jennethink

JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN DOESN’T MEAN YOU SHOULD

McDonald's Southern Style Chicken Sandwich

 

Today in my town, McDonald's is giving away their new southern style chicken sandwich to anyone who buys a soft drink and feels good about betraying Chick-fil-a. I know this will come as a giant shock to you but I'm not happy about this whole business. This "new" chicken sandwich McDonald's is premiering is suspiciously like the original chicken sandwich .. the one that started it all …. From Chick-fil-a.

Chick-Fil-a's Chicken Sandwich

Complete with the pickles. Of course, it is McDonald's right to do this. Of course, the McDaddy of all fast food, like an 800 pound nugget, can do whatever it wants but still. It frosts me.

 

My sister used to be a girl scout. Or is it, my sister is a girl scout. Is girl scouting like a sorority where once you are in you are in for life? Is it like a nationality? Like being Jewish … wait, Jewish isn't a nationality – sorry, Wendy – I guess I mean, is a permanent state or transitional? Is it something that stays with you for life or is it something you were once but as you grow and mature, you leave behind like being a 3^rd grader … or a cheerleader.

Anyway, My sister was/is a Girl Scout. I know because I went with her to many Girl Scout type things as we were growing up. I too, joined the scouts once but it was only because my scout troop met after school and I had to walk there on Mondays and Bryan Ellis would walk with me to my scout meeting and hold my hand. I guess my reasons for being a Scout weren't all that pure and I can tell you they did not have a badge for the various activities I was a part of.

Any.Way. One of the events I went with my GS Sister to was a kite flying contest. From what I recall, this was a contest for girl scouts and their fathers. Each team of two had to build and fly their kite. Once all the kites were in the air, and flying for a certain amount of time, the winner would be decided. I can't remember much about my sister and my father building their kite. I can bet it was a learning experience. I do remember them practicing – dad teaching Carrie all the techniques, letting her launch the kite, let out the string, watch it climb. I remember the day of the competition. I remember the four of us piling into and out of the station wagon and excitedly getting the kite ready. I can remember Daddy making sure my sister did everything, coaching her all the while. I can't recall if the rules stated that just the daughters could fly the kites or not but I do know that in our family, Daddy coached while daughter did. That's how it was with most things, in fact. So there we all were, in a deep green field on a spring day with what seemed to be about 100 other little girls and their kites. Daddy and Carrie got ready. We all ate a picnic lunch. There was some sort of official start. And the kites began kiting.

It was quite exciting.

There was, of course, only a certain amount of time to get your kite in the air and then another period of time to fly it and then came the judging. It was pretty simple, really, whosever kite was the highest won. Some girls never got their kites off the ground. Some flew then crashed. Some only stayed up for a few moments then drifted down like little lost slips of paper dropped from a rooftop. But some kites did quite well. Some leapt into the sky and dipped and turned like playful birds. Some found their way to that magical piece of sky where they could float and dance endlessly. Maybe it was the way the kite was put together, maybe it was technique, maybe it was the fact that my father was one of the best coaches around, I don't know, but my sister's kite … man, that sucker could fly that day. As we all watched, up up up it went … and kept going. Pirouetting and proud it climbed like a mutha.

"Easy now," my dad would say, "that's it! Just a little more string .." he would goad and encourage and instruct, "watch that yellow one .. don't overcorrect … good. Good!"

And so it went. Up that kite climbed. And pretty soon, although we'd never actually thought it could happen this way, we realized, Carrie just might win this thing. Which, if you know my family, you can understand why we would get pretty geeked over this. I mean, we weren't the coolest bunch of folks. We didn't have a lot of money. Sometimes we got our clothes from the basement of the church. We often "made do" and we frequently "made don't" meaning the ways we made do just didn't seem to work. So this whole idea of Carrie winning a competition well, it got very exciting for us. Go little guys!

The wind was just right. The kite was flying perfectly. Judging was just a few minutes away. And Carrie's kite was flying the highest. Daddy looked around. "I think we just might do it!" he said excitedly. "Way to go, kiddo!" he said.

 

And that's when it happened.

My dad was the first to notice another father walking around. His daughter was one of the few who still had a kite in the air. It seemed odd this father would leave his daughter's side but there he was scurrying from contestant to contestant. He was talking to fathers whose daughters were already out of the competition. He would say a few words then move on. Exchange a few words then move on. Finally, he got close enough that we could see what he was doing.

He was buying string.

 

The rest of the story is obvious. This dad … this big wig with a fat wallet who realized he wasn't going to win, this father who couldn't stand to see someone else succeed decided to do whatever he could to ensure a victory. He bought up some string. He jogged back to his daughter. He tied the string onto the end of their reel and … They won the competition. Why? Because he could, I guess.

