad about it too and said he was sorry. At Christmas, he picked out a giant pink pen, and his mama wrapped it up for him. He was so proud to give it to me. His mama said that he picked it out for me because he knows I like to write. I thanked him, put it away and forgot about it.
The other night, C and I were playing together in a rare moment alone. He found the pen and held it up to me. "Do you like the purple crayon I got you?" he asked.
"Oh yes," I answered. "Thank you for my purple crayon."
How could C -- he's only 3 -- remember all these months that he owed me a purple crayon? How could he know I needed one now, so badly, to draw myself a happy world to hide from the sadness I live in now?
It doesn't matter how. He knew.
C and I spent the evening drawing rainbows and waterfalls and zebras to ride in the air around us. He and I escaped some of our grief for the moment. C showed me the promise of youth again, in a time when I had forgotten it existed. Death robs us of promise. It robs us of joy and hope and those things that youth takes for granted.
That's really why youth is so filled with promise. Because the future has yet to be drawn. It's a blank palette, an empty canvas. The colors to work with are only vibrant and new, they aren't yet tainted with shadow.
But with a purple crayon in our hands, we can recreate whatever we want in a world that has been destroyed by grief.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Lesson #38: Don't bite off more than you can chew
I started a new job last October writing grants for a university that's about an hour's commute from my home. I love the new job and was happy to land it.
But prior to taking the job, I had solicited my local newspaper to see if the editor was interested in letting me write for them, on staff or as a freelancer. I was feeling nostalgic for my days as a newspaper reporter, and my current job as a freelance grant writer was so, well, boring.
The editor pulled me in for an interview, both with him and the staff of the paper. I never heard back from him, despite a thank you letter and confirmation from the business office that they had all my paperwork in order. I figured, no harm done by asking, and chalked it up to good interviewing skills practice.
Two weeks after starting the university position, the editor called me and offered me a gig writing a bi-weekly column on "anything interesting that pertains to Merced County." Of course, I said yes.
I mean, 11-hour days working for a prestigous intellectual community in a high-stress, challenging position wasn't enough for me, right? What I really needed was to tack on a couple more hours a week of research, interviews and composition that would be published in my home town twice a month for 50,000 readers to chew and bitch about.
I've been writing more-than-full-time now -- both grants for the university and a column on raising kids in the county -- for almost three months. I've gotten my first hate mail (after five columns, which isn't a bad record). It's exhausting work.
But it's worth it. I'm finally making decent money (what I'm worth), hanging out with interesting people, and keeping my name in print. I'm a pretty lucky gal after all.
But prior to taking the job, I had solicited my local newspaper to see if the editor was interested in letting me write for them, on staff or as a freelancer. I was feeling nostalgic for my days as a newspaper reporter, and my current job as a freelance grant writer was so, well, boring.
The editor pulled me in for an interview, both with him and the staff of the paper. I never heard back from him, despite a thank you letter and confirmation from the business office that they had all my paperwork in order. I figured, no harm done by asking, and chalked it up to good interviewing skills practice.
Two weeks after starting the university position, the editor called me and offered me a gig writing a bi-weekly column on "anything interesting that pertains to Merced County." Of course, I said yes.
I mean, 11-hour days working for a prestigous intellectual community in a high-stress, challenging position wasn't enough for me, right? What I really needed was to tack on a couple more hours a week of research, interviews and composition that would be published in my home town twice a month for 50,000 readers to chew and bitch about.
I've been writing more-than-full-time now -- both grants for the university and a column on raising kids in the county -- for almost three months. I've gotten my first hate mail (after five columns, which isn't a bad record). It's exhausting work.
But it's worth it. I'm finally making decent money (what I'm worth), hanging out with interesting people, and keeping my name in print. I'm a pretty lucky gal after all.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Lesson #37: What doesn't kill you makes you...
One thing I learned in 2010 was to never say, "Enough is enough." Or, "I can't take anymore." Because for some incredibly amazingly horribly strange reason, I kept taking more.
As the holidays crept in on us, my family wondered how we would get through. We knew it was going to be hard, and we were going to feel the absence of The One We Lost acutely. First came Thanksgiving, then His birthday. As Christmas drew near we braced ourselves. One more major holiday and then in January, the anniversary of His death and then maybe ... light at the end of the tunnel of grief?
But while we were bracing, we lost another one. My husband's grandfather passed away. As we planned that funeral, Son #2 abruptly left our home and quit speaking to anyone in the family. We couldn't understand his strange departure at first, especially as the family sunk into grief over the latest loss. But I've come to understand that Son #2 is grieving, horribly, himself. A combination of surviviors guilt, unaddressed grief, another loss, and pressures from his young wife caused him to flee, likely in an attempt to run away from the harsh realities of life.
We held a memorial service for grandpa one day and I got a call the next day that a beloved aunt of mine had a stroke. I rushed to the hospital to sit with my cousin and uncle. I just wanted to be there. What else was there to do?
I came home that night -- last night -- emotionally exhausted, begging the universe to knock it off. Give us a break. Let us have a holiday from grief. Please.
This morning, as dawn broke on the winter solstice and the sun shone briefly over the mountains after days of cloudy obscurity, I felt a sense of happiness and joy that has been absent for a while. As our Earth turns, today marks the last of this year's encroaching night. From here on out -- for a few short months at least -- the sun will come back a little more each day. It will bring warmth, fresh life, and hope with it.
And that's something, at least.
As the holidays crept in on us, my family wondered how we would get through. We knew it was going to be hard, and we were going to feel the absence of The One We Lost acutely. First came Thanksgiving, then His birthday. As Christmas drew near we braced ourselves. One more major holiday and then in January, the anniversary of His death and then maybe ... light at the end of the tunnel of grief?
