This past weekend was a sad and stark reminder of how lame I am. I always joke that I'm lame - it's part of my shtick. But as it turns out, I have been absolutely right all of these years. I nailed it all along. In fact, if there were a word that meant lamer than lame, that's what I'd be. Until I figure out what that word is, "lame" will have to do. Let me take you through the evidence.
Mike gets tickets to the Titans game through his company that they use on customers and vendors. One of his potential contracts was going to be in town for the Titans/Patriots game, so Mike and a guy who works for him decided to treat this client to dinner and tailgating over the weekend. Because it's the weekend before my birthday, this was sold to me as a "birthday trip" during which we'd eat great food and catch a ballgame. What it was in actuality, was us wining and dining (and most importantly, partying up) this guy in order to get his business. Not that I really minded that. I was still getting a fun overnight trip during this lovely cool snap we are experiencing. However, once I heard that this guy was single and ten years younger than Mike and me, I began to get nervous. Additionally, the guy who reports to Mike and his wife are also ten years younger than we are and can out "party" us even back in our heyday.
Side note - I loathe using the word "party" as a verb and therefore I never do. I loathe even hearing it used as a verb. I know that over time we've misused it and popularized the misuse of it to the point that we've turned it into a verb but really, it's not a verb. It is a noun. And the word "party" was used as a verb WAY too many times over the course of a less than 24 hour period to suit me. But I digress... BUT, since I am digressing, here's another digression -
Side note #2 - Even back in my heyday, I was never a so-called partier. I enjoyed drinking with friends, but I didn't enjoy going out to loud, crowded places to do it. I liked gatherings at people's houses or getting a table at a restaurant and listening to music while drinking and laughing. One of my favorite quotes is: "Few pleasures better than to drink and talk with those whole really think." Some friends of my parents had this etched into a cool piece of wood and hanging in their kitchen. I bragged on it so much that she got one of her friends to paint one for me so I could hang it in my house - which I have in my bar area. That's my idea of a fun way to drink - drinking and talking with friends. So, when I was in college, I preferred that to going to clubs and (gulp!) dancing in public and (gasp!) possibly making out with a random guy. That just wasn't fun for me. Still isn't which I suppose is a good thing for my husband...
So, before the evening even started things began unraveling for me. I had brought what I had hoped would be a sufficiently trendy outfit - good, dark jeans, a cute, flowy black top and a colorful, fun necklace. (If you'd like to read all about how I learned to properly dress myself, go here.) The jeans were good. Slimming. So far so good. My hair was bad but I didn't have enough time to do anything about it, so I was just going to have to rely on a decent outfit and my sparkling personality. Next I went to put on my top. It used to be too big for me so that I never wore it. It was gaping a bit at the chest so if I leaned over, you could see my bra. Really, you could see my tiny boobies since I always bought bras bigger than I needed in hopes that somehow my breasts would try and fill them up. But, in the past couple of years, the shirt has fit me better. Perhaps it was because of the difference in my chest size since having babies. It's still not terribly impressive, but it's better than the concave look I used to have.
This time, the gaping issue wasn't a problem. And the shirt wasn't too tight either. It actually fit pretty well. The problem was the fact that the buttons ended before the bottom of the shirt met the top of my pants. Therefore, you could see about a half-inch of flesh. I have no idea how this happened. It never did this before. My best guess is that I used to wear high waisted pants and only recently joined everyone else in the 21st century with the lower rise pants. Must not have been an issue back when my pants came up to my armpits. But this was no good. If I moved my arms up at all, you could see my belly button. So, I had to regroup. Luckily, I was smart enough to have brought a second choice for the evening. A casual dress that's not too dressy and pretty comfortable. When I put it on, I realized it was fine, but not really very cute. I didn't realize how matronly it actually was until later in the evening when EVERY OTHER WOMAN was wearing skinny jeans, ridiculously high wedge shoes and tight fitting funky tops that showcased their boob jobs. Whereas I looked like my eighth grade math teacher (only with worse hair).
So, you know how it is when you go out already not excited about the way you look - it affects how the rest of the evening will go. If you're not comfortable, you can't really relax and enjoy yourself. So when we met Mike's colleague and his wife in the lobby, I was already feeling awkward and uncomfortable. She, of course, looked great. Not one ounce of fat. Cute. Blonde. Boob job but not obvious boob job. Bitch. I suspected that others in the lobby must have assumed that she and her husband were going out with their parents.
At any rate, by the time we got to the restaurant, the word "party" had been (mis)used as a verb a minimum of five times. I definitely wanted a drink. But I wasn't too keen on "partying". The four of us got a seat at the bar and waited for the customer of Mike's to arrive.
Another side note - I was not the only one in our hotel room to fret over the choice of outfit for the evening. Mike and I had a very long conversation about whether or not he needed to tuck his shirt into his jeans.
I think most guys wear their shirttails out now.
Well then, wear it out.
But I don't think I can pull that look off.
Well then, tuck it in.
Everyone else will have their shirttails out.
Then leave it out.
I think the "look" is to have your shirt out. Casual.
What if you tuck it in and untuck it later if you think you need to?
Won't it be wrinkled at that point?
Ultimately, the decision was made that he would be more comfortable with his shirt tucked in. And as luck would have it, that's how his coworker was dressed as well. He made the right call! Disaster averted!
Anyway, the four of us were at the bar and in walks the customer and a buddy of his. He's young, big, and just has "cool" dripping off of him. Looks good in his clothes that clearly show that he doesn't care if he looks good or not. He's from up north, so he's got a confidence - a subtle swagger - that sets him apart from what you see here in the south. This dude is going to want to be shown a good time in Nashville. And somehow I am part of the group that's going to have to do it. How did I end up here?
So, dinner was excellent as it usually is when you go to a nice steakhouse. I had two cocktails and a glass of wine. I was beginning to relax even wearing my grandmotherly frock in which I believed I experienced 6-7 hot flashes. I ate too much as is my general guiding principle when out to dinner. So, I had three drinks and lots of dinner in me. Naturally, I was ready for bed. It was almost 9:00 so it was getting pretty close to my bedtime. It would have been a perfect evening if Mike and I could have just been done at that point. But we weren't. The party (used properly as a noun) was just getting started. Dammit!
We left the restaurant and walked about a block to the first of what would be about 10 bars we went to and stayed only long enough for me to be offered a shot (and politely decline - except for one which I will discuss in a moment) and drink half of a beer. Because we were "bar hopping", we were never in one place long enough to lay claim to a table where I could sit down and hide my bulging belly behind a table. Didn't these people realize that I don't own spanx and you could see my steak gut protruding through my dress? I am now 39 - I've stood enough in my life. I'm ready to sit. Or at least have some room instead of being smashed up next to some sweaty dude who keeps saluting the band with his beer bottle.
At long last we went to a bar where we actually did make it to a clearing and had some room. As it turns out, it was actually part of the dance floor. UGH. I was nowhere near intoxicated enough to dance publicly and so I was mainly just working on trying to not appear to be as awkward as I felt. I was gawky enough that I was very aware of my arms. They were crossed at my ribcage and I was gripping my purse; which, at this point, became a "pocketbook" since I looked like a seventy year old. I kept trying to reposition them, but every time I did, I looked even more uncomfortable than before. Right hand on hip, left hand holding beer. Both arms down by sides. Left hand casually rubbing the back of my neck as if to say, I'm too sore from all of my previous dancing to engage at this time. Both hands clasped around beer down by waist. It dawned on me that with all of the arm movement I might have looked like I was trying to perform the Macarena, so I just decided to have them settle "naturally" with one hand clutching my beer and the other down by my side.
At one point, Mike's colleague asked, "Are you having a good time?". I detected a bit of a condescending tone. Good Lord, I'm now the one in this place who's being pitied for looking so out of place. I never want to be that person. By the end of the evening, he had asked me that question about five times. I looked over at one point and there was a couple who had to be in their late 50's having a ball. They were dancing - like parents dance, mind you, but they were still having fun and looking reasonably cool while doing so. It dawned on me at that point that my age had nothing to do with my being lame. It's not age. It's lameness in its purest form. I've got it. In spades. I had it in my teens, I have it now and I'll have it in my 60's. It's who I am.