 

Was it fair? I dunno. I guess it wasn't officially against the rules. I guess he was allowed to do whatever he thought he needed to do in order to win. But it sure didn't sit well with me then and it sure doesn't now. I don't like when the big guy trounces the little guy.

 

And that's why I won't be going to McDonald's today to get my free, copycat chicken sandwich.

WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT

Sunday was Mother's day. A few years ago, I posted about how it feels for me to be a stepmom on this day. It's challenging, sometimes difficult, sometimes lonely. If I'm not careful, I can tumble right into a big case of the blahs.

The first year I was a stepmom on Mother's Day was probably the hardest. The Hub and my romance was a hyperspeed one and by the time Mother's Day rolled around we had only been together a handful of months - a few of them married. As his wife, I was experiencing motherhood for the first time by parenting his child. I was trying desperately to figure out my place in The Kid's life and what I could offer her as a "secondary mother." Those were tough months. It was difficult for The Hub to understand. He tried but just couldn't get his arms around it. He and his ex-wife had (and still have) a wonderful relationship. They were kind and giving to each other. They spoke often. They consulted each other on important matters and when it came to The Kid - they worked seamlessly together.

I often felt left out.

When I was in 6th grade, I went to basketball camp at Taylor University. It was a weeklong camp and I had to raise the ungodly sum of 300 dollars in order to go. I did various jobs around our farm and around town in friends' homes and farms to gather the money. One of the worst jobs I did was picking up rocks out of my 6th grade math teacher's yard to earn a few bucks. Mr. Brimberry was a good man and he paid me way more than I rightfully earned - but the work truly sucked. I was down on my knees in his pitiful, scratchy yard, gathering up every rock I could find, down to the gnat-sized pebbles that would earn me a few extra pennies. It was hard work. It was probably the worst of all the lousy chores around town there was to do. But I did it, and I earned the money.

Camp was great. We practiced daily, ran sprints, ran drills, scrimmaged. We learned from top coaches and got one-on-one attention. We were shoved into teams the first day with girls from around the country. Doing so meant you were forced to make new friends. And I certainly did. I quickly made friends with two other girls, Becky and Amy – who everyone called "Smiley". They were from Ohio, I think, and although they didn't know each other before they got to camp, they did meet the day before, at orientation. It took all of 10 seconds for the three of us to bond. We walked to and from the gym together. We sat next to each other in the bleachers during lectures. We ate together in the dining commons. Occasionally, one of them would reference something about Ohio, or the long drive they had to get to camp, or how they met in orientation. When this would happen, I would listen and ask questions and quietly look for a way back into the conversation. It wouldn't take long. Soon enough, the three of us would be back in conversation and all was right in the world.

Then Thursday came and everything changed. I don't know now, and didn't know then why things changed so radically. Everything started the same. Everything seemed normal at first. I walked into the gym Thursday morning as I did every morning and sat down next to my friends. They had arrived before me. Their dorm was closer to the gym than mine was. As I sat, I smiled. I said "Hi" ...and they both said...

Nothing. Not a word.

They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the basketball court, staring forward and they said nothing.

I sat. I waited. My mind was a wobbly top barely staying on its end ... I didn't know what to do. I asked a generic question to them both. Asked when they got to the gym. Becky, who sat farther away from me, said coolly, "A while ago" but she didn't look at me. I ventured another question to Smiley. "Do you know when we are starting?" I said. She said nothing, again. Instead she shrugged - gave the standard "I dunno" roll of the eyes and kept looking forward. In a final attempt, I leaned in and said to her in a sing-song manner "Hey! You're not smiling!" And she huffed, turned her head to me and said with all the disgust she could muster, "So?" And then scooted over toward her friend.

Heartbroken, embarrassed, ashamed, alone. All I could think of was, it was so not worth picking up those rocks for this.

Clearly, I was out.

When The Hub and I first married, when I would experience the relationship he and The Kid's mom had, when I would hear him or The Kid talk to or talk about her, when I would listen to them share little stories about where they used to live or the car that would never start or the night The Kid was born, I would panic inside. One part of me loved the fact that theirs was such a healthy, rich relationship, that it was a really good Plan B, that they had each other's backs and that they could always come together and make good decisions about The Kid. But another part of me, a very deep, lonely part of me, was always secretly afraid of their relationship, of doing something and for no known reason, suddenly being out.

And as my first mother's day approached, this feeling, this panic, grew.