But while we were bracing, we lost another one. My husband's grandfather passed away. As we planned that funeral, Son #2 abruptly left our home and quit speaking to anyone in the family. We couldn't understand his strange departure at first, especially as the family sunk into grief over the latest loss. But I've come to understand that Son #2 is grieving, horribly, himself. A combination of surviviors guilt, unaddressed grief, another loss, and pressures from his young wife caused him to flee, likely in an attempt to run away from the harsh realities of life.
We held a memorial service for grandpa one day and I got a call the next day that a beloved aunt of mine had a stroke. I rushed to the hospital to sit with my cousin and uncle. I just wanted to be there. What else was there to do?
I came home that night -- last night -- emotionally exhausted, begging the universe to knock it off. Give us a break. Let us have a holiday from grief. Please.
This morning, as dawn broke on the winter solstice and the sun shone briefly over the mountains after days of cloudy obscurity, I felt a sense of happiness and joy that has been absent for a while. As our Earth turns, today marks the last of this year's encroaching night. From here on out -- for a few short months at least -- the sun will come back a little more each day. It will bring warmth, fresh life, and hope with it.
And that's something, at least.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Lesson #36: Never put off giving yourself a clean slate.
I have had intentions of rearranging my bedroom furniture for six months -- maybe (probably) longer.
For one reason and then another I never got around to it. Over the summer I had plenty of time to do it, thanks to an extended bout of under-employment. Still, I never made the move. There was always eight hours a day worth of writing tasks, and job and client seeking to be done, a house to clean, dinner to make, homework help to dole out, and each day turned into another day until one day I had a 50-hour a week job to go to, a new freelance newspaper writing gig, and even less time to devote to home organizational projects.
Irony set in when I realized I was getting more done around the house now that I was working away from home than all those months I worked from home. Industry breeds industry it seems.
So, last weekend, I finally found the motivation to rearrange my bedroom furniture. I even created a Bagua diagram to feng shui the room. The new arrangement is beautiful, and the energy flow is invigorating. It may encourage me to -- insert shocking gasps here -- go through my ridiculously crowded closet. It would be much nicer on my self esteem to only have clothing that fits me in there.
For one reason and then another I never got around to it. Over the summer I had plenty of time to do it, thanks to an extended bout of under-employment. Still, I never made the move. There was always eight hours a day worth of writing tasks, and job and client seeking to be done, a house to clean, dinner to make, homework help to dole out, and each day turned into another day until one day I had a 50-hour a week job to go to, a new freelance newspaper writing gig, and even less time to devote to home organizational projects.
Irony set in when I realized I was getting more done around the house now that I was working away from home than all those months I worked from home. Industry breeds industry it seems.
So, last weekend, I finally found the motivation to rearrange my bedroom furniture. I even created a Bagua diagram to feng shui the room. The new arrangement is beautiful, and the energy flow is invigorating. It may encourage me to -- insert shocking gasps here -- go through my ridiculously crowded closet. It would be much nicer on my self esteem to only have clothing that fits me in there.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Lesson #35: Beware werewolves
Husband has told me numerous times that there is nothing scary about humans that turn into wolves. What would be scary is if wolves could become human. They would look like a human, walk and talk like a human, but you could never truly trust them because their motivations -- they're soul -- would never be human.
We watched the move Splice the other night. It wasn't a particularly good movie, but it was creepy because of the premise. The creature looks and acts human, but it's not.
We've been teaching our Olde English Bulldogge to speak. She can say her name, "hello," "outside," "weird," and "wrong." She speaks in a thick bullie accent, but nonetheless, if you were to hear her speak, it's obvious that she is mimicking the words we say. The fact that she says words like "weird" and "wrong" on command prove that she's mimicking us -- parrot-style -- as those are the words we use when we describe her speech, both to her and about her.
At first we thought her speaking was novel, funny. Until she started interrupting our conversations, interjecting her opinions, and speaking over us. Until we watched that movie Splice and realized that not all anthropomorphic traits are amusing, and are, in fact, rather creepy.
We watched the move Splice the other night. It wasn't a particularly good movie, but it was creepy because of the premise. The creature looks and acts human, but it's not.
We've been teaching our Olde English Bulldogge to speak. She can say her name, "hello," "outside," "weird," and "wrong." She speaks in a thick bullie accent, but nonetheless, if you were to hear her speak, it's obvious that she is mimicking the words we say. The fact that she says words like "weird" and "wrong" on command prove that she's mimicking us -- parrot-style -- as those are the words we use when we describe her speech, both to her and about her.
At first we thought her speaking was novel, funny. Until she started interrupting our conversations, interjecting her opinions, and speaking over us. Until we watched that movie Splice and realized that not all anthropomorphic traits are amusing, and are, in fact, rather creepy.
Lesson #34: Count Your Blessings
In the years that I have let the blog slide (really, was it much of a blog to begin with?), I have:
In January, my oldest stepson passed away. I can say all sorts of things here, about reeling, about devastation, about loss and other cliches but nothing can truly describe it. There are the the commonly accepted five stages of grief, and I accept that as a truth after this experience. I am in the supposedly final stage of acceptance, but I waver between accepting what happened and hiding from it in the depression stage. When it happened, the whole family slid down this murky bank of despair and we had to grow these amazing spiritual muscles to help pull each other out and back into the sunlight. It took months to climb out, and there are days when one or all of us slide back down. His birthday is coming up -- next week in fact -- and I have a real, physical fear of that day and what it will do to us. I am bracing. But keep in mind, I am just his step mother. I stand by and feel these feelings and wipe the tears off my cheeks. And I watch his father and his mother buckle under the weight of true loss, while I am powerless to take that loss away from them, while I am powerless to shoulder that burden so they don't have to, though I wish every day I had that power.