At the same bar, the buddy of the client we were showing a good time waltzed over with a round of Jagermeister - which is the worst tasting stuff EVER - shots. After my attempts at previous locations to decline this nonsense, I decided that perhaps it would be in my best interest to be drunk. I took the Jager shot (or was it diesel fuel?). Of course, I sipped at it, but it all went down. Now I was ready to party! Except that it had no effect on me whatsoever. In fact, I swear if it did anything, it actually sobered me up. I guess I had eaten enough at dinner that it was going to take a lot more than what I was doing to get me tipsy.
While I was lamenting that this horrid shot of Jager (or was it the liquid form of all that is caked in the bottom of my oven?) had done nothing to loosen me up, the band started playing. I felt like I was back in college. Really? We're still playing Sweet Caroline? Good times never seemed so good - so good! So good! So good! And of course they played the obligatory, I wanna rock and roll all night and party everyday. Boy, if I've ever had a mantra... So now, I was being reminded of how awkward all of this felt back when I was in college and here it was 20 years later and I was more awkward than ever. If the Jager (or was it a homeless person's urine?) shot hadn't sobered me up, that realization did. I was done.
We went to two more bars with much of the same result when Mike finally turned to me and asked if I was ready to go. Where were you two hours ago?!! The wife of Mike's colleague was slurring and needed to go, so I was able to make my exit under the guise that I needed to help her get back to the hotel and not because I was ready to stop partying. Cause I wasn't! I desperately wanted to keep the ol' freak flag flying! Woo hoo! But, if it was in her best interest to go, I should be a good friend and take one for the team. We hailed a cab and I was on my way to sweet, sweet freedom.
Once back in the hotel, I did what any other normal and perfectly awesome person does to end a solid evening of partying. I dove into the tailgate food we had brought for the game the next day to try and dilute the alcohol that I did have during the course of the evening, and drank a big, fat bottle of water while watching a documentary on September 11th on the National Geographic channel. Mike, who is almost but not quite as lame as I am, got back to the hotel a scant 20 minutes after I did.
The next day at the game, everyone was dragging - a sure sign of a successful evening. I was worn out, too. That is a long documentary! The good news is, Mike's company got the contract - which really was practically a done deal before all of this was forced upon me. And I did have a good birthday at home with my kids and my husband which is exactly where I'd want to celebrate it.
So, all of this to say, it was a very eye-opening weekend for me. I always knew I was lame, but I got a nice glimpse at just how right I was. You probably already knew it too, which is okay. Every group of friends has to have someone who doesn't quite belong. In all of my groupings I've never really been able to discern who that person is, so I guess it's been me all along. That's okay. It really is. Hopefully what you can take from all of this is that the next time you want to rock and roll all night and party everyday, I'm your gal.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
I Steal Tupperware (and other oddities)
You know those times when you are with a friend, family member, recent acquaintance, or generally another person's company and they do something that makes you think, "that's odd"? We all have these little things that we do that seem perfectly normal to us but to others seems off-putting or weird. Or stupid. Or crazy. In my case, I either recognize that these things are weird or have been told so by well-meaning friends. If you and I are friends, chances are good that you, too, are odd. So here's my list of things that make me oddly me. I hope these make you feel a little better about all of the weird-o things you do that give people the creeps.
1. I Steal Tupperware
Bear with me here. I don't steal it from, like, the grocery store. None of my odd habits are illegal (that I know of). But I do steal it readily from my friends. If you are reading this, I've likely got something of yours in my cabinet. Anytime someone comes to my house bearing gifts in the way of food, I am secretly more interested in the Tupperware they will be providing than the meal they've prepared. (The one exception to this would be Dena's pot roast.) I don't remember the last time I bought Tupperware. If I ever do pay for it, you can guarantee I will not ever put something in it meant for someone else. If I've paid for it, I don't want to lose it. You'd think I'd hold that same philosophy if you bought it. But you'd be wrong.
No, I'll never bring you a dinner in my good Tupperware. Because if you look at Tupperware as "no big deal" and either keep it (like I do) or toss it (thoughtless, bastard!), then I will never see it again. And I keep Tupperware forever. My favorite piece is almost seven years old - a(n unintended) donation from our former neighbors, the Schramkos, who brought me dinner while I was on bed rest during my pregnancy with Kate. The homemade chicken soup she made was delicious. The Tupperware, however, was perfection. The perfect size. Sturdy. Not one of those that stains when you put something tomato-y in it. Just perfect.
2. I Am Particular About Paper Towels, Gum, and Kleenex
I have an irrational fear of running out of certain items like the aforementioned paper towels, gum and tissues. This one is a little like the Tupperware hoarding, but it's kind of for a different reason. I have very specific rules about usage of these items because I do not ever want to be in a position where I need one, and do not have one available. Imagine - you grab a garlicky lunch with a friend and then head to the school to meet with a teacher. You reach in your purse to find gum and do not find any immediately. So, you begin to dig a little more furiously. Then you begin removing items from your purse because you just know you have some. It must be hiding under your wallet. But it isn't there. And your breath could keep vampires away.
That is a position I NEVER want to be in. I have nightmares about it. Because of this, I really resent having to share my gum with others - even good friends. Even my husband. So much so that I will actually secretly get myself a piece of gum where you can't see it so you won't know I have some and ask me for a piece. Because unfailingly, you will not adhere to my rules when ever you chew a piece of my gum. Which is really no fault of yours. You likely do not know my rules. Most people happily share their gum without strings attached. But not me. If I give you a piece of my hard earned gum, and you spit it out in under ten minutes, you have committed an unforgivable faux pas. Irredeemable. What were you thinking? If YOU are going to have the audacity of chewing a piece of MY gum, you best keep it in your thieving mouth for no less than an hour.
I'm not as maniacal about my tissues and paper towels, but I have rules there, too. Not so much with the tissues. My weird Kleenex thing is that I use the same one multiple times (like our elderly grandparents' parents used to do back during the depression when provisions were scarce). I will use one until it is threadbare (paperbare?) and has holes in it and cannot possibly contain the nose blowing it's getting any more (keeping reading for an interesting take on how I clean my nose). And paper towels - I have very specific things I use them for. If you come to my house and wash your hands and then reach for a paper towel to dry them, you run the risk of not being invited back. Not really (kind of). Paper towels are for wiping down counters and tables. They are for cleaning up spills. They are for my daily routine of cleaning Dudley's tee-tee spot in my dining room. They are not for drying off your hands. That's what my kitchen HAND towel is for. It's right there. Looking at you. Begging you to dry your hands with it. And you're ignoring it. While you're wasting my paper towels and polluting the earth. Damn you.
3. I Stick My Fingers Up My Nostrils When I Blow My Nose
Okay, not during the act of blowing, but once I've blown and I've got some cleaning to do. It is pretty gross, I suppose, and I am so accustomed to doing it this way that I've probably done it in front of you without even realizing it. But, one of my nagging daily fears is that I'm parading around town with a visible something in my nose. As sarcastic as I can be, how foolish would I look if I said something obnoxious (but hilarious) to you and the whole time you were in on a joke about me that I was unaware of? It would be disastrous. So, I do everything in my power to ensure that it will never happen. Once I blow my nose - which we all must on occasion - I will put my finger through the tissue (that I've used 712 times) and go into each nostril to get whatever remains. I turn my finger clockwise to gently scoop any foreign matter out so nothing is left behind for your amusement or disgust. But, you take away the Kleenex and really I'm just picking my nose. Not something that should be done in public, I guess. And if I'm paying attention, I won't do it publicly. But again, these are little idiosyncrasies I have that I am very likely doing A LOT more often than I realize.