I'd like to say I worried for nothing. I'd like to say I awoke to a giant card and breakfast in bed. I'd like to say it was a wonderful day. I'd like to. I can't. Truth is, it was a difficult day. Many circumstances factored into it being difficult. We were away from home, The Hub's own mother passed away unexpectedly the week before, we were newly married and I was meeting many members of his extended family for the first time. We were a jumble of emotion, for sure. As much as I tried not to think about me that day, as many times as I told myself it didn't matter if anyone acknowledged me on that day or not, as much as I tried to focus on the positive and not on the fact that no one wished me a happy day, it was a very hard day indeed.

And in spite of my best effort, I spent a good bit of time feeling downright sorry for myself.

Ugh. I hate even typing it. Looking back, I'm not proud of those feelings. Looking back I wish I wouldn't have been so freaking tied up in what I thought I needed or deserved. Looking back I still wish I had breakfast in bed. Well, what can I say? I'm not perfect.

I've since thought so much about that day. About the feelings I had when The Hub and I first married. About how desperate I was to prove I was good enough and smart enough and deserved a place in The Hub's life and in The Kid's life. It's just so nothing like what I feel now. I can remember those feelings but I haven't felt them for a long, long time. I've thought about when it all changed. I've thought about when it went from being a challenge to being almost easy. When hearing from The Kid's mom became a fun occasion and not a something that sent me reeling. When talking on the phone and sharing ideas and emails and thoughts with The Hub's ex-wife became something I looked forward to and not something that scared me or caused me worry.

It changed the day I stopped focusing on myself.

At that basketball camp, I got my first real-life lesson in this concept. The concept my grandmother had been trying to teach me for years. "You don't need to focus on yourself all the time," she would say, "think about someone else when you're sad ... your life isn't so bad." On that Thursday, as I realized my world has shifted, and as I sat there feeling quite sorry for myself, I remembered that lesson my grandmother had been trying to teach me since birth. I remember her telling me, "Whenever I'm somewhere and I'm feeling left out, I just look for someone who is feeling worse than I am and I go and try to make them feel better!" And that's exactly what I did. I got up. I walked across the gym. I found a girl sitting by herself and plopped my behind down next to her and introduced myself. In about 10 minutes, we were both feeling much, much better.

I'd like to say I've never forgotten that lesson. I'd like to say it was burned so deeply into my core I never had to be taught it again. I'd like to say it, but you know me well enough by now to know that of course, it didn't happen that way. Thankfully, however, the world is full of 2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th and 247^th chances to learn the same lessons again. And somewhere along the step-mom highway, I decided to stop focusing on myself and what I need and want and how hard this all is for me and instead, I focus on the other people in our family ... The Kid's mom, The Kid's step-dad, The Hub ... and how hard it could be for them. It was a small change. But it mattered. It changed my attitude. And, as if almost by magic, I no longer cared if I got a card from The Hub or a call from The Kid on Mother's Day. It didn't matter so much to me anymore that no one acknowledged me on this day. What mattered was that I was in a family who loved and cared about each other.

People often ask me about the relationship I have with The Kid's mom. They don't understand it. They think it is weird that we know so much about each other and our families are so intertwined that when one of us needs help we can rely on the other one. People think I'm crazy when I tell them about how when I go to see The Kid, I stay with her, in her room at her mom's and step-dad's house. They think we're nuts when we talk about THEIR family members as if they are OUR family members. People ask me, how do you DO it?

And I guess my answer is, we work at it.

It's not easy being a step-mom.

And, more important,

It's not easy being a mom with a kid who has a step-mom.

Final note on this one … Sunday I woke up to an email. It said in capital letters, HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! in the subject line. The body of the email said what a great step-mom I am and how obvious it is that I love The Kid and how much I've brought to The Kid's life. It said what a great role model I am. It acknowledged how hard it must be at times for me and how special I am. It said every delicious and heart-warming thing I've ever wanted to hear on Mother's Day.

It was from The Kid's mom.

 

Picking up those rocks in Mr. Brimberry's yard was so worth it.

 

THREE MINUTES IS A VERY LONG TIME

I went to boxing class last night. 

For years, The Hub and I have had a heavy bag hanging in our basement.  I have wraps and training gloves and every now and again I’ll get the urge, head down the steps (Careful! Caaaaareful!) and smack on that bag.  Working out on a heavy bag is one of the best exercises I’ve ever done.  You wouldn’t think punching would be that exhausting, but it is.  It is exhausting enough that usually after two or three minutes I decide to do something else a little less strenuous.  Like the laundry.