This was one reason why we had the wedding -- to have something light to share after sharing something so dark. We were married on the first day of Spring under an old oak tree at Husband's grandparents home. The tree had just begun to bud, and winter's storm clouds had been swept away by the spring sunshine. We celebrated under that sun, and publicly celebrated our family and friends and our commitment to one another, knowing how tenuous life is. Knowing how short spring and summer truly are. Knowing that winter comes again. And again. And that is life.
In May, my next oldest stepson, G, married a beautiful and intelligent girl, M, at the foot of a snowy mountain in the Sierras. They moved back home this fall. We used to make jokes about adult children living with their parents, but we are having a good time having the kids near us. We appreciate it more than we ever did before. We want them to stay.
So, in my blogging absence, I have learned to count my blessings. I have learned that blessings come and go. We rejoice when they come; we mourn when they go. And for some reason, we always forget that this is the cycle of life. I am rejoicing now, while I still can.
- earned a four-year degree
- gotten married and changed my name
- become a step-mother to a wonderful group of boys
- watched my eldest son graduate from high school (he is the first in two generations in my family to have done so)
- started two businesses, one of which is starting to really thrive
- gotten a great job at a university (I love the atmosphere at universities!)
- become a newspaper columnist on the side
- and developed for myself a comfortable, though unusual lifestyle.
In January, my oldest stepson passed away. I can say all sorts of things here, about reeling, about devastation, about loss and other cliches but nothing can truly describe it. There are the the commonly accepted five stages of grief, and I accept that as a truth after this experience. I am in the supposedly final stage of acceptance, but I waver between accepting what happened and hiding from it in the depression stage. When it happened, the whole family slid down this murky bank of despair and we had to grow these amazing spiritual muscles to help pull each other out and back into the sunlight. It took months to climb out, and there are days when one or all of us slide back down. His birthday is coming up -- next week in fact -- and I have a real, physical fear of that day and what it will do to us. I am bracing. But keep in mind, I am just his step mother. I stand by and feel these feelings and wipe the tears off my cheeks. And I watch his father and his mother buckle under the weight of true loss, while I am powerless to take that loss away from them, while I am powerless to shoulder that burden so they don't have to, though I wish every day I had that power.
This was one reason why we had the wedding -- to have something light to share after sharing something so dark. We were married on the first day of Spring under an old oak tree at Husband's grandparents home. The tree had just begun to bud, and winter's storm clouds had been swept away by the spring sunshine. We celebrated under that sun, and publicly celebrated our family and friends and our commitment to one another, knowing how tenuous life is. Knowing how short spring and summer truly are. Knowing that winter comes again. And again. And that is life.
In May, my next oldest stepson, G, married a beautiful and intelligent girl, M, at the foot of a snowy mountain in the Sierras. They moved back home this fall. We used to make jokes about adult children living with their parents, but we are having a good time having the kids near us. We appreciate it more than we ever did before. We want them to stay.
So, in my blogging absence, I have learned to count my blessings. I have learned that blessings come and go. We rejoice when they come; we mourn when they go. And for some reason, we always forget that this is the cycle of life. I am rejoicing now, while I still can.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Lesson #33: The end of the road usually leads to the start of another
I've been quiet on the blog for a while because I've been busy. Real busy.
I finished my degree -- I can now add Bachelor of Science to my list of accomplishments. I am tickled to say I have a BS degree in communication. How ironic is that?
The degree was 10 years in the making. By the end of it, by my capstone class, I was sick of sitting in my room writing papers on crap I didn't care about for teachers I would never really see again. It's not that I didn't enjoy school. I did. I was just ... so tired of schoolwork. I had senioritis, bad.
Though it was hard to think because my brain was in overtaxed mode from all that work, I did wonder what I'd do with myself once school was over. I have applied for grad school, but I'm rethinking that option. I want more than a month off from school work. I'd like a semester off, at least. It's silly, really, for me to wonder what I'd do with all my "free time," though, considering my new path has already been paved with to-do Post-It notes.
Last month, I started a new business that has done so well it began paying for itself after the first month. My partner, Wife, and I opened a children's consignment boutique. It was a good idea. Our town didn't have one -- until another one opened up across town two weeks after we opened our doors-- thank you Murphy's Law. Still, we've had customers pour in, and most of them tell us how happy they are that we're there and how cool our store is. I think, competition or no, we'll do just fine.
My next project is to develop a non-profit parent resource association with Wife and one other partner. The three of us thought long and hard about this, and the commitment it would require. None of us have time to do it really, so everything we do for the non-profit has to be done on stolen time and scrounged dimes and whatever passion we have in our hearts for it. Though Wife and I seem to be doing well in our new business, we both still kept our day jobs for security reasons and have no intention of quitting any time soon. Still, given those limitations, we couldn't help but notice the lack of support for families in our area, and once we realized the opportunity we have to turn our store in to a "community" hub by having a non-profit side, we jumped. Over the next few months we'll be developing a parent magazine for our area, as well as a community resource database and information exchange system, and finding and writing grants to fund these and other projects we have in mind. It's not like I am doing anything else at the moment, right?
Anyway, this explains my absence on this blog, and now that my degree is complete and I have all this "free time" again, I should be able to get back to blogging. Here's to positive thinking!
I finished my degree -- I can now add Bachelor of Science to my list of accomplishments. I am tickled to say I have a BS degree in communication. How ironic is that?
The degree was 10 years in the making. By the end of it, by my capstone class, I was sick of sitting in my room writing papers on crap I didn't care about for teachers I would never really see again. It's not that I didn't enjoy school. I did. I was just ... so tired of schoolwork. I had senioritis, bad.