4. I Am Stricken With A Gentle Thump In My Right Ear Every Time I Put My Silverware Away
This one is just plain weird. It's not anything that anyone would ever notice but it's kind of what inspired me to tackle this hard-hitting topic. Without fail, when I empty the dishwasher and put my silver (not even the good stuff; just the every day plated stuff) away, I get a thumping in my right ear. Every time. It does not happen at any other time doing any other thing. Ever. How odd is that?! It can't be normal. What on earth would cause it to do that? Is it because I'm leaning over a little? I do that every time I stretch for a run. Is it because of the metal (or whatever it is) in the silver itself? I don't know. I can't explain it. It's just the way it is. I have an thumpy ear. So there.
5. I Love Listening To Good Ol' Congested Coughs
Kate has one right now and I am loving it. It was really annoying last week when it was just a dry cough. But now I am getting to hear the sweet, sweet sounds of the crackling deep within my baby's lungs. Of course, I don't wish her sick. That would make me a horrible mom. But I'd be lying if I said that I don't look forward to when she gets into one of those really long, drawn out coughing fits. (*She's on antibiotics and the doctors say it's just allergies so this really doesn't make me a terrible person.) If I could switch places with her, I would in a heartbeat. For one thing, I really don't want it to balloon into something worse for her. But really, I am jealous. I have had strep only twice in my life. The first time was in college and it was the best coughing I've ever had. That rattling! The phlegm! It was marvelous! The second time, all I got was the damn sore throat and fatigue. What a waste. I was so bummed.
Many people hear that sound and think it's gross. Not me. I know that's weird, but I love it. Now, if you are chomping down on an ice cube or piece of hard candy, I'll want to punch you into the next room. That's just annoying. But if it's a real good guttural cough that's got you by the balls, please, please come sit next to me in a quiet room.
6. I Have To Pee Whenever I Hide From Someone
This dates back to my childhood I always hated playing hide-and-seek because I would go into a closet and immediately have to pee. I can remember so vividly, holding myself, legs crossed, while listening to faint footsteps coming closer and closer to wherever I was hiding. I don't know if it was because I was in a place I knew I couldn't leave for an undetermined amount of time. I don't know. The same thing happens at night when I go to bed. I'll read a couple of chapters in a book or play some mindless game on my IPhone and I'll have to pee no less than five times before I can actually go to bed. It's like subconsciously I think I'll have to wake up in the middle of the night if I'm not absolutely empty. Whenever we go skiing, I'll put my layers and layers of ski clothes on and then have to pee like a racehorse before we leave the cabin, when we get to the resort, and once we get in line to get on the first lift. If I had regular clothes on that weren't such a pain to put on, I could probably hold it all day. But you put three layers and a cumbersome pair of ski boots on me, and it's Niagara Falls.
6. Every Night I Tell My Kids It's Time To Go Brush Their "Toofy Toofs".
I can't believe I just typed that last one. It's conceivable that I could find a sympathetic friend on any of the last five, but this one is really just awful. I said it one night and it just took off. I'm not saying my kids liked it. They had no reaction whatsoever. But I said it and then it came flying out of my night the next night as well. This has been going on for over a month now. As the words come out of my mouth, I hear it coming and I tell myself how stupid it is. And yet, come out they do. And it's only at night. In the mornings, we simply "brush our teeth" like a normal family. But something about my routine at night; I am powerless to change the fact that this is the idiotic utterance that I direct at my children. And if my children were to ever repeat this to anyone, they would ostracized from all of the other "normal" kids they interact with. "Toofy Toofs" is kind of a cutesy phrase too. Nothing about me is cutesy. Nothing. So, how did this even become part of my daily vernacular? And why in the world am I telling you about it??!
Well, I suppose that's a good start. I'm sure there are countless other things I do that I have no idea are odd that you all are listing quietly to yourselves at this very moment. What I would enjoy is for my blogging friends to compile their own lists so I could enjoy reading about the random and ridiculous things they do. The things that make us uniquely "us" are really quite fascinating (as opposed to this particular post about them...). Somehow I have managed to make my way in life. I have a husband. I used to work. I am raising kids. So maybe I'm not all that odd as compared to everyone else. But I did just have a sobering thought. If I'm this weird, what on earth are all the weirdos hiding from view? I'm looking at you, Lady Gaga.
1. I Steal Tupperware
Bear with me here. I don't steal it from, like, the grocery store. None of my odd habits are illegal (that I know of). But I do steal it readily from my friends. If you are reading this, I've likely got something of yours in my cabinet. Anytime someone comes to my house bearing gifts in the way of food, I am secretly more interested in the Tupperware they will be providing than the meal they've prepared. (The one exception to this would be Dena's pot roast.) I don't remember the last time I bought Tupperware. If I ever do pay for it, you can guarantee I will not ever put something in it meant for someone else. If I've paid for it, I don't want to lose it. You'd think I'd hold that same philosophy if you bought it. But you'd be wrong.
No, I'll never bring you a dinner in my good Tupperware. Because if you look at Tupperware as "no big deal" and either keep it (like I do) or toss it (thoughtless, bastard!), then I will never see it again. And I keep Tupperware forever. My favorite piece is almost seven years old - a(n unintended) donation from our former neighbors, the Schramkos, who brought me dinner while I was on bed rest during my pregnancy with Kate. The homemade chicken soup she made was delicious. The Tupperware, however, was perfection. The perfect size. Sturdy. Not one of those that stains when you put something tomato-y in it. Just perfect.
2. I Am Particular About Paper Towels, Gum, and Kleenex
I have an irrational fear of running out of certain items like the aforementioned paper towels, gum and tissues. This one is a little like the Tupperware hoarding, but it's kind of for a different reason. I have very specific rules about usage of these items because I do not ever want to be in a position where I need one, and do not have one available. Imagine - you grab a garlicky lunch with a friend and then head to the school to meet with a teacher. You reach in your purse to find gum and do not find any immediately. So, you begin to dig a little more furiously. Then you begin removing items from your purse because you just know you have some. It must be hiding under your wallet. But it isn't there. And your breath could keep vampires away.
That is a position I NEVER want to be in. I have nightmares about it. Because of this, I really resent having to share my gum with others - even good friends. Even my husband. So much so that I will actually secretly get myself a piece of gum where you can't see it so you won't know I have some and ask me for a piece. Because unfailingly, you will not adhere to my rules when ever you chew a piece of my gum. Which is really no fault of yours. You likely do not know my rules. Most people happily share their gum without strings attached. But not me. If I give you a piece of my hard earned gum, and you spit it out in under ten minutes, you have committed an unforgivable faux pas. Irredeemable. What were you thinking? If YOU are going to have the audacity of chewing a piece of MY gum, you best keep it in your thieving mouth for no less than an hour.
I'm not as maniacal about my tissues and paper towels, but I have rules there, too. Not so much with the tissues. My weird Kleenex thing is that I use the same one multiple times (like our elderly grandparents' parents used to do back during the depression when provisions were scarce). I will use one until it is threadbare (paperbare?) and has holes in it and cannot possibly contain the nose blowing it's getting any more (keeping reading for an interesting take on how I clean my nose). And paper towels - I have very specific things I use them for. If you come to my house and wash your hands and then reach for a paper towel to dry them, you run the risk of not being invited back. Not really (kind of). Paper towels are for wiping down counters and tables. They are for cleaning up spills. They are for my daily routine of cleaning Dudley's tee-tee spot in my dining room. They are not for drying off your hands. That's what my kitchen HAND towel is for. It's right there. Looking at you. Begging you to dry your hands with it. And you're ignoring it. While you're wasting my paper towels and polluting the earth. Damn you.