But I do love it.  I love the definition it gives my arms, I love the sweat that explodes out of the top of my head and soaks my hair.  I love the way it can get my heart pounding in a mere punch or two and keep it pounding for as long as I choose to engage.  I love the sound my fists make as they slam into the bag – a combination between a smack and a dull thud and I love the way my shoulders, chest, and legs burn immediately after a workout and continue to burn the next day.  And the next.

It’s a great way to work out.  For two or three minutes.

I guess I had forgotten that part.  I guess I had forgotten when I work out in the basement on the heavy bag, I only do it for a handful of minutes at a time.  The longest I’ve ever worked out with the bag is 20 minutes and I have to be honest and tell you that the majority of that time was spent bouncing around and taunting the bag.  Shuffling. Dodging.  Juking in and out.  You ain’t so bad.  You ain’t so bad, Bag!

So why in the hell I thought I could work out for 75 minutes straight doing some of the hardest physical exercise I’ve ever done I will never know.

The class is set up into “stations” – there is a station with 8 or so heavy bags, there’s a speed bag, a guy wearing mitts who calls out combinations for you to punch.  There is a box upon which you climb or jump up and down doing combo punches the whole time.  There is a jump rope station, a flight of stairs, a weighted dummy to hit and carry across the gym on your back.  There are stationary bikes to pedal, a set of mats with medicine balls to throw up and down on your abs and a wall punch thingy.  There are many, many forms of holy crapness just waiting for you.  There is no set place you have to start or pattern you have to follow.  You create your own workout.  At the sound of a very loud bell that goes off every 3 minutes you move to a new station and a new set of terror.  I can’t remember all the stations, and some I’m sure I’ve blocked entirely, but I do remember one station very very well.

It was the station with The Guy Who Fought Back.

Now, truthfully, I figured this station would be challenging, but since this guy also had a giant pad like a blocking pad and couldn’t hit, I figured I could handle it.  Basically, all he can do is shove and push.  And since I was allowed to hit, I figured I had that station licked.  As I was destroying my self-confidence and muscle fibers at some other stations, I watched a few people take on The Guy With The Blocking Pad.  I made some mental notes.  I strategized a little bit.  I got my mind all ready, got my adrenaline pumping, got myself all loosened up and at the next bell, I headed over.

Two years ago our friends Sam and Julie gave The Hub a helicopter for his birthday.  The Hub is helicopter crazy.  He LOVES those things.  Whenever one flies over the house he runs outside to see it.  He and my mom went to see the movie “The Guardian” a few years back. When I asked him later how it was he said, “It was sad, ….two helicopters died.”   His father once told me that every painting or drawing he did growing up always had a helicopter in it.  So getting him a remote controlled helicopter for his birthday was a good gift.  A very good gift indeed.

After the box with contents sat on our mantel for a few days where it could be admired, he decided it was time for the helicopter to take to the sky. Excitedly, he put it together.  Excitedly, he went outside with it.  Excitedly, my mom and I followed and sat on the porch to watch the maiden flight of the helicopter.  He sat it on the sidewalk.  He gave it a pat on the rotors.  He smiled up at us and gave the thumbs up.  We cheered. He stepped back, hit the controls, and up up up the helicopter went!  Mom and I scrambled off the porch.  We yelled YAY!! as it soared upward. And while that yay was still hanging in the air, something happened.  And as fast as that helicopter went up, it came down. We watched it happen.  Our Yay turned to OH NO as that helicopter did a half nelson into our tiny Koi Pond in the front yard. 

We groaned.

The Hub ran to the side of the pond, reached in and pulled out a sputtering, pitiful, sad little helicopter.  And at that moment I thought I’d never see a sadder and quicker end to such an exciting and fun beginning.  And I haven’t.

Until last night.  And The Guy.  With The Pad.  Who Fights Back.

I went in strong.  And that’s about where it all fell apart.  I punched him – gave him the old ONE TWO and he kept coming.  And kept coming.  And kept coming.  I was this close to pulling out my secret weapon when he backed off and went to the next person.  That was good.  I didn’t want to have to humiliate him by crying on him right there in front of everyone.

Of course, he came back.  And he kept coming back.  He taunted me.  Saying really awful things like “Awesome! Come on!” and “Hit me harder! Empty the tank now!” and “That’s it! Yeah, Girl!” 

He’s a jackass for sure.

Immediately after that 3 minute round The Hub ran up to me and found a sputtering, pitiful, sad little boxer.  He tried to hand me a bottle of water.  I refused. I wanted to concentrate instead on that difficult task of breathing.  He tapped my gloves with his gloves and gave me a nod.  He waited one more moment and then asked with concern, “You okay?” and I looked up at him, gasped two deep gasps and said,

“That was awesome!”