Though it was hard to think because my brain was in overtaxed mode from all that work, I did wonder what I'd do with myself once school was over. I have applied for grad school, but I'm rethinking that option. I want more than a month off from school work. I'd like a semester off, at least. It's silly, really, for me to wonder what I'd do with all my "free time," though, considering my new path has already been paved with to-do Post-It notes.
Last month, I started a new business that has done so well it began paying for itself after the first month. My partner, Wife, and I opened a children's consignment boutique. It was a good idea. Our town didn't have one -- until another one opened up across town two weeks after we opened our doors-- thank you Murphy's Law. Still, we've had customers pour in, and most of them tell us how happy they are that we're there and how cool our store is. I think, competition or no, we'll do just fine.
My next project is to develop a non-profit parent resource association with Wife and one other partner. The three of us thought long and hard about this, and the commitment it would require. None of us have time to do it really, so everything we do for the non-profit has to be done on stolen time and scrounged dimes and whatever passion we have in our hearts for it. Though Wife and I seem to be doing well in our new business, we both still kept our day jobs for security reasons and have no intention of quitting any time soon. Still, given those limitations, we couldn't help but notice the lack of support for families in our area, and once we realized the opportunity we have to turn our store in to a "community" hub by having a non-profit side, we jumped. Over the next few months we'll be developing a parent magazine for our area, as well as a community resource database and information exchange system, and finding and writing grants to fund these and other projects we have in mind. It's not like I am doing anything else at the moment, right?
Anyway, this explains my absence on this blog, and now that my degree is complete and I have all this "free time" again, I should be able to get back to blogging. Here's to positive thinking!
Monday, April 06, 2009
Lesson #32: Never think for a minute the monkeys are not running the ship.
We watched Any Which Way But Loose the other night -- a cool classic that showcases not only how foxy Clint Eastwood was in his prime, but also how light and irreverent our society used to be before Reganomics and Clinton-era political correctness and George Bush's brow beating of American pride.
All that is beside the point. The point is, that orangutan was damn funny. And his name was Clyde.
We have a Clyde in our family, too. He's a little smaller than the red-haired beast in the movie, but he moves the same way, in that bowl-legged cowboy monkey swagger, throwing his hands up in the air and pumping them this way and that. He grins the same too, wide lipped and cheesy, eyes squinty and nose crinkled, a face throwing joy into the world.
And it occurred to me, as it has before when my own children were toddlers, how much children resemble monkeys.
I've been told that having a pet monkey is much like having a toddler. They must wear a diaper if you care at all for the cleanliness of your carpet, they get into everything, they throw food, they scream and chatter, they play practical jokes, they give you great big sloppy kisses and they communicate through gestures and exaggerated movements of their eyeballs. The only difference is monkeys never grow up.
I miss my little monkeys. They're big as apes now, strong, broad-backed and intimidating. But they'll still throw their arms around me and lift me off the ground in their great big bonobo hugs. It's one of the great joys of motherhood, watching the evolution of life as it occurs before you.
Disclaimer: Now I understand such a base comparison might offend some mothers who prefer to think their little ones are much too classy, refined and evolved to be compared to monkeys (I can hear the clamor now). Bottom line is, I come from a long line of bonobos, and I'm damn proud of it. It's too bad more of us weren't proud of our humble beginnings -- we'd all be much more forgiving of others.
All that is beside the point. The point is, that orangutan was damn funny. And his name was Clyde.
We have a Clyde in our family, too. He's a little smaller than the red-haired beast in the movie, but he moves the same way, in that bowl-legged cowboy monkey swagger, throwing his hands up in the air and pumping them this way and that. He grins the same too, wide lipped and cheesy, eyes squinty and nose crinkled, a face throwing joy into the world.
And it occurred to me, as it has before when my own children were toddlers, how much children resemble monkeys.
I've been told that having a pet monkey is much like having a toddler. They must wear a diaper if you care at all for the cleanliness of your carpet, they get into everything, they throw food, they scream and chatter, they play practical jokes, they give you great big sloppy kisses and they communicate through gestures and exaggerated movements of their eyeballs. The only difference is monkeys never grow up.
I miss my little monkeys. They're big as apes now, strong, broad-backed and intimidating. But they'll still throw their arms around me and lift me off the ground in their great big bonobo hugs. It's one of the great joys of motherhood, watching the evolution of life as it occurs before you.
Disclaimer: Now I understand such a base comparison might offend some mothers who prefer to think their little ones are much too classy, refined and evolved to be compared to monkeys (I can hear the clamor now). Bottom line is, I come from a long line of bonobos, and I'm damn proud of it. It's too bad more of us weren't proud of our humble beginnings -- we'd all be much more forgiving of others.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Lesson #31: Never take beauty at face value.
When I was a little girl, my mother was the epitome of beauty. Everyone talked about how beautiful she was. Her beauty was simple, and for a time it was appropriate. She was a hippy child: She wore her dark hair in two long braids and never wore makeup -- no mascara, no foundation or powder, no lipstick.
One of those funny-the-things-you-remember memories of my girlhood is my mom's bottle of Oil of Olay sitting on the bathroom sink. It sat there throughout all the years I grew up. In my head, that bottle was the secret to my mom's beauty. All of the other girls' moms wore makeup. By sixth grade most of my friends wore makeup. But people commented on how beautiful my mother was, and she needed none of the equipment or supplies the other mothers used, so I assumed her secret was that bottle of Oil of Olay.
