Steve Jobs, Lionel Richie And The Commodores

I got a text a couple of weeks ago on my iPhone telling me that Steve Jobs had passed away. What wasn’t surprising was that I got the text. My friend Amy and I always try to race to be the first one to tell the other some breaking celebrity news – usually a divorce (Ashton and Demi are keeping us busy these days) or a death. What was surprising was how sad I was to hear about it. Of course it wasn’t unexpected. A diagnosis of pancreatic cancer does not offer much hope. But to hear of his death – the death of an icon – was really sad to me.

Can you imagine inventing something that changes the way people live their lives? I can’t imagine first of all having that good of an idea. Not to mention having the energy to actually design it and share it with others. And surely no one would want my idiotic invention anyway. Let’s say just for laughs that I did have an idea and got off the couch long enough to make a prototype. What the hell would it be and who on earth would want it?

I did have an idea once that I thought should be looked into. I think loaves of bread should be smaller. I throw out a lot of bread. Not half as much as I did when I was single, but still it’s a lot. I could invent a half-loaf (patent pending). But technically bread has already been invented. So, maybe it’s not so much an invention as it is a good idea. Although maybe it’s not so much a good idea as it is a random thought. Personally, I think a half-loaf would be the greatest thing since… sliced bread. (I wish I had invented that.)

But back to Mr. Jobs. He revolutionized the way we communicate. That’s HUGE. Imagine the movie Jaws in today’s world. Chief Brody is chucking dead fish into the ocean hoping to lure the killer shark. The shark appears and Brody jumps back in fear, the hair raised on the back of his neck. He tells Quint that “they’re gonna need a bigger boat”. Quint is unconvinced (because he’s kid of crazy-obsessed with the shark). Matt Hooper appears and pulls out his cellphone, calmly calling for back-up. Back-up arrives and kills the shark. The credits roll. Sure, that’s not as good of an ending as getting to see Quint spit up blood when the shark bites him in half. But a cell phone would have totally changed the story.

Think of Star Wars. Luke Skywalker is wanting to know more about his nemesis, Darth Vader. So, he grabs his iPad and does a quick Google search that turns up all kinds of personal information (and a few questionable photos). Luke reads about his past learning more about what motivates Vader so he can use it to defeat him. He clicks on a link to Vader’s Facebook page. He sees a mobile upload of Darth with his own mother! What?!! It can’t be!! Darth Vader was with my mom? That must make him… my dad! They talk via Skype and then use Mapquest to find the best route to a good restaurant. Father and son bond over a wonder feast prepared by all of the creepy little creatures in Tatooine (Had to Google that. Had no idea where Luke Skywalker lived.) Again, totally different movie if it had been made today. And maybe we could have avoided having to suffer through JarJar Binks.

What was really interesting was learning of Steve Jobs’ death via a text to my iPhone. I remarked that I wondered how many people also were using his invention when they discovered he had died. President Obama also made a similar remark, but I said it first. I think it’s remarkable that we saw that kind of genius in our lifetime (Steve Jobs, not me, although I am very wise as evidenced by this blog). I believe his name will be alongside the Thomas Edisons and Albert Einsteins of our history. What a neat man and a wonderful contributor to our way of life and our culture.

Which brings me to Lionel Richie. I’ve never posted a picture on my blog because it could really become just a forum for me to show you how adorable my children are. That’s what I use Facebook for, so I want the blog to be different. So, instead I bore you with my profound musings about life and popular culture. But today I feel compelled to post a picture because it is so ridiculous and makes me laugh. No other reason. Well, one other reason – it made sense to do so in order to have a clever title for this post (as you will see when I get to the part about the Commodores). So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you this picture that was sent to me via email (again, thanks, Mr. Jobs).

Funny, huh? I have no idea who came up with this or why, or even why I find it so funny. Maybe it’s just the utter ridiculousness of it. Maybe it’s his hair. (I’m sure it’s his hair! Look at it!!!) Maybe it’s the fact that no one has pulled one of the stubs. Could be the turned up collar. But it’s most likely the fact that someone has just now come up with this. This would have been hilarious 25 years ago! Why now? Not sure, but I’m glad someone thought of it.

Which now brings us to the Commodores. Not Lionel Richie’s Commodores, the Vanderbilt Commodores. The three legged, blind, stupid puppy of the SEC. Mike and I took the girls to their first college football game a couple of weeks ago. It was the UGA/Vandy game. We chose that game because we thought it would be a good introduction to college football (although some would argue that that particular game could hardly qualify as “football” but… Mike is an alumnus of Vanderbilt (grad school), so we technically are fans, I guess. I mean really, how do you not root for the ‘Dores? I think I might even root for them if they were playing my undergrad team (Auburn – War Eagle! Woo Hoo!) because they just never can win a big game. At any rate, we figured it would be an easy trip to Nashville and an easy, not terribly crowded game. We sat in the Vandy section (hence the lack of a crowd) and had plenty of room to stretch out and take everything in.