This being alive thing rocks.

I have to go now.  Typing hurts my shoulders.

CHECK THE TEMP IN HELL

I ate brussel sprouts last night.

Those who know me well are, at this moment, checking the url to make sure they are, indeed, reading the blog of Jenné Beecher Fromm.  For that statement, that single statement is as shocking to them as if your rabbi posted on his blog, "I had a pork chop soufflé for dinner."

When I was a year or so old, I got very sick – not due to brussel sprouts but due to my kidneys.  It’s a long story which I don’t tell well and when I try to get details from my mother the conversation inevitably turns into a lecture as to why I shouldn’t take ibuprofen and why I have to make sure to watch how much vigorous sex I’m having because it can cause cystitis and that can lead to a kidney infection and since I only have one functioning kidney left blah blah blah

And that’s where I phase out of the conversation … you would too upon hearing your mother say “vigorous sex”.

So the story of what exactly went wrong and when and what it meant and how scary it was for everyone won’t be retold here.  I will say, however that I cannot be blamed for my poor eating habits and dislike of vegetables in adulthood because of that incident.  It turns out I was right at the age when all sorts of foods are tried out on kids and they learn to like certain foods and since I was so deathly ill at this ripe old age of one, I never learned to like much of anything food related.

Except ice cream
And fruit
And I’ve always been keen on chicken.  Meat too.  And pasta – although that came later.

I didn’t eat pizza until I was a senior in college.
I didn’t eat rice until I was 22
I didn’t eat cheese, for heaven’s sake, until that famed pizza my senior year of college.
I finally gave in to potatoes when I was in my twenties and sometime in the last 3 years I’ve begun eating squash and onions.  Not together. 

To say I’m a bit of a picky eater … well kids, that’s an understatement.  And a bit like saying Marshall Applewhite was a bit of a strange duck.

Mmmm….. duck.

I’ve tried very hard and very deliberately to expand my palate and I must say I’ve done a fair job of it.  In all areas.  Except one.

I hate vegetables.

Now here is where you say, ALL vegetables?
And I say, Pretty much.
And you say, What about CORN?
And I say, Yes, I’ll eat corn.
And you say, Well, CORN is a vegetable!
And I say, Okay, I hate all vegetables except corn.
And then you, thank goodness, shut up.

I’ve had the conversation more than once.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to eat veggies, I have.  I try quite often.  In fact, whenever I am somewhere and someone says, unprompted, “Man, these are good (insert veggie here)s!” I always ask to try a bite.  This has never gone well and once went badly enough that I had to excuse myself from the table, the dinner, the restaurant and was found later in a fetal position in the middle of my bed. 

Man, I really do NOT LIKE asparagus. 

But still I try in hopes that one day I will either find a vegetable I can tolerate or discover that magically my taste buds have gotten together and decided enough with all of this, let’s give the poor girl a break and not go into death spasms every time a green thing comes through those gates.

I’ve often thought that the only way to acquire a taste for the whole category is to find some sort of transition veggie.  A bridge of sorts.  Kind of like in college when I thought I should be drinking coffee so I bought that crap that comes in a can and tastes like hot chocolate … the one where you can have international moments.  I figure if I could find a veggie that is sort of half vegetable and half oh I don’t know, vodka or chick-fil-a, then I could do it. 

So you can understand how incredibly incredible it is for me to have eaten brussel sprouts.  I mean, have you seen a brussel sprout?  It couldn’t be MORE of a vegetable if it tried! It’s green.  And leafy.  And not small.  Those dudes were the size of a large egg. And it has a stem of sorts.  It should be the picture in the dictionary beside the word VEGETABLE.  It should win the contest for the most vegeabley of the vegetables.  It should wear a sash and a tiara as far as I’m concerned.  Who would every think that I would eat THOSE?  But ate them I did.  I steamed up those suckers, then ran them around a pan with some olive oil and fresh garlic and I’ll be darn tootin (more about that later) if I didn’t eat brussel sprouts.

Two of them.

I know.  It isn’t a lot.  And truth be told, I only got the last one down by pretending I was a giant who had stumbled into a village and was eating whole heads of lettuce out of their teeny tiny garden. But who cares.  Yesterday I ate brussel sprouts.


Now about that gas …

WALK WALK WALK WALK WALK

Well the intense training for The Breast Cancer 3 Day season has started.  I’ve been piddling around with walking for a few weeks … a few miles here, a few miles there, back and forth to the kitchen counter to grab some reese’s peanut butter eggs, etc.  But this week I hit that mother hard.