As a teen I came to love heavy eyeliner and mascara, but as an adult, I am a makeup minimalist. From my grandmother I learned to always carry a tube of lipstick in my purse -- to her, the tube is necessary to refresh the face of a lovely lady. To me, it reminds me that I'm a woman and I haul around all the crap a woman should haul around in her bag. Of course, since I never remember to wear lipstick, I've managed to haul around the same tube for the last decade or so.
And because my mother did it, I bought a bottle of Olay and put it on my bathroom counter. I used it religiously, believing that the moisturizer was helping my face to keep a youthful glow and a beautiful countenance, just like my mother's.
My mom came to visit me a few months ago. At one point she disappeared, and after a while I found her giggling in my bathroom. She was holding the bottle of Olay. "Do you use this?" she asked.
I nodded. "Sure. I use it because it's what you used."
She gave me a quizzical look. "Me? I would never buy something bourgeois like this! I was laughing at the fact that you would."
"Yeah, huh!" I countered. "You always had a bottle of Olay in the bathroom! I distinctly remember that!"
Mom giggled harder. "Oh that!" she said. "That was a free bottle they sent me in the mail. I never used it. That's why it sat there!"
I was tempted to toss that bottle of Olay after that. But something compelled me to keep it. All these years I thought the secret to my mother's beauty was in that bottle, and if I would just use it, I might be beautiful too. It was tough to learn that bottle was empty, a shell of beauty, but really, it's quite funny if you think about it. The secret was in the bottle after all: Like hers, my bottle now sits on the counter unused, a reminder that I don't need expensive creams and fragrances and formulas to be beautiful. I am my mother's daughter, after all.
One of those funny-the-things-you-remember memories of my girlhood is my mom's bottle of Oil of Olay sitting on the bathroom sink. It sat there throughout all the years I grew up. In my head, that bottle was the secret to my mom's beauty. All of the other girls' moms wore makeup. By sixth grade most of my friends wore makeup. But people commented on how beautiful my mother was, and she needed none of the equipment or supplies the other mothers used, so I assumed her secret was that bottle of Oil of Olay.
As a teen I came to love heavy eyeliner and mascara, but as an adult, I am a makeup minimalist. From my grandmother I learned to always carry a tube of lipstick in my purse -- to her, the tube is necessary to refresh the face of a lovely lady. To me, it reminds me that I'm a woman and I haul around all the crap a woman should haul around in her bag. Of course, since I never remember to wear lipstick, I've managed to haul around the same tube for the last decade or so.
And because my mother did it, I bought a bottle of Olay and put it on my bathroom counter. I used it religiously, believing that the moisturizer was helping my face to keep a youthful glow and a beautiful countenance, just like my mother's.
My mom came to visit me a few months ago. At one point she disappeared, and after a while I found her giggling in my bathroom. She was holding the bottle of Olay. "Do you use this?" she asked.
I nodded. "Sure. I use it because it's what you used."
She gave me a quizzical look. "Me? I would never buy something bourgeois like this! I was laughing at the fact that you would."
"Yeah, huh!" I countered. "You always had a bottle of Olay in the bathroom! I distinctly remember that!"
Mom giggled harder. "Oh that!" she said. "That was a free bottle they sent me in the mail. I never used it. That's why it sat there!"
I was tempted to toss that bottle of Olay after that. But something compelled me to keep it. All these years I thought the secret to my mother's beauty was in that bottle, and if I would just use it, I might be beautiful too. It was tough to learn that bottle was empty, a shell of beauty, but really, it's quite funny if you think about it. The secret was in the bottle after all: Like hers, my bottle now sits on the counter unused, a reminder that I don't need expensive creams and fragrances and formulas to be beautiful. I am my mother's daughter, after all.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Lesson #30: Beware of usurpers in bulldogs' clothing
Husband acquired a new puppy last November. Squambolina (don't ask), is a quirky, intelligent Olde English Bulldogge, a squat little gargoyle with a remarkably advanced sense of humor. She talks like a human: If you aren't paying attention, she'll yell at you. If you don't give her what she wants, she'll whine or cry like a dolphin. And if everyone else in the room is talking, she'll start gabbing with the rest of us.
Her smarts are what get me. She knows how hard she can play with each of us -- she's delicate with the toddler, a little rougher with Son#3, and she doesn't play with me hardly at all. She knows my lap is only allowed on special occasions (I'm just not an animal person, unfortunately).
She also knows she's Husband's dog. She sleeps at the foot of his bed. She follows him around from the moment he walks in the door. And she watches how Wife and I treat him, and remarkably tries to mimic us. Case in point: A few days ago, Husband complained about his aching feet. He was sitting in his recliner with his legs up, Squambo on his lap. I was standing over him, and in a rare moment of compassion on my part, I reached down and started massaging his feet (Husband will say or do just about anything to get someone to rub his feet -- doesn't matter who you are, either). I was allowed to do this for about 10 seconds before Squambo laid her 40 pounds of squatty dogness on the foot of the chair, pushing Husband's feet out of my reach. Then she started licking and petting his feet, herself. "Looks like Squambo showed me who gets to rub your feet," I said, and we laughed at her brazenness.
A couple nights later, Husband was laying on the floor and wrestling with the toddler. Baby Frog kept tilting Daddy's head back with his hand and planting big wet kisses on his face. After Baby Frog moved away, Squambo came over, tilted Husband's head back with her paw and licked his face. It was cute, of course, if not a little creepy at how quickly she learned the behavior just by watching the toddler do it a few times.
Yesterday, we realized that Squambo isn't just an innocent puppy dog with quick learning skills and territory issues with Husband. She's a gen-u-wine usurper. A couple of days ago, Wife became upset when she realized she had lost her wedding ring. At some point during the day, it had slipped off her finger. She spent a few hours searching for it, and went to bed dejected.