The girls were excited about seeing the cheerleaders. A kind man whom I had approached to ask him where he had gotten his shakers, had given Kate and Meg each one of the two shakers in his possession. Not at all what I intended when I asked (and it kind of made me wish I had asked him where he had gotten his Tag Heuer watch) but it was very nice. So, they girls wildly shook their shakers during the game yelling, “Cheer! Cheer!”, which is what they think the cheerleaders say.

The other thing they were excited about, and I have to admit I was too, was the food. Whenever I go to a sporting event I eat as much junk food as I possibly can before my stomach explodes and other patrons are pelted with the popcorn kernels and pepperonis that I have digested. My kids are no different. For those of you who have seen my children, you know that they are very petite. Try and imagine them eating the following: a hotdog, two small pieces of pizza, popcorn, reese’s pieces, m&ms, a blue slushy thing, a lollipop, some water, and some peanuts. You can’t? WELL THEY DID!! They ate all of that. As did I, except I had a diet coke instead of the slushy thing and I didn’t eat “some” popcorn. I ate a veritable shitload. And, of course, I decided to stop at the little hotel mini-mart on the way back from the game and get a can (large) of sour cream and onion Pringles.

But at any rate, my kids became ravenous beasts. They rarely paid attention to the game itself. They were so engrossed in their food and our friends who we went with. They would periodically look for the cheerleaders or comment on the band, but that was pretty much it. At one point, I leaned over to Kate and tried to explain the game to her so she’d understand what she was supposed to be watching. I explained that we were supposed to cheer (cheer! cheer!) for the team dressed in black. When they did something good, we needed to clap or yell. So, on the next play, Kate saw me cheer (cheer! cheer!) for the ‘Dores and she yelled – and this is a word-for-word quote – “GO BLACK PEOPLE!!!” While I appreciated that she is embracing diversity, this was not exactly the best way to support her team. I asked her to change it to a simple, “Go Dores!” and that was the end of her embarrassing cheer.

The weather was perfect. Our hotel was right next to the field. We spent some good time with some great friends. It was a very nice weekend. It makes me happy that our family enjoys spending time together. And even though I was miserably full of food and fearing I’d have a heart attack and die in the middle of the night, it was a great memory.

So, that’s been my last couple of weeks. Steve Jobs, Lionel Richie and the Commodores. Now I need to wrap up this post so I can grab my iPhone and text my friend Amy. It appears that Lindsay Lohan may pose for Playboy and Kim Kardashian may be headed for divorce…

Gratitude

I have been reminded over the past week how blessed I am and how I need to be more appreciative of the things I have in my life.  I like the line from Mary Poppins where she wisely tells the children that, "Enough is as good as a feast".  I have enough.  I have more than enough.  But still I lose sight of that.  Two things happened this week to help bring this back into focus for me that I will now share with you.

A few weeks ago, I interviewed for a new job.  There are some aspects of my current job I have not been happy with and they seem to have been more pronounced lately.  I went into this job three years ago telling myself I wouldn't like it and I have been telling myself for three years that I was right.  And yet, I love my boss and my coworkers.  I laugh every day I'm there.   make a (small) difference to some of the people there.  I have a decent reputation.  My opinions are sought and valued.  I have a good amount of flexibility and some freedom.  I'm paid well and I'm part time.  WHAT IS NOT TO LIKE?

But I've managed to convince myself that I'm not happy.  Sure, my job can be hard and is overwhelming from time to time.  But what job isn't?  I interviewed for this other job - outside of my current company - and received the offer a few days ago.  That's when things really got hard and overwhelming.  I really fretted over it.  I was stressed out and torn about making the right call.  I had two migraines in one week which is very rare for me, but that's how physically affected I was by the whole thing.

Without going into too much detail, it was a good opportunity.  But, at the end of the day, it was not a better opportunity  than what I have now.  I don't know why I've never viewed my current job as a good opportunity.  I haven't been grateful for it.  But I was reminded through this whole experience just what a good thing I have and how foolish it would have been to give it away.

One of the main motivators for me to decline the offer was that it meant a move to a full time work schedule.  Today, my youngest daughter Meg lives for Tuesdays and Thursdays.  She wakes up happy on those days because she knows she will be spending it with me.  The three days during the week that I go to work, she's very weepy and latches onto me begging me not to go.  Now I'm not saying that I have allowed a four year old to make this decision for me.  I am well aware that in two year's time she will have no choice but to go to school five days a week.  But I also hated the thought of having her and Kate in school and then after school care five days a week.  I know other parents can do it and do it well.  I do not believe  am one of those parents.  I'm barely organized enough in my life to be able to manage everything only working 24 hours a week.