HOLLIE was in town for a few days and to celebrate we walked nine miles on Thursday.  And six on Friday - which was going to be twelve but when a second blister popped up ON TOP OF THE FIRST BLISTER on my ring toe, we called it quits-a-roo. I can’t describe how different it is walking with someone than walking alone.  When I walk alone, I have a variety of distraction techniques.  Sometimes I listen to music, sometime I call my mother, and sometimes I just walk in silence and think about the next talk I have or how I can grow my business or titles for my books that I haven’t written.  Lately I've taken to downloading audio books onto my iPod and I walk around listening to Dean Koontz.  Who rocks words extremely hard.  This latest novel I'm listening to, The Good Guy, is quite suspenseful and I can only imagine how fun it is for the people who pass me on my route to see me suddenly throw my hands over my mouth as my eyes grow wide and I shout, “NO!” and “OHMYGOODNESS!” and “AH! INEVERSAWTHATCOMING!” 

During the 12 walks that made up the 3 Day season last year I walked with a lot of people.  It’s part of my job, you know.  And I did love that part.  I enjoyed walking with and talking to other walkers.  I enjoyed hearing their stories of why they walk.  I enjoyed giving them encouragement when they needed it and, frankly, taking some myself when I needed it.  These people are amazing.  Open and honest.  Gentle.  Funny.  Willing to lend a hand, an ear, willing to share their feelings deeply.  But as much as they share and give and as vulnerable as they are across those 60 miles, they are still strangers to me.  Less so after we’ve seen and poked at each other’s blisters, but strangers still.

Walking with HOLLIE is completely different than that.  I won’t say the nine miles on Thursday (and the six on Friday) flew by but I will say I would do them all over again, daily, if I could have that kind of quality time with my friend.  We hit every topic imaginable.  We talked about sex education (our apologies to the family at 68th and Penn who heard HOLLIE shout the word clitoris loud enough to shake windows).  We talked about high school track.  We talked about weddings, divorces, family issues – oh dear did we talk about family issues!  We talked about spinach and politics and the Body exhibit at Union Station.  We discussed our independence, mini-coopers, vests, and shoe choices.  We talked about small businesses, taxes, banking and what the earth would look like if people suddenly disappeared.  And, certainly, we talked about boys.  Because after all, we are girls.

Even with all that talking, there would inevitably be pauses in the conversation.  When things would get quiet, we would continue walking and enjoy the silence for a few steps … and then one of us would say, “Isn’t it nice to not have to talk all the time?” and the other would say “You know I have something to say about that…” and we’d have a nice long conversation about how we don’t need to have nice long conversations. 

I LEARN ... JUST NOT QUICKLY

Now hold your horses.  I’m okay.  Before everyone (Mom) goes freaking out about my overwhelmed post please understand that I am a woman of extremes and what is true one day isn’t necessarily true the next day and this reality is just delightful for The Hub.  It’s like living with a puppy … that occasionally eats little children.

Today is another day.  And with another day comes different feelings.  The overwhelms are still hanging around but they are somewhat embarrassed for being so showy and attention-seeking yesterday.  Today they are minding their own business quietly sorting socks in the corner of my mind. Hmm humm.  Nothing to see here.  On your way now.

And all of this reminds me of a story.  (Really?  Something reminded you of a story?  Gee, today IS different).

A week or so ago I was tucking The Kid into bed when she began to tell me about some goings on at school. Slightly tormented, she shared in great detail who and how and what happened. I won’t post the details here because I haven’t asked for permission but I will say I was hoping the typical school-aged girl-on-girl meanness wouldn’t start until much, much later.   I'm shocked nearly daily at how different school is for The Kid than it was for me.  When I was 9, I was still hugging my teachers hello and goodbye and barely able to recite the alphabet.  At the same age, The Kid uses War and Peace as a discussion starter and is part of a social circle so complicated I feel like I’m neck-deep in a game of dungeons and dragons … with lip gloss.

Anyway, as she shared what she was feeling and why she was feeling it, it struck me what a difference a day makes.  I knew in my heart and soul that things would look different in the morning.  I knew the next day at school would be better.  I knew … KNEW … the trials of Monday were just that – Monday’s.  Tuesday would be different.  But how to tell her?  How to validate what she was feeling and still give her a ray of hope?  How to listen and convey a complete and total understanding and not downplay while somehow also communicating that hey, kiddo, things aren’t so bad, you’ll see.  It’s impossible.  So I reached way back into my memory and channeled my grandmother and said,

“I know you don’t believe me right now, but things always look better in the morning.”  Then I kissed the top of her head that was buried in my chest, and added, “And if they don’t … well, we can handle that too.”