3. I Stick My Fingers Up My Nostrils When I Blow My Nose
Okay, not during the act of blowing, but once I've blown and I've got some cleaning to do. It is pretty gross, I suppose, and I am so accustomed to doing it this way that I've probably done it in front of you without even realizing it. But, one of my nagging daily fears is that I'm parading around town with a visible something in my nose. As sarcastic as I can be, how foolish would I look if I said something obnoxious (but hilarious) to you and the whole time you were in on a joke about me that I was unaware of? It would be disastrous. So, I do everything in my power to ensure that it will never happen. Once I blow my nose - which we all must on occasion - I will put my finger through the tissue (that I've used 712 times) and go into each nostril to get whatever remains. I turn my finger clockwise to gently scoop any foreign matter out so nothing is left behind for your amusement or disgust. But, you take away the Kleenex and really I'm just picking my nose. Not something that should be done in public, I guess. And if I'm paying attention, I won't do it publicly. But again, these are little idiosyncrasies I have that I am very likely doing A LOT more often than I realize.
4. I Am Stricken With A Gentle Thump In My Right Ear Every Time I Put My Silverware Away
This one is just plain weird. It's not anything that anyone would ever notice but it's kind of what inspired me to tackle this hard-hitting topic. Without fail, when I empty the dishwasher and put my silver (not even the good stuff; just the every day plated stuff) away, I get a thumping in my right ear. Every time. It does not happen at any other time doing any other thing. Ever. How odd is that?! It can't be normal. What on earth would cause it to do that? Is it because I'm leaning over a little? I do that every time I stretch for a run. Is it because of the metal (or whatever it is) in the silver itself? I don't know. I can't explain it. It's just the way it is. I have an thumpy ear. So there.
5. I Love Listening To Good Ol' Congested Coughs
Kate has one right now and I am loving it. It was really annoying last week when it was just a dry cough. But now I am getting to hear the sweet, sweet sounds of the crackling deep within my baby's lungs. Of course, I don't wish her sick. That would make me a horrible mom. But I'd be lying if I said that I don't look forward to when she gets into one of those really long, drawn out coughing fits. (*She's on antibiotics and the doctors say it's just allergies so this really doesn't make me a terrible person.) If I could switch places with her, I would in a heartbeat. For one thing, I really don't want it to balloon into something worse for her. But really, I am jealous. I have had strep only twice in my life. The first time was in college and it was the best coughing I've ever had. That rattling! The phlegm! It was marvelous! The second time, all I got was the damn sore throat and fatigue. What a waste. I was so bummed.
Many people hear that sound and think it's gross. Not me. I know that's weird, but I love it. Now, if you are chomping down on an ice cube or piece of hard candy, I'll want to punch you into the next room. That's just annoying. But if it's a real good guttural cough that's got you by the balls, please, please come sit next to me in a quiet room.
6. I Have To Pee Whenever I Hide From Someone
This dates back to my childhood I always hated playing hide-and-seek because I would go into a closet and immediately have to pee. I can remember so vividly, holding myself, legs crossed, while listening to faint footsteps coming closer and closer to wherever I was hiding. I don't know if it was because I was in a place I knew I couldn't leave for an undetermined amount of time. I don't know. The same thing happens at night when I go to bed. I'll read a couple of chapters in a book or play some mindless game on my IPhone and I'll have to pee no less than five times before I can actually go to bed. It's like subconsciously I think I'll have to wake up in the middle of the night if I'm not absolutely empty. Whenever we go skiing, I'll put my layers and layers of ski clothes on and then have to pee like a racehorse before we leave the cabin, when we get to the resort, and once we get in line to get on the first lift. If I had regular clothes on that weren't such a pain to put on, I could probably hold it all day. But you put three layers and a cumbersome pair of ski boots on me, and it's Niagara Falls.
6. Every Night I Tell My Kids It's Time To Go Brush Their "Toofy Toofs".
I can't believe I just typed that last one. It's conceivable that I could find a sympathetic friend on any of the last five, but this one is really just awful. I said it one night and it just took off. I'm not saying my kids liked it. They had no reaction whatsoever. But I said it and then it came flying out of my night the next night as well. This has been going on for over a month now. As the words come out of my mouth, I hear it coming and I tell myself how stupid it is. And yet, come out they do. And it's only at night. In the mornings, we simply "brush our teeth" like a normal family. But something about my routine at night; I am powerless to change the fact that this is the idiotic utterance that I direct at my children. And if my children were to ever repeat this to anyone, they would ostracized from all of the other "normal" kids they interact with. "Toofy Toofs" is kind of a cutesy phrase too. Nothing about me is cutesy. Nothing. So, how did this even become part of my daily vernacular? And why in the world am I telling you about it??!
Well, I suppose that's a good start. I'm sure there are countless other things I do that I have no idea are odd that you all are listing quietly to yourselves at this very moment. What I would enjoy is for my blogging friends to compile their own lists so I could enjoy reading about the random and ridiculous things they do. The things that make us uniquely "us" are really quite fascinating (as opposed to this particular post about them...). Somehow I have managed to make my way in life. I have a husband. I used to work. I am raising kids. So maybe I'm not all that odd as compared to everyone else. But I did just have a sobering thought. If I'm this weird, what on earth are all the weirdos hiding from view? I'm looking at you, Lady Gaga.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Beautiful Summer
Well, my first official summer as a stay at home mom is coming to an end. It seemed all too brief. Where did the time go? It seemed like only a few days ago that I was looking ahead at my new found freedom from employment (well, paid employment anyway) and wondering what all we would do over the coming months while the girls were out of school. Now I am getting back to the evening routine of making lunches, scrambling to get everyone fed, bathed, read to, teeth brushed, pottied, etc.
Since my last blog entry - about a month ago -I am sorry to say that I've accomplished nothing in the way of good projects around the house. Although to be fair, I have on occasion knelt down and scooped up the gigantic dog hair wad tumbleweeds that have been collecting in the corners throughout my home. (I'm guessing that Dudley is shedding more than usual due to the oppressive heat we've experienced this summer?) That's as much of a cleaning job as I've felt compelled to do. Now that the kiddos will be in school, I should have reports of more cleaning/organizing in future posts. Unless, that is, I become so sedentary that the hair wad tumbleweeds overtake me on the couch. That is a very real possibility.
Also, since my last post, we've had our annual trek to the beach with my family. I used to describe my family of origin by saying that we put the "fun" in dysfunctional. I have learned over the years that there really isn't anything fun about the dysfunction (perhaps I'll write about that someday), but that we do have an awful lot of fun when we are together. Everyone who goes on this beach trip is just hilarious. We cannot have a meal together without several quotables emerging that stay with us for the rest of the week. And we are weird - we never go out for meals at the beach. The guys will go out for breakfast before golf, but that's it. People ask me all the time for recommendations for good eats in Hilton Head. I am somewhat embarrassed to say that I have no idea as we've never patronized any of them. There's too many of us. We'd miss out on too much in a noisy restaurant with awkward seating where we couldn't all interact with each other. Not to mention the wonderful food and drinks we'd miss out on.
Yes, we cook our own meals starting with elaborate appetizers and ending with an even more elaborate and sinful dessert to cap off the evening. All of the meals are comprised of our best recipes and each year we remark that it's the "best food we've ever had at the beach". This year as with previous trips, as the week progressed, my collar and hip bones became less and less discernable. Eating and drinking with complete abandon in just one week's time while fun, is not good on the figure. And there are pictures to prove it. Between my brother and I alone, we took over 2000 pictures. That's not an exaggeration. Not a typo. Over 2000. Just ridiculous. I'm sure by the end of the trip, Mike was ready to chuck my camera into the ocean. I was just scared that if I put down my camera or, gulp, left it in the house, I'd somehow miss out on the best-picture-taken-by-anyone-ever. So it pretty much went with me anywhere I needed to go. Which wasn't far.
Wake up.
Go downstairs for breakfast.
Go upstairs for bathing suit.
Go downstairs for towels and sunscreen.
Go to beach.
Come in for lunch and bloody mary or whipped cream flavored vodka drink.
Go back out to beach.
Come in for shower.
Go downstairs for dinner and too much wine.