At one point during this decision making process, I had decided I was going to accept the new position.  As soon as I have made that decision, I began to get very upset and uneasy.  I felt such guilt.  I thought it was just the guilt of forcing them into after school care five days a week.  But I also couldn't shake the feeling that I had been ungrateful to my current company in the past three years I had had this particular job.  I realized that much of the guilt I was feeling was a recognition that I had this great set-up and I was just about to throw it away.  So in this process, I had waffled quite a bit and had now made the decision to accept the new role.  The anxiety and uneasiness made me decide finally, ultimately to decline it.  As soon as I had made that decision, I immediately felt better physically.  A short while later that night, I was helping Meg into her jammies and she started crying, anticipating the next day which was a school day for her.  In between the tears she said, "I don't wanna go to school".  I knew then that I had made the right decision.  For her and for me.

I decided that this while exercise had been designed to make me realize how good my situation has been and how lucky I have been to have it.  That has definitely been the most important thing I have taken from this (that, and the stroking my ego got when I was offered the job).  I decided I would change my approach to,my job and not view it as a burden but view it for what it is - a great opportunity for me to contribute something of value to an organization, to work and interact with good and interesting people, and to have the flexibility with time and money it allows to do the things that are most important in my life.  I could have done without the stress this process brought me this week, but I am choosing to be grateful for it.  I took my new grateful attitude to work on Friday and I had a really good day.  It's just too bad it's taken me over three years in this role to come to this understanding of it.

Then, Friday night after work, I met Mike and the girls out for pizza downtown.  It was a nice evening so we ate outside.  People would stroll by - most of them very wisely heading to Ben and Jerry's for some yummy ice cream - when something caught my eye.  It was a shiny, round thing I was seeing - almost like a smooth ball.  But where I was seeing it was out of place and it took a minute for my mind to make sense of it.  I looked closer and it gave me a jolt to realize I was looking at the perfectly round, perfectly smooth bald head of a 10-12 year old girl.

I was stupefied.  I mean, I know there is such a thing as childhood cancer. I learned too much about it when I worked at MTSU and did terrific fundraisers for *St. Just Children's Research Hospital.  But there it was - 15 feet away from me.  This pretty little girl out with her family.  Battling cancer.

What the hell am I worrying about?

What the hell do I have to complain about?

I have enough.

I have plenty.

I have more than I deserve.

I don't know what gratitude is next to this family.

This family is grateful to all of their friends and family who are supporting them in this fight.  They are grateful to the team of doctors, nurses and other caregivers who are responsible for her care.  There are grateful for a good day like today when she's healthy enough and feeling good enough that they can go out together as a family and do something mundane like getting ice cream.  They are grateful for her strength and her confidence that she can be out in public at her age with a bald head and not worry about the double takes she gets from ignorant people like me.  This family knows gratitude.  And I am spoiled and unworthy of the things I have.  To this point, I haven't been smart enough to know that enough is as good as a feast.  But I know it now - having been shown it it two different ways within a span of 24 hours.  And I will make it a priority to never lose sight of it again.


* For information about donating to St. Just Children's Research Hospital, please follow this link.

Whiskers

So, I recently celebrated my 38th birthday.   I don't mind aging particularly (yet) but I am starting to feel older than my age would dictate that I should.  All summer I have dealt with major back pain that even physical therapy and chiropractic intervention took a while to heal.   I swear I have had a few hot flashes already.  And last, but certainly most disturbing, I am growing whiskers on my chin and neck.

I noticed this strange growth a year or more ago.  I was rubbing my chin and thought I felt something kind of wiry - like stubble - growing there.  I got my vanity mirror out and  turned it to the side that magnifies all of my hideous flaws, and discovered that yes, in fact, I was growing a whisker.  In the time that has passed, I have routinely and dutifully plucked it when it gets long enough - about once every 2-3 weeks.  Like clockwork it returns.  But it hasn't been too alarming up to this point because I've only been battling one.  I'm afraid that battle has now expanded and I feel like they have me surrounded.

Now, I do have a fair amount of hair on my face.  I'm not proud of it by any means.  I'm certainly not bragging.  It is simply a fact.  I always kind of thought is was just an extension of my hairline.  But I suppose if that were the case, it wouldn't make sense that my hairline covers my upper lip.  I never really considered it an issue until a few years ago when I was getting my eyebrows (more of my hairline?) waxed.  The stylist (is that what an eyebrow-waxer is?  A stylist? A waxer? A browologist?) asked me, "Would you like me to get your mustache while I'm at it?".