The next day, as Wife and I were getting ready for work, I heard yelling in their bedroom and rushed to see what had happened. Husband and Wife were laughing, yelling, almost in tears, and there sat Squambo on the bed, looking as smug as any mistress. "What happened?" I asked breathlessly.
Wife showed me her wedding ring.
"Where'd you find it?" I asked?
"On squambo's toe!" Hubby exclaimed.
At some point, our innocent, precious little bulldog found Wife's ring, and managed to fit it onto one of her toes. It was somewhat scuffed -- from being walked around on by the dog, we assume. We have no idea how long she'd had it, how long she'd been wearing it, or even how she got it on her foot.
What we do know is that we need to watch out for that little hussie. Who knows what she'll do next!?!
PS. The picture is not Squambo, but it looks remarkably a lot like her! I pulled the pic off of a "dogs for sale" site here.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Lesson #29: If you haven't found something strange during the day, it hasn't been much of a day. (John Wheeler)
Driving to work this morning I saw a parade of six Geek Squad Bugs heading toward some unknown destination.
This doesn't seem like a very big deal, except that it got me to thinking philosophically as I sat at a light on my normal route to my 9-to-5 job, something that honestly rarely ever happens anymore. I take this route every day: It winds through the little bit of pretty that exists in the city in which I live; I like this route better than any other, because I can watch the seasons turn in the colors of the leaves of the trees that line the street and in the blooming of the flowers in people's yards. I usually think about what my nine work hours will bring me, what tasks need to be done, what fires I will need to put out that day. I think about my home life and my children and who needs what medical appointment or chauffeuring service or shopping trip. I think about school and what assignments are due, what applications are still waiting to be filled out, what professor requires massaging.
But these aren't thoughts, they're task lists guiding the everyday grind that is my life. I mentally prepare my task list for the day and week ahead on my way to a workaday job that, unfortunately, has become burdensome and, well, normal.
So, when I saw that line of black and white Geek Squad cars, unlike any string of vehicles I have seen in a while, sitting at the intersection ahead of me, I smiled. And it got me to thinking.
Philosophically.
I started thinking about patterns. We, humans, create patterns for ourselves. It's a sort of comfort mechanism, in that we recognize patterns and naturally gravitate toward them. I think this is why so many people are content to dedicate their lives and souls to 9-to-5 jobs. Those jobs allow us to wake up at the same time every morning, complete our morning preparation ritual (our patterned morning behavior), drive to work along the same route every day (or on one of two or three patterned routes we have established), work tasks all day that are the same tasks we've completed many times before in the same way, drive home along our same route, and complete our evening "wind-down" rituals, whatever those may be. Without variation, or with very minor variation, this is the way very many of us in America live. By a set and reliable pattern.
The thing is, we don't notice this pattern when we're caught up in it. It's just what we do. We wake up, go to work, come home, and that's that. But that's the nature of patterns.
Once we are familiar with a pattern, it's hard to notice it, or more importantly, the individual bits and pieces that make up the pattern, until and unless something breaks the pattern. Think about it. Imagine a herd of zebras in the savanna. How can you tell one zebra from another? If you stare at them long enough, they all blend into one striped, black and white pattern. Until you introduce an anomaly into the mix. Throw a solid golden lioness into the middle of that black and white herd, and suddenly the pattern becomes a flurry of individual zebras fleeing for their lives.
So, it was good for me to see the parade of Geek Squad cars. Though it might seem anticlimactic after all this philosophizing, that small anomaly on my way to work reminded me to take a look at the pattern of my life. It inspired me to consider whether I still find the pattern of my life beautiful or interesting.
Those answers I'll leave for another blog. But let's just say, I liked the change.
This doesn't seem like a very big deal, except that it got me to thinking philosophically as I sat at a light on my normal route to my 9-to-5 job, something that honestly rarely ever happens anymore. I take this route every day: It winds through the little bit of pretty that exists in the city in which I live; I like this route better than any other, because I can watch the seasons turn in the colors of the leaves of the trees that line the street and in the blooming of the flowers in people's yards. I usually think about what my nine work hours will bring me, what tasks need to be done, what fires I will need to put out that day. I think about my home life and my children and who needs what medical appointment or chauffeuring service or shopping trip. I think about school and what assignments are due, what applications are still waiting to be filled out, what professor requires massaging.
But these aren't thoughts, they're task lists guiding the everyday grind that is my life. I mentally prepare my task list for the day and week ahead on my way to a workaday job that, unfortunately, has become burdensome and, well, normal.
So, when I saw that line of black and white Geek Squad cars, unlike any string of vehicles I have seen in a while, sitting at the intersection ahead of me, I smiled. And it got me to thinking.
Philosophically.
I started thinking about patterns. We, humans, create patterns for ourselves. It's a sort of comfort mechanism, in that we recognize patterns and naturally gravitate toward them. I think this is why so many people are content to dedicate their lives and souls to 9-to-5 jobs. Those jobs allow us to wake up at the same time every morning, complete our morning preparation ritual (our patterned morning behavior), drive to work along the same route every day (or on one of two or three patterned routes we have established), work tasks all day that are the same tasks we've completed many times before in the same way, drive home along our same route, and complete our evening "wind-down" rituals, whatever those may be. Without variation, or with very minor variation, this is the way very many of us in America live. By a set and reliable pattern.
The thing is, we don't notice this pattern when we're caught up in it. It's just what we do. We wake up, go to work, come home, and that's that. But that's the nature of patterns.