Go upstairs for advil and bedtime.
Repeat for seven days.
So, as you've gathered by now, the beach trip was fantastic just as it always is. What's really gotten fun about it is that the older my children get, the more I get to see them experience what I always loved about our family vacations. They enjoy the beach and playing in the sand and ocean more and more each year. And they LOVE playing with all of their cousins. The trips for them are very similar in many ways to the trips I took when I was their age with the same family members. I grew up loving spending time with my cousins at the beach. Meg is named "Meg" after my cousin, in fact. When I use the restroom, I use the "john" because my cousin is named John. Also, Mike and I have a "will" in case of our deaths (in case???) because another cousin of mine is named Will. See how much we all mean to each other?
But to watch them experience and enjoy the humor that is always present with this group of people is really a touching thing for me. I hear people talk about needing a vacation after their vacation or dreading having to spend time with the family. I have never really been able to relate to that because that beach trip is the one time of year I can really let my mind go and relax. Something about the salty air and all of the memories from the 35+ years we've been doing this... it's kind of exceptional. And the perfect way to put a close to this special summer I've had with my babies.
They are no longer babies, but they'll always be my babies. And I had the pleasure of spending my summer with them unimpeded by the stresses of work. We got to go to the beach twice. We spent long weekends at the lake - sometimes as a family, sometimes with friends. We took a couple of road trips. We went to movies. We had spend the night parties when daddy would travel. We ate LOTS of pizza and popped LOTS of popcorn (much of which I would discover in my sheets for several days afterwards). We did everything we wanted to do. It was... lovely.
One thing that started close to the end of the summer but has quickly become one of my very favorite things to do with them is story time before bed. It's not what you may be thinking - we've always read books at bedtime. But one night, in an effort to calm Meg down in a crying spell due to exhaustion, I told them a story that I made up as I went. To be honest, I don't even remember what it was about or who the characters were. But they do. The next morning they were talking about the storyline. Asked about the characters - did they do this or did they like that. They had really paid attention. Much more so than when we read to them.
So every night they began begging me to tell more stories. I would have to oblige since it it seemed to mean so much to them. Since that first time, I've told them stories about a deer family. There was one about a turtle named Tippy. There was one about a new student at school who was having a bad day until someone went up and spoke to her. After a particularly nasty day of the two of them fighting, I told them a story about two sisters names Sally and Sissy Sue who learned a very important lesson about the value of having a sister. They hang on my every word. It is such a sweet time that I get to spend with them. The best way I know to describe it is sweet innocence. I have no idea if they know that I'm making it up or if they really believe the stories are true. I just know how much they look forward to that time we spend and I would not trade that feeling for anything.
This has been a beautiful summer. Everything I had hoped it would be when I made the decision to walk away from a great job. In a few weeks, Mike and I will celebrate our tenth anniversary. I am so grateful to him for supporting my need to be home with the girls. I have no idea where we'll be after the next ten years. I'll likely be blogging about how much my kids hate me and are embarrassed by me. But until that time, I think I'll enjoy their sweet innocence as long as they'll let me. I don't know if my house will ever be clean and organized, but something tells me that's not what matters. And just think, I only have 281 days to wait to get to experience it all over again.
Since my last blog entry - about a month ago -I am sorry to say that I've accomplished nothing in the way of good projects around the house. Although to be fair, I have on occasion knelt down and scooped up the gigantic dog hair wad tumbleweeds that have been collecting in the corners throughout my home. (I'm guessing that Dudley is shedding more than usual due to the oppressive heat we've experienced this summer?) That's as much of a cleaning job as I've felt compelled to do. Now that the kiddos will be in school, I should have reports of more cleaning/organizing in future posts. Unless, that is, I become so sedentary that the hair wad tumbleweeds overtake me on the couch. That is a very real possibility.
Also, since my last post, we've had our annual trek to the beach with my family. I used to describe my family of origin by saying that we put the "fun" in dysfunctional. I have learned over the years that there really isn't anything fun about the dysfunction (perhaps I'll write about that someday), but that we do have an awful lot of fun when we are together. Everyone who goes on this beach trip is just hilarious. We cannot have a meal together without several quotables emerging that stay with us for the rest of the week. And we are weird - we never go out for meals at the beach. The guys will go out for breakfast before golf, but that's it. People ask me all the time for recommendations for good eats in Hilton Head. I am somewhat embarrassed to say that I have no idea as we've never patronized any of them. There's too many of us. We'd miss out on too much in a noisy restaurant with awkward seating where we couldn't all interact with each other. Not to mention the wonderful food and drinks we'd miss out on.
Yes, we cook our own meals starting with elaborate appetizers and ending with an even more elaborate and sinful dessert to cap off the evening. All of the meals are comprised of our best recipes and each year we remark that it's the "best food we've ever had at the beach". This year as with previous trips, as the week progressed, my collar and hip bones became less and less discernable. Eating and drinking with complete abandon in just one week's time while fun, is not good on the figure. And there are pictures to prove it. Between my brother and I alone, we took over 2000 pictures. That's not an exaggeration. Not a typo. Over 2000. Just ridiculous. I'm sure by the end of the trip, Mike was ready to chuck my camera into the ocean. I was just scared that if I put down my camera or, gulp, left it in the house, I'd somehow miss out on the best-picture-taken-by-anyone-ever. So it pretty much went with me anywhere I needed to go. Which wasn't far.
Wake up.
Go downstairs for breakfast.
Go upstairs for bathing suit.
Go downstairs for towels and sunscreen.
Go to beach.
Come in for lunch and bloody mary or whipped cream flavored vodka drink.
Go back out to beach.
Come in for shower.
Go downstairs for dinner and too much wine.
Go upstairs for advil and bedtime.
Repeat for seven days.
So, as you've gathered by now, the beach trip was fantastic just as it always is. What's really gotten fun about it is that the older my children get, the more I get to see them experience what I always loved about our family vacations. They enjoy the beach and playing in the sand and ocean more and more each year. And they LOVE playing with all of their cousins. The trips for them are very similar in many ways to the trips I took when I was their age with the same family members. I grew up loving spending time with my cousins at the beach. Meg is named "Meg" after my cousin, in fact. When I use the restroom, I use the "john" because my cousin is named John. Also, Mike and I have a "will" in case of our deaths (in case???) because another cousin of mine is named Will. See how much we all mean to each other?
But to watch them experience and enjoy the humor that is always present with this group of people is really a touching thing for me. I hear people talk about needing a vacation after their vacation or dreading having to spend time with the family. I have never really been able to relate to that because that beach trip is the one time of year I can really let my mind go and relax. Something about the salty air and all of the memories from the 35+ years we've been doing this... it's kind of exceptional. And the perfect way to put a close to this special summer I've had with my babies.
They are no longer babies, but they'll always be my babies. And I had the pleasure of spending my summer with them unimpeded by the stresses of work. We got to go to the beach twice. We spent long weekends at the lake - sometimes as a family, sometimes with friends. We took a couple of road trips. We went to movies. We had spend the night parties when daddy would travel. We ate LOTS of pizza and popped LOTS of popcorn (much of which I would discover in my sheets for several days afterwards). We did everything we wanted to do. It was... lovely.
One thing that started close to the end of the summer but has quickly become one of my very favorite things to do with them is story time before bed. It's not what you may be thinking - we've always read books at bedtime. But one night, in an effort to calm Meg down in a crying spell due to exhaustion, I told them a story that I made up as I went. To be honest, I don't even remember what it was about or who the characters were. But they do. The next morning they were talking about the storyline. Asked about the characters - did they do this or did they like that. They had really paid attention. Much more so than when we read to them.