My mustache?  My mustache?!  Which mustache?  The one I thought was light enough that no one noticed it?  Or, the one I really didn't realize I had until that insulting question was asked?  In either case, I guess the answer is yes.  And by the way, this will be my last visit to you.

So, the bitch browologist waxed my mustache.  And so began my journey into extreme self-consciousness over my facial hair.  After the mustache was yanked off of my lip, I didn't feel the need to wax it again, but I was certainly more aware of the amount of hair I had on my face and, perhaps more importantly, the lack of it on others' faces.  I never really liked my mustache or the amount of hairs I had around my jaw and chin but it didn't become something horrifying to me until the introduction of the whisker.

I can't really pinpoint the first time I noticed it; only the horror that came over me upon realizing what it was.  I could picture my grandmother and the prickly little hairs shooting out of her chin that were visible to me when I'd visit her in the nursing home.  I was in my early thirties and already starting to grow my you're-old-senile-and-stuck-in-a-nursing-home beard.  If I didn't want others to snicker that I was growing a beard, I was going to have to pluck away my new little friend every time he (it was definitely a male hair) showed his little face.
 
I kept up this routine for several months - even years.  I was self-conscious enough about it that I would subtly run my hands and fingers over my chin in an effort to discover any new friends that may have sprouted.  The whisker problem appeared to be limited to my bottom left chin. Or so I thought.

In the past year, as I have run my fingers across my chin, I have found a new little patch (a patch!) of them - this time on the lower right hand side.  This new cluster grows at a different rate of speed than my original one and because of that, I can't simply declare one night of the week as Whisker-Pluckin'-Wednesday.  It doesn't work that way.  I may pluck lefty this Saturday and then turn right around on Tuesday and have a soul patch to contend with on the right side.

As I mentioned, my hairline comes right up under my jawline.  At times, I have been known to find a random hair that's a quarter inch long and something I feel I should address before others begin to notice it.  The way I search for these annoying but very thin and light and hardly noticeable neck hairs, is I'll take my first two fingers and I'll run them across my neck and jawline making a scissor motion to try and find a hair that I can pull away from my neck with them.  If no hair ends up getting pulled between my fingers, I'm in good shape.  If there's one that seems to be a little long, I'll pluck it like I do my my brows or whiskers - on an as-needed basis. 

Late last week, I was on a search for hairs on my neck. I catch myself doing it sometimes in meetings and wonder if people around the room know what I'm doing.  If they do know, I don't think they're disgusted by it.  I think they are probably relived and appreciative that I'm aware of the problem and trying to correct it. I was in this meeting subtly fishing for neck hairs when all of a sudden my two fingers caught something and began to pull it away from my neck.  I grew concerned when I pulled it past what I thought was a reasonable distance and it didn't tug at my neck.  I kept pulling and kept pulling feeling my eyes widen with the knowledge that there was seemingly no end to this strand growing out of a part of my body that always exposed to others.  When I had finally pulled it the entirety of it's length and I could feel the gentle tug on the skin of my neck, I felt two things: relief and utter embarrassment.  What if the other meeting attendees were watching what I was doing? Had they already been aware of this spool of thread growing out of my neck?  What if they'd noticed the hair all along and were placing bets on when I'd finally decide to do something about it? 

I tried to remain calm. I figured the best course of action would be to simply comb it back down, actually pay attention to the subject matter and contribute something to the meeting, and deal with it with my tweezers and vanity mirror in the privacy of my own bathroom.  I worried that once home, I would not be able to locate it again.  That it would simply blend in with the other blonde hairs around my chin and jaw.  However, when I got home and tilted my head up to try and locate it, I saw (without having to use the extra-magnifying side to the mirror) a long, thick, black strand of hair that was practically waving at me with balloons and sparklers; begging me to see it and do something about it.

I was mortified.  How long had this hideous thing been there and why was I just now becoming aware of it?  And why was it so dark?  Was someone secretly slipping me testosterone?  How could I be capable of producing such a long, thick hair?  I plucked it immediately and actually considered saving it to show Mike.  I just couldn't believe how long it was and felt someone else needed to share in my astonishment.  I reconsidered, thankfully (for him and for me), after realizing that a husband probably would begin to view his wife differently if she started growing more hair on her face than he did.  So, I threw it away.

So, I'm 38 years old and I am already turning into an old man woman.  If this is what I have become at this age, what on earth kind of shape will I be in at 48?  Should be frightening fun to see.  I know one thing for sure: I will never be far away from my tweezers.