Once we are familiar with a pattern, it's hard to notice it, or more importantly, the individual bits and pieces that make up the pattern, until and unless something breaks the pattern. Think about it. Imagine a herd of zebras in the savanna. How can you tell one zebra from another? If you stare at them long enough, they all blend into one striped, black and white pattern. Until you introduce an anomaly into the mix. Throw a solid golden lioness into the middle of that black and white herd, and suddenly the pattern becomes a flurry of individual zebras fleeing for their lives.
So, it was good for me to see the parade of Geek Squad cars. Though it might seem anticlimactic after all this philosophizing, that small anomaly on my way to work reminded me to take a look at the pattern of my life. It inspired me to consider whether I still find the pattern of my life beautiful or interesting.
Those answers I'll leave for another blog. But let's just say, I liked the change.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Lesson #28: Stop to take a whif, even if it's not your favorite flower
Merced is an often overlooked and underrated small city in the middle of the Central Valley, sometimes called "the other California." We're known for high crime rates, excessive gang violence, and some of the most overpriced housing and the highest unemployment rates in the country.
But there are things to love about this town. It's an hour's drive from arguably the most beautiful high country in the world. It has a colorful history dating back to the gold rush. The courthouse is one of the oldest historical buildings in the state. Majestic King palms line the streets of a quaint downtown where I hope to open a boutique this year. And the newest research university in the world opened its doors here a couple of years ago, which has flooded the area with much-needed intellectual stimulation and economic hope.
And today, Merced hosted the starting ceremony of the fourth leg of the AMGEN Tour of California, featuring Lance Armstrong. The racers circled our downtown twice this morning before heading down Bear Creek Drive (I live a couple blocks off this road), and up Highway 140, through my old hometown of Mariposa in the foothills, and on through the mountains and back down into the valley to end a little east of Fresno in a town called Clovis.
Normally, bicycle racing doesn't interest me. I ride a bike myself, and I know who Lance Armstrong is (who doesn't?), but other than that, I don't really follow the sport. Still, I was compelled to watch the race this morning since the street in front of my office is completely blocked off to traffic due to this race. So, at about a quarter to 11, I followed the crowd a couple blocks down the street to where the festivities were.
And I snapped a couple of pictures. The bikers whizzed by so quickly, there was no way to catch Armstrong on camera -- though, to be honest, I didn't care to pick him out of the crowd of racers anyway. On a bike, he's just another man racing a bunch of other men on bikes. As of this morning, he wasn't even winning the race. :) That didn't stop the crowd from cheering wildly when his name was announced on the loud speakers, though.
Participating in the event was more interesting than I thought it would be. Crowds have a vibe that you don't feel anywhere else. Excitement is palpable when there are thousands of people sharing it. When you get to feel that thrill and share something special with so many people, who cares what the event is anyway?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Lesson #27: Next stop, Life. Don't blink or you'll miss it.
My youngest son had his first wrestling tournament last night; it was his first competition of any sort ever, which is somewhat strange considering he has been training in martial arts for three years. Husband and Brother in Law attended, along with Baby Frog. Frog, who has recently learned to wave bye-bye and high five, gave Son one of his new high fives before the match. Son seemed pumped and ready to go.
There were a few team members who went before him, and by few, I mean about 20. So we sat through an hour of matches, wondering when Son's turn would come, watching his poor Huskies team get slammed and pinned again and again and again.
When it was Son's turn -- finally -- on the mat, we all stood up and moved to the side of the room to get a better view. I pulled out the camera phone and snapped a quick picture. I almost hate taking pictures anymore because in the time it takes to snap one, you've missed what was going on. And that's exactly what happened here. In the time it took me to flip open the phone, press the button, and flip the phone closed, Son had been taken down, rolled onto his back and pinned.
It didn't seem to matter to him, though. He jumped up and got in the ready stance, anxious for more. Sadly, the ref shook his head and shooed him off the mat.
So, he got pinned in the first round. But that's all right. It was his first competition, like I said, his first time competing, his first time getting worked up and locking fists with his team before the big fight. He was amped when he came off the mat. His eyes were burning with leashed spirit, spirit that never got a chance to go anywhere.
That's all right though. That spirit will have a chance to unleash next time.
Um, about the pic, I was going to re-focus and zoom for another one, but I didn't have time. That old saying about blinking and missing things? Take it from me. It's true.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Lesson #26: Birds of a feather flock together
I watched the Sex Pistols documentary, The Filth and the Fury, last night. As I sang along to almost every song -- except the indecipherable parts, of course, I've never figured those words out -- I remembered how I used to love being a punker chic.
I never dyed my hair, though I did cut it short. It was too curly for spikes so it just looked like a failed attempt to mimic Ronald McDonald's style. But I was a combat boot and short skirts kinda girl as a teen. And I did love thick, dark, messy eyeliner.
I was attracted to punk because of the anarchist message, the idea that you could be whoever you wanted, do whatever you wanted, despite the millions of messages we received each day through social pressures and mass media about what we should be like, what we should look like, what we should do in order to be "normal." Punk taught us that in reality there is no such thing as normal.
That is, until punk became normal.
At one point in the movie, Johnny Rotten sneers at the "rich kids" who started coming to his shows and says something like, "They started dressing alike, and we knew that was the end of punk." And sure enough, there were the clips of show-goers all gussied up in their spiked leather jackets and ripped jeans and safety pin collages.
I have made this same observation, though I attributed it to modern music. (I should have known Johnny Rotten thought of it first.) My kids listen to horrorcore, rap and punk, and when asked, will tell you it's because the music is anti-establishment, anti-normal, anti-group think. They say they like being "different" than the crowd. Then they will don their hatchetman necklaces and requisite Psychopathic Records clothing and Chucks so that other people on the street can be sure to recognize that they are a "Juggalo" too.