So every night they began begging me to tell more stories. I would have to oblige since it it seemed to mean so much to them. Since that first time, I've told them stories about a deer family. There was one about a turtle named Tippy. There was one about a new student at school who was having a bad day until someone went up and spoke to her. After a particularly nasty day of the two of them fighting, I told them a story about two sisters names Sally and Sissy Sue who learned a very important lesson about the value of having a sister. They hang on my every word. It is such a sweet time that I get to spend with them. The best way I know to describe it is sweet innocence. I have no idea if they know that I'm making it up or if they really believe the stories are true. I just know how much they look forward to that time we spend and I would not trade that feeling for anything.
This has been a beautiful summer. Everything I had hoped it would be when I made the decision to walk away from a great job. In a few weeks, Mike and I will celebrate our tenth anniversary. I am so grateful to him for supporting my need to be home with the girls. I have no idea where we'll be after the next ten years. I'll likely be blogging about how much my kids hate me and are embarrassed by me. But until that time, I think I'll enjoy their sweet innocence as long as they'll let me. I don't know if my house will ever be clean and organized, but something tells me that's not what matters. And just think, I only have 281 days to wait to get to experience it all over again.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Here Even Late-lier
Not a whole lot has changed or happened in the week that has passed since my last entry. I have one kid at a day camp and one taking an impromptu nap (which can only mean she's coming down with something) so I find myself having some free time to avoid doing the laundry. So here I sit, pecking away.
Some of my post-retirement accomplishments this week have been:
1. Cleaning out the bench area that is in the hall that connects the kitchen to the garage. It's where my kids leave their shoes and we hang our jackets, etc. It's also, apparently, where we keep an HDMI cord we purchased from Wal-Mart back in December that we intend to return, perhaps in 2013. Additionally, we keep blankets we haven't used since March, book-bags left untouched since May, and a pair of underpants that do not belong to anyone who lives in this house. Because of where it is located, this area catches a lot of things we don't know what to do with when we first come in the door. So, we set them down and promptly forget about them.
2. Cleaning out the big closet off of the guest bedroom. This closet has been a thorn in my side - not to mention a likely fire hazard - for about as long as we've lived in this house. It's where I keep my gift wrapping supplies so you can imagine how horrible it's been looking. Aaron Spelling used to have a room specifically for gift wrapping in his bazillion square foot mansion. I used to think that was ridiculous, but now I know why it is necessary. There were empty spools of wrapping paper everywhere, crushed and flattened bows, tangled heaps of curly ribbon, and even pieces of ribbon that had been pulled off wrapped presents that I hilariously thought I'd be able to re-use. And there were at least 25 used gift bags; only eight of which were in any condition to re-gift. Grrrr. I was also keeping clothes in there that I had both gotten to fat and too thin for. I made a bag for the Goodwill of the clothes I've gotten to thin for. The ones I'm too fat for are still hanging in there (albeit, more neatly) as a means to shame myself into eating better. I also have everything I could possibly need to both begin working on and fully complete the scrapbook for Meg's first year of life. Considering she will be five in October, I am not optimistic I'll get to it anytime soon.
This particular cleaning project will not matter to anyone but me. Mike had no idea how awful it was because he never has a need to be in that closet (insert a Mike "in the closet" joke here). But all of the guests who have had the misfortune of using that room and having no way to hang up their clothes (you couldn't walk into the closet it was so packed) will appreciate it during their next visit. That is, of course, if I can keep it looking nice. I'm sure it will be fine until the Christmas gift wrapping season is upon us and then - no telling.
3. Cleaning and organizing my pantry. I found a can of She Crab soup from the Fresh Market with a slightly expired date on it. Care to guess what year it expired? If you said 2006, you would be correct. This is significant for a couple of reasons. Not only have I had this can of soup for at least 6 years (but mostly likely much longer - canned goods keep forever), but it also made the move from our old house to our new house. And guess what: We moved here in 2008! That's right - 2008. So that means that either I didn't pay any attention to it at the point I packed it up and then unpacked it, or that I just didn't care. Obviously it's not the latter. But how many other horribly outdated and possibly poisonous things have I prepared for my family over the years??! And did you realize that spices expire? I didn't. But they do. Just ask the block of coriander I had sitting in my spice rack. And what's the rule on how long you should keep brown sugar? If it's so hard that you could use it to rest your car on while you fix a tire, should you throw it out? Just to be safe, I did.
This project will also not be visible to anyone other than myself since people rarely find themselves in my pantry. What I probably should have done is spent some time sifting through and organizing the clutter that has built up in my kitchen since that is one of the most visible rooms in the house. But I just couldn't feel good about what groceries to buy, etc., until I knew exactly what was in that pantry. And now I know. I can see almost every item in there now as opposed to seeing what was in the first row and missing everything that was shoved deep into the abyss of the shelves.
and finally...
4. Cleaning out my car. We went to the lake a couple of weekends ago and the ants were out in full force. They are really bad there so we have to be very careful about where we eat food in the house because if there are crumbs anywhere, they'll find 'em. A couple of years ago, the girls ate some chips in their bed and two days later had ants crawling all over the top bunk. Lovely. I despise ants. So imagine how disgusted I was when I realized that they had sniffed out some crumbs in my car and were crawling all of the place. I did the best I could cleaning it out for the ride home but as I drove home they were crawling all over the dashboard and my children's car seats. G-R-O-S-S!!!! So, not only did I get all of the crap out of it (random Happy Meal toys, trash, etc.) but I washed the windows, cleaned the dashboard, doors, and seats, and steam cleaned all of the rugs and the floors. It looks SO much better in there now and I feel better that I (hopefully) got rid of all of the footy-prints and poop, etc. that those pesky pests leave behind.
Yet another project that no one else will appreciate except for me. Well, the girls and Mike probably appreciate my efforts on the car more than any other of my projects so far. But there are several other glaringly obvious opportunities in my house that I am hoping to tackle in the coming weeks. The time that has passed since I began typing this, as an example, would have been a wonderful opportunity to get something productivedone. Oh well. Can't get to everything at once.
This retirement has started off kind of like a pregnancy. I have been excited at the new phase I am entering into in my life. I've been nervous I won't be a good mother (stay at home mom) and have begun nesting (randomly cleaning/straightening things in my house). This means that right around the corner I will be dog-tired and pudgy. I see a lot of naps in my future. I see Mike having to rub my feet. I see myself growing back into the clothes I've just marked for the Goodwill. Dammit.
Stay tuned if you'd like to follow my progress.
Some of my post-retirement accomplishments this week have been:
1. Cleaning out the bench area that is in the hall that connects the kitchen to the garage. It's where my kids leave their shoes and we hang our jackets, etc. It's also, apparently, where we keep an HDMI cord we purchased from Wal-Mart back in December that we intend to return, perhaps in 2013. Additionally, we keep blankets we haven't used since March, book-bags left untouched since May, and a pair of underpants that do not belong to anyone who lives in this house. Because of where it is located, this area catches a lot of things we don't know what to do with when we first come in the door. So, we set them down and promptly forget about them.
2. Cleaning out the big closet off of the guest bedroom. This closet has been a thorn in my side - not to mention a likely fire hazard - for about as long as we've lived in this house. It's where I keep my gift wrapping supplies so you can imagine how horrible it's been looking. Aaron Spelling used to have a room specifically for gift wrapping in his bazillion square foot mansion. I used to think that was ridiculous, but now I know why it is necessary. There were empty spools of wrapping paper everywhere, crushed and flattened bows, tangled heaps of curly ribbon, and even pieces of ribbon that had been pulled off wrapped presents that I hilariously thought I'd be able to re-use. And there were at least 25 used gift bags; only eight of which were in any condition to re-gift. Grrrr. I was also keeping clothes in there that I had both gotten to fat and too thin for. I made a bag for the Goodwill of the clothes I've gotten to thin for. The ones I'm too fat for are still hanging in there (albeit, more neatly) as a means to shame myself into eating better. I also have everything I could possibly need to both begin working on and fully complete the scrapbook for Meg's first year of life. Considering she will be five in October, I am not optimistic I'll get to it anytime soon.