It wasn’t much.  But it was all I had.

I got a phone call the next day.  With delight The Kid told me what a great day she’d had at school.  She shared no details but just said, “You were right as usual!” and I quietly said a prayer of thanks to my grandmother, my God, whomever, for bailing me out once again. For giving me whatever bit of wisdom I needed in the moment to comfort a sad little girl.  For showing me that despite a 30 year span, That Kid and I really aren’t all that different.

Things really do look better in the morning. 

THOUGHTS ON BEING OVERWHELMED

It doesn’t happen often – my overwhelmedness.  At least I don’t think it happens often.  And I should know.  After all, I’m the one in my skin feeling overwhelmed.  I’m sure there are many, many people who could claim that oh really? you don’t think you get overwhelmed often? because I have 157 emails right here in my archives with OVERWHELMED! as the subject line … and they are all from you. from February.

Ahh February.  That was a good month.

So I should clarify ... THAT kind of overwhelmed … the run-of-the-mill overwhelmed, is not the same kind of overwhelmed that I’m currently feeling. AND it’s not really fair to call the run-of-the-mill overwhelmed the same thing as over-the-top overwhelmed.  I mean yes, they are both from the root word “overwhelm” but they mean two totally different things and can have two totally different meanings – one benign, one somewhat scary.  Like the word prick.  Or jock.  Or democrat  … you see what I’m saying there.

I should, I suppose, answer the typical questions that come up from the well-meaning folk around me when I feel this way.  The folks who, to their credit, do their best to “fix it” without having to listen one more minute to me talking about how overwhelmed I am.  The answers are …

1) No, I’m not on my period
2) Yes, I’ve eaten today
3) No, it wasn’t exclusively brownie batter

So the usual suspects have been rounded up and acquitted.  And yet.  I’m overwhelmed.  Still.

When I feel like this the very idea of trying to figure out why I feel like this is enough to send me over the edge.  Any right minded person in my life looks at me and says, “What’s making you feel so overwhelmed?” and I usually will rattle off a few examples. But this whole process is just exhausting and while I’m explaining why I’m overwhelmed, I’m sitting there going Oh holy hell! No wonder I’m so overwhelmed … this is all so … overwhelming!!

It’s like I’m trying to untangling my bra from being wrapped up and over and around the agitator in the middle of the washing machine.  It’s impossible to know how it got this tangled and doubly impossible to see how it will ever come loose.  I’m left more confused than when I started trying to unconfused things. 

Once, a number of years ago, my sister and I were doing the books for a company we both worked with.  My sister has only taken one accounting class of any type in her whole long-columned life and therefore she was only the supervisor of this project whereas I was the actual bookkeeper.  The problem here is that I never took any accounting courses. Ever.  And also, I stopped balancing my checkbook in 1991.  But didn’t realize until 1993.  Add to this lovely mix the company was ever so complicated with multiple divisions buying and selling to each other and these transactions never taking place in the real world but just on paper and then throw in a boss who was as organized as a catfight and a system that was one day ahead of the abacus….but just one day – a short, winter, Icelandic only 2 hours of daylight day – at that.  Put all that together and then release spitting llamas into the office where we worked and you’ll start to get a picture of what it was like to do this job.

At some point in all this mess my sister and I were sitting facing each other across a fabricated desktop and I was desperately trying to explain to her why the books weren’t coming out exactly right.  We’d had the same problem (in the same amount) the month before and thought we’d fixed it.  We also had the same problem (in the same amount) the month before that and thought we’d fixed it then too.  But here it was again and after sitting with it for a while, consulting an accounting for dummies book, doing some yoga and contacting my warrior accounting spirit in a sweat lodge, I’d had an epiphany.  So very carefully and very deliberately, I sat and explained to my sister what was wrong and how we got there.

“You see,” I said, “It’s like this …Let’s say you sold me 2 paperclips,” I pulled two paperclips from the fabricated desk drawer and handed them to her … I waited … “Sell them to me!” I said and she said,  “OH!” and then handed me the two paperclips.  I wrote this transaction down onto a yellow sticky note.  “Okay, now, it turns out that I don’t need two of them, right?”  and I wait for her to respond.  “Uh huh” she says. But not convincingly, so I say “Stay with me!” and I write our next transaction on the same sticky note “I don’t need two so I send one back” I hand her one paper clip back.  “Right.” she says.  “Then,” I say, “you buy 3 bic pens from me and pay me in part with the refund from the paperclips!”  I write all of this in actual numbers on the sticky note.  “But!” I call out, “But! The bic pens aren’t good, SO!!!....” and she chimes in , “Yes! So! The paperclips don’t matter at all! And the Bics are what we are talking about! I got it!!!” she cries.  “Good explanation!” she adds and begins to work out the actual sales in the books.  But I haven’t moved.  I’m just staring at her.  And she looks at me and says, “What?” and I furrow my brow and say …

“I don’t get it.”