Some people fear that the Juggalos are a new gang. Well, they said that about punk, too, back in the '70s. The media called the Sex Pistols a new "cult." But those people who miscategorize kids who listen to unsavory music as cult members or gang members fail to understand. The kids are looking for a way to express their dissatisfaction with the adults in power. And since they feel powerless to make change on their own, the only way they can gain power is to do so through numbers. So they join a group, that in their minds, expresses and represents anti-power.
When you're young, you often fail to identify irony. And that's why my kids roll their eyes when I laugh at their silly clown get-ups and tell them to pull their pants up.
I wonder if they would laugh at me if I were to pick them up from school wearing combat boots and my face smeared with eyeliner with Johnny Rotten screaming, "Mommy! I'm not an animal!" or "I am an anti-Christ! I am an anarchist!" through my Chevy's speakers.
I never dyed my hair, though I did cut it short. It was too curly for spikes so it just looked like a failed attempt to mimic Ronald McDonald's style. But I was a combat boot and short skirts kinda girl as a teen. And I did love thick, dark, messy eyeliner.
I was attracted to punk because of the anarchist message, the idea that you could be whoever you wanted, do whatever you wanted, despite the millions of messages we received each day through social pressures and mass media about what we should be like, what we should look like, what we should do in order to be "normal." Punk taught us that in reality there is no such thing as normal.
That is, until punk became normal.
At one point in the movie, Johnny Rotten sneers at the "rich kids" who started coming to his shows and says something like, "They started dressing alike, and we knew that was the end of punk." And sure enough, there were the clips of show-goers all gussied up in their spiked leather jackets and ripped jeans and safety pin collages.
I have made this same observation, though I attributed it to modern music. (I should have known Johnny Rotten thought of it first.) My kids listen to horrorcore, rap and punk, and when asked, will tell you it's because the music is anti-establishment, anti-normal, anti-group think. They say they like being "different" than the crowd. Then they will don their hatchetman necklaces and requisite Psychopathic Records clothing and Chucks so that other people on the street can be sure to recognize that they are a "Juggalo" too.
Some people fear that the Juggalos are a new gang. Well, they said that about punk, too, back in the '70s. The media called the Sex Pistols a new "cult." But those people who miscategorize kids who listen to unsavory music as cult members or gang members fail to understand. The kids are looking for a way to express their dissatisfaction with the adults in power. And since they feel powerless to make change on their own, the only way they can gain power is to do so through numbers. So they join a group, that in their minds, expresses and represents anti-power.
When you're young, you often fail to identify irony. And that's why my kids roll their eyes when I laugh at their silly clown get-ups and tell them to pull their pants up.
I wonder if they would laugh at me if I were to pick them up from school wearing combat boots and my face smeared with eyeliner with Johnny Rotten screaming, "Mommy! I'm not an animal!" or "I am an anti-Christ! I am an anarchist!" through my Chevy's speakers.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Lesson #25: Embrace your inner Irish.
Up until two weeks ago, I'd never heard the term "get your Irish up." I saw it in a movie and now that I've forgotten the punchline, I'll just say the line was used as a euphemism for an erection. Since then, I've heard it twice in its original connotation -- as a euphemism for feeling aggressively boisterous.
Well, this particular post is about neither of those things.
This particular post is a shout out to Mickeys fine malt liquor. It is a tradition in our house to have fried chicken and malt liquor on the third Monday of January. We continued the tradition last Monday. And since Mickeys is cheap and it's sold in the mini-mart around the corner, Mickeys and my house have become fairly well acquainted as of late.
You'd think that a nice girl like me wouldn't stoop to befriending such a base Irishman. But personally, I think Mickeys has a bad rap. He's actually quite a riot.
Well, this particular post is about neither of those things.
This particular post is a shout out to Mickeys fine malt liquor. It is a tradition in our house to have fried chicken and malt liquor on the third Monday of January. We continued the tradition last Monday. And since Mickeys is cheap and it's sold in the mini-mart around the corner, Mickeys and my house have become fairly well acquainted as of late.
You'd think that a nice girl like me wouldn't stoop to befriending such a base Irishman. But personally, I think Mickeys has a bad rap. He's actually quite a riot.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Lesson #24: Keep on truckin' even if every other car seems to be slowing you down
I am in the process of developing a business plan. My current task is to create a budget and profit and loss projections. Seems simple enough. Except that I'm waiting on someone else to run a few numbers for me, and ... I'm ... still ... waiting.
I gave them this assignment three weeks ago with a deadline of two weeks ago. I pushed the deadline up for them by a week since it seemed they weren't going to put the joint down and get me the numbers I needed. Now, I have a hard deadline of tomorrow by 3 p.m., and it looks like I'm going to have to do the financial research myself.
In the big picture, it's no big deal. If you want a thing, you've got to work for it.
I think this is my first real test. Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to be the one who carries all the business details on my back alone?
Reflecting on those questions, the answer becomes clear. It's a good idea. It'll work. It'll make money. And I want to do it.
I simply need to remember that I can't rely on anyone else to do it for me. That's not such a bad lesson after all.
I gave them this assignment three weeks ago with a deadline of two weeks ago. I pushed the deadline up for them by a week since it seemed they weren't going to put the joint down and get me the numbers I needed. Now, I have a hard deadline of tomorrow by 3 p.m., and it looks like I'm going to have to do the financial research myself.
In the big picture, it's no big deal. If you want a thing, you've got to work for it.
I think this is my first real test. Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to be the one who carries all the business details on my back alone?
Reflecting on those questions, the answer becomes clear. It's a good idea. It'll work. It'll make money. And I want to do it.
I simply need to remember that I can't rely on anyone else to do it for me. That's not such a bad lesson after all.
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