This particular cleaning project will not matter to anyone but me. Mike had no idea how awful it was because he never has a need to be in that closet (insert a Mike "in the closet" joke here). But all of the guests who have had the misfortune of using that room and having no way to hang up their clothes (you couldn't walk into the closet it was so packed) will appreciate it during their next visit. That is, of course, if I can keep it looking nice. I'm sure it will be fine until the Christmas gift wrapping season is upon us and then - no telling.
3. Cleaning and organizing my pantry. I found a can of She Crab soup from the Fresh Market with a slightly expired date on it. Care to guess what year it expired? If you said 2006, you would be correct. This is significant for a couple of reasons. Not only have I had this can of soup for at least 6 years (but mostly likely much longer - canned goods keep forever), but it also made the move from our old house to our new house. And guess what: We moved here in 2008! That's right - 2008. So that means that either I didn't pay any attention to it at the point I packed it up and then unpacked it, or that I just didn't care. Obviously it's not the latter. But how many other horribly outdated and possibly poisonous things have I prepared for my family over the years??! And did you realize that spices expire? I didn't. But they do. Just ask the block of coriander I had sitting in my spice rack. And what's the rule on how long you should keep brown sugar? If it's so hard that you could use it to rest your car on while you fix a tire, should you throw it out? Just to be safe, I did.
This project will also not be visible to anyone other than myself since people rarely find themselves in my pantry. What I probably should have done is spent some time sifting through and organizing the clutter that has built up in my kitchen since that is one of the most visible rooms in the house. But I just couldn't feel good about what groceries to buy, etc., until I knew exactly what was in that pantry. And now I know. I can see almost every item in there now as opposed to seeing what was in the first row and missing everything that was shoved deep into the abyss of the shelves.
and finally...
4. Cleaning out my car. We went to the lake a couple of weekends ago and the ants were out in full force. They are really bad there so we have to be very careful about where we eat food in the house because if there are crumbs anywhere, they'll find 'em. A couple of years ago, the girls ate some chips in their bed and two days later had ants crawling all over the top bunk. Lovely. I despise ants. So imagine how disgusted I was when I realized that they had sniffed out some crumbs in my car and were crawling all of the place. I did the best I could cleaning it out for the ride home but as I drove home they were crawling all over the dashboard and my children's car seats. G-R-O-S-S!!!! So, not only did I get all of the crap out of it (random Happy Meal toys, trash, etc.) but I washed the windows, cleaned the dashboard, doors, and seats, and steam cleaned all of the rugs and the floors. It looks SO much better in there now and I feel better that I (hopefully) got rid of all of the footy-prints and poop, etc. that those pesky pests leave behind.
Yet another project that no one else will appreciate except for me. Well, the girls and Mike probably appreciate my efforts on the car more than any other of my projects so far. But there are several other glaringly obvious opportunities in my house that I am hoping to tackle in the coming weeks. The time that has passed since I began typing this, as an example, would have been a wonderful opportunity to get something productivedone. Oh well. Can't get to everything at once.
This retirement has started off kind of like a pregnancy. I have been excited at the new phase I am entering into in my life. I've been nervous I won't be a good mother (stay at home mom) and have begun nesting (randomly cleaning/straightening things in my house). This means that right around the corner I will be dog-tired and pudgy. I see a lot of naps in my future. I see Mike having to rub my feet. I see myself growing back into the clothes I've just marked for the Goodwill. Dammit.
Stay tuned if you'd like to follow my progress.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Here Lately
One month ago, I left my job to stay at home with my girls. People keep asking me how I'm liking life these days. Honestly, it doesn't feel terribly different. Right now it just feels like the two days a week I was home anyway while working part-time. Plus, summer is not reality. There's no end to the things to do. I will say, though, that it took me a few days to get into the swing of things.
I've mentioned before that I was fearful of staying at home because I'm such an inherently lazy person. Here's how I thought my blog would look in the days following my unemployment:
Day One
Things are going smoothly so far. I've gotten out of bed. I've showered. Maybe tomorrow I'll apply make-up.
Day Three
Finally have my pajamas right as I want them - well worn. They are very "lived in" so they are really soft. I probably should do something about the hole wearing in the crotch.
Day Five
Haven't heard from the girls. I know they're around here somewhere. Remind me to check under the pile of dishes in the kitchen. I'll do it at the commercial break from Family Feud.
Day Eight
Food becoming scarce. I think we still have some dog food. I'll check it out in my now crotchless pajamas later this afternoon. Right now there's a Dharma and Greg marathon I'd be crazy to miss.
Okay, so it didn't exactly go like that. My first week at home, I was determined to not become a total sloth. I actually set my alarm every day* so I would get out of bed before 8:00. I settled into a nice morning routine where I would watch the first 30 minutes of the Today show while I drank my coffee. I would eat breakfast while the girls played in the den and then we'd either go downstairs so I could get on the treadmill or we'd go to the pool for swim lessons. Okay, that was the first two days*. Day three - a Wednesday - my lone accomplishment was creating a to-do list. Of course, I didn't actually mark anything off of it. Just making the list was achievement enough. And really, I cheated. I put two things on it that I was already in the process of doing. Pretty sad.
But, I have fallen into a routine that I like and sure beats the crap out of having a stressful job. Of course, because it's summertime, I have constant entertainment. We can go to the pool with neighborhood friends. We can go to the lake house. There are plenty of kid-friendly offerings at the movies since this is peak movie-going season. And since the kids aren't in school, we can jet (okay, drive) off on an adventure any time we want. I've had my college reunion already and have hosted several people at the lake house. We've had a dream summer. Plenty of fun in the sun and plenty of time with our friends.
It's too early to tell how things will go once the kids are in school an we have a real, actual routine. And fall will be here before you know it. Yesterday, the girls and I went and bought Kate her school uniforms which she will be required to wear now that she's a first grader. (I cannot believe how grown up she looks in them!) So once school starts and I am truly a "stay at home mom", I wonder how I'll like it. I wonder what the house will look like once I have nothing but time to clean it. I wonder what sorts of fabulous meals I'll prepare now that I won't have my 45 minute commute to make it inconvenient. I wonder if any of this will change now that I'll be at home. Or, will life be the same except that I'm not working?
I'm afraid that all of the things I vowed to personally vowed to improve once I was no longer working will not change at all due to my aforementioned penchant for laziness and slovenliness. Tonight, for example, I went to the store but forgot two crucial ingredients for my dinner and dinner for the kids. Pretty hard to make salad with no lettuce. Also difficult to make pizza with no cheese. So, I loaded everyone up and we went and got McDonalds. (Okay, I lied. The kids got McDonalds. I made a special trip to Taco Bell for some big, nasty Nachos Bell Grande. I'm so ashamed.) How will I be able to get it together once I have school and extra-curricular schedules back in the mix? I suppose it remains to be seen.
The good news is that I've showered more than I've not showered. Worn make-up more than I've not worn make-up. Changed pajamas (and done laundry) an acceptable amount of times. My television is often off and my children aren't buried under any filth in my house. So far, so good I'd say.
I've mentioned before that I was fearful of staying at home because I'm such an inherently lazy person. Here's how I thought my blog would look in the days following my unemployment:
Day One
Things are going smoothly so far. I've gotten out of bed. I've showered. Maybe tomorrow I'll apply make-up.
Day Three
Finally have my pajamas right as I want them - well worn. They are very "lived in" so they are really soft. I probably should do something about the hole wearing in the crotch.
Day Five
Haven't heard from the girls. I know they're around here somewhere. Remind me to check under the pile of dishes in the kitchen. I'll do it at the commercial break from Family Feud.
Day Eight
Food becoming scarce. I think we still have some dog food. I'll check it out in my now crotchless pajamas later this afternoon. Right now there's a Dharma and Greg marathon I'd be crazy to miss.