I thought of that story today when I was trying to explain all of this to The Hub who, mercifully, did NOT try to fix anything.  He did, however, let me know that this whole paperclip story is very confusing.  And I’m all like, “You think it is confusing to hear it? You should be inside my head trying to tell it!”  And at the risk of being put on everyone's high-alert list, I'm still telling it.  Because even if it is confusing, I do think there is a good point in there somewhere. 

I’ll let you know if I figure out what it is.

I CONSIDER MY LIFE IMPROVED BECAUSE OF THIS VIDEO MOVIE. THANKS SHARON AND FRED!

YOU DON'T CALL, YOU DON'T WRITE ...

Oh I know!  I was wondering what happened to me too! 

I’ll spare you all the typical blogger confession, “Sorry I haven’t posted in sooo long, but ….” and just say that I’m back now no thanks to a number of clutterous, sometimes annoying, sometimes scary and worrisome things that have come up that have kept me from posting for a little while.  You know how tricky life can be, what with interrupting us all the time with the unplanned.

Often when I don’t post, I’m still writing.  In fact, I’ve found there is usually some sort of relationship between the amount I’m posting and the amount I’m writing uh, non-postual thoughts.  If, for example, my friends are receiving long drawn out emails full of insights, stories, recipes that use avocado and tales of trips to Chick-fil-a then my posting here slows.  Or if I’m rat-tat-tatting in my journal or in one of oh about 87 books I’ve started and never finished then my posts here tend to be a little less regular and a lot less meaty.  Or even if I’m busy work-wise composing proposals and powerpoints and handouts then my blog grinds to a halt.  It’s almost like I only have a certain number of thoughts or words a day to use and once they are used up – in any form – then that’s it.  Hang the closed sign out.  I’m headed home where I’ll just sit idly and watch the latest episode of Real World/Road Rules Challenge. Which reminds me of a theory I used to have that we are all only allotted a certain number of words total in our lifetime and once they are used up, we die.  But that’s been disproven by so many drunk businessmen in airport pubs that rightfully should keel over into their pretzels half-way through their third beer and 12th story that I don’t pay any more attention to that theory than I do to the raw or undercooked food warning at the bottom of the barroom menu. 

Anyway ... During this latest eclipse of the blog, however, I haven’t been writing while I’ve been not writing.  Which makes me feel less, slug-like, thought-less, thought-VOID.  And thus, I’ve lost my voice … my rhythm, my style and I’m back to using words like thus.

I’m back to writing as a means to stimulate writing.

I truly miss writing when I don’t do it.  I miss the way my brain strings together thoughts.  I miss the actual act of sitting in front of the screen and making words appear to the tune of ratatattatt of my keyboard.  When The Hub and I are in the office together, he always asks for me to put on some music (the stereo is closer to my desk than his) and I always do.  I’ve noticed, however that when I’m alone the music of my fingers on the keys is enough to settle me.  I don’t need lyrics and melody.  I just need movement. 

Speaking of movement.  I’m constipated.  Not in the traditional way. But in the I-have-too-many-thoughts-inside-my-brain-and-they-can’t-get-out way.  Someone once told me that the best way to write when you feel this way is to create a bullet point list of ideas.  Not to worry about if they string together or not – just write them down.  Which I’ve tried and it only ends up veering so far off the original idea of clearing my mind that I can’t even recognize the reason for starting and only increases my anxiety.  It’s sort of like when I do a trial run through of an upcoming keynote address or speech of some sort and I start off practicing and I end up doing the dishes never sure how I transitioned from one to the other.  So I’ve forgone the bullet point list idea and will instead see if I can zero in on one single topic or thought about which to write.

I’m overwhelmed.

I WONDER IF THEY WORK ON AVOCADOS

Sometimes I like to pretend that when I haven’t posted for a few days it’s because I’m very important and just can’t spare the time to think.

Other times I convince myself that I’m doing something so exciting, so meaningful and life changing that I just can’t bother with making words.

The truth is, as each day goes by without posting, I find the expectations I place on myself become bigger and bigger until something really amazing has to happen before I can post. 

I’m back baby.

http://www.tatermitts.com/

They are mitts.  That peel taters.  Can you fathom it?