Okay, so it didn't exactly go like that. My first week at home, I was determined to not become a total sloth. I actually set my alarm every day* so I would get out of bed before 8:00. I settled into a nice morning routine where I would watch the first 30 minutes of the Today show while I drank my coffee. I would eat breakfast while the girls played in the den and then we'd either go downstairs so I could get on the treadmill or we'd go to the pool for swim lessons. Okay, that was the first two days*. Day three - a Wednesday - my lone accomplishment was creating a to-do list. Of course, I didn't actually mark anything off of it. Just making the list was achievement enough. And really, I cheated. I put two things on it that I was already in the process of doing. Pretty sad.
But, I have fallen into a routine that I like and sure beats the crap out of having a stressful job. Of course, because it's summertime, I have constant entertainment. We can go to the pool with neighborhood friends. We can go to the lake house. There are plenty of kid-friendly offerings at the movies since this is peak movie-going season. And since the kids aren't in school, we can jet (okay, drive) off on an adventure any time we want. I've had my college reunion already and have hosted several people at the lake house. We've had a dream summer. Plenty of fun in the sun and plenty of time with our friends.
It's too early to tell how things will go once the kids are in school an we have a real, actual routine. And fall will be here before you know it. Yesterday, the girls and I went and bought Kate her school uniforms which she will be required to wear now that she's a first grader. (I cannot believe how grown up she looks in them!) So once school starts and I am truly a "stay at home mom", I wonder how I'll like it. I wonder what the house will look like once I have nothing but time to clean it. I wonder what sorts of fabulous meals I'll prepare now that I won't have my 45 minute commute to make it inconvenient. I wonder if any of this will change now that I'll be at home. Or, will life be the same except that I'm not working?
I'm afraid that all of the things I vowed to personally vowed to improve once I was no longer working will not change at all due to my aforementioned penchant for laziness and slovenliness. Tonight, for example, I went to the store but forgot two crucial ingredients for my dinner and dinner for the kids. Pretty hard to make salad with no lettuce. Also difficult to make pizza with no cheese. So, I loaded everyone up and we went and got McDonalds. (Okay, I lied. The kids got McDonalds. I made a special trip to Taco Bell for some big, nasty Nachos Bell Grande. I'm so ashamed.) How will I be able to get it together once I have school and extra-curricular schedules back in the mix? I suppose it remains to be seen.
The good news is that I've showered more than I've not showered. Worn make-up more than I've not worn make-up. Changed pajamas (and done laundry) an acceptable amount of times. My television is often off and my children aren't buried under any filth in my house. So far, so good I'd say.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Next Chapter
Last Friday, I spent my last day as the Corporate Human Resources Manager for a large, Fortune 500 manufacturing company. I won't name the organization here, because I paid attention during my required "social media" training where they politely asked that we refrain from discussing the company publicly. Not that I have anything bad to say. I don't. (Well, I do. I'll cover it in the next paragraph.) It was (is) a terrific company and one that was very generous with me. I worked there for over nine years and was promoted a few times. They allowed me to go part-time when Kate was born which has been such a blessing these last six years. I got to do pretty much whatever I wanted because they seemed to have confidence in me.
My only complaint really is that about three years ago we were told that we should no longer call our employees "employees". It was noted that "Associate" or "Team Member" was the less demoralizing term for the people who work for our company. Um... yeah. I really don't think that anyone felt better about themselves or their job because I referred to them as an associate. In fact, had they know how I would abbreviate it when writing ("Ass."), they probably wouldn't have appreciated it at all. I get so annoyed with these little things we do to further point out how thin-skinned we have become as a society. (A symptom of the problem described in my previous post.) But, anyway, for three of my nine years at this company I was an "associate". Either way, I'm going to miss my friends there. And if I'm honest with myself, I'll probably miss some of the work too.
I left my job in order to stay at home full time with the girls.
Let me stop right here and cover something that's bothered me for several of these posts. There is a movement out there that has several women out there referring to their breasts as "the girls". Every time I say "the girls" or "my girls", I picture this. Please note that I am talking about staying home to be with my daughters. Not my breasts, although they will be there, too. They pretty much go wherever I go.
Moving on...
I left my job in order to be a full-time mother to my girls. Is that my calling? It's one of them certainly. I'm not convinced it's the only thing I'm supposed to do. One day perhaps I'll figure out the rest of it. Part of what made me want to be home was my schedule. I had been working three days a week which was really a great set-up. But, I had a 45 minute commute. That meant that on the days that I worked, I would leave at 7:00 a.m. (okay, 7:30) and wouldn't get home until almost or just after 6:00 in the evening. Mike travels quite a bit, so when he's gone, I have to get both girls up and dressed, all of us fed, the dog out, the kids dropped off and then somehow get to work at around 8:30. Then I'd also have to leave work early in order to get them on time from after school care. It wouldn't have been that big of a deal except that missing thirty minutes at the beginning and end of my work day took a chunk out of my work time when you consider I was only in the office 24 hours a week to begin with. Plus, if the kids were sick - which they often are - I'd have to be home. I often felt like I was letting the girls down and also letting down the folks I supported at work. Mommy guilt. And work guilt. Not a great combination.
Plus, my job really wasn't a part-time job. It was a full-time job that I just did part-time. I was constantly getting phone calls and emails on my "days off". I did get pretty good at being able to "shut it off" on those days - determining which calls and emails I needed to pay attention to and letting the rest wait until my next day in the office - but certainly none of us could expect HR issues to only happen on Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays. That's just not realistic. Also, it didn't really fit my personality; that type of work. I had to deliver a lot of bad news. I had to discipline people and give them unwelcomed feedback. When I walked into the room, people would joke that they couldn't have any more fun because HR was in the room. Really? Me? Prevent you from having fun?! If anything, I am usually the one stirring up the inappropriate conversation. What on earth am I doing having to squelch it? Not me at all.
Two things happened that let me know it was time to leave. Mike and I had actually discussed it several times before but this time it seemed right. First, the girl we had lined up to keep the girls this summer got a full-time offer from another family. I had given her a window - through the end of March - to find something full-time before she committed to me. She called me on Friday, March 30th to let me know. I mentioned it to Mike that following Monday. He was leaving for an out of town work trip and I asked him to take a look at our budget, etc. while he was on the plane. Once he got to his destination, he was presented with a nice raise and a contract extension. Done deal. Friday, April 6th, I told my boss and the ball was rolling.
I knew I'd be sad about leaving, but I never dreamed I'd cry like a baby ALL DAY like I did. My eyelids weighed about 17 pounds each and looked like albino footballs by the end of the day. It was kind of like a funeral before you die. People say such nice things and let you know what you've meant to them. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure some of them were just being nice and let's face it: it's not like they're going to tell you what an idiot they always thought you were when you are so weepy about leaving. But, it still meant a lot. I truly loved so many of those people. Even the ones I didn't know that well but would exchange simple pleasantries with. They were part of my work day. They made it a welcoming place to be for all of those years. I am honored to have been an employee AND an associate there for that long. It's a truly special place.
Now on to my new reality.
Monday was my first Monday-of-unemployment. How did I spend my first day of freedom? Let's see. It was pouring for most of the day. I had my yearly gyno visit (not exactly the glamorous life) and I was actually late for it for no good reason except that my children wouldn't cooperate. When I got there all frazzled and fuzzy (from the humidity), the nurse told me that I must be "having a Monday". What is a Monday to a person who is unemployed? Just a day, I guess. I don't really know yet. I ran some errands and got on the treadmill. Fixed a good, healthy dinner. Read some of my book. I even wore make-up. I took a shower (obviously; given the gyno visit) which is actually a good sign. I was worried I might only take the occasional shower since I didn't have a job to go to. I've told my work friends that if they start seeing pictures of me on Facebook in my pajamas and no make-up to please intervene.
So far, things are going well. I've set my alarm for 7:15 during my first two days of freedom because I just feel like I should get up and get moving. I've showered both days - accomplishment. I've fixed five meals which is good BUT I broke down and bought pizza for dinner tonight. Oh well, baby steps...
I worry because I am a generally lazy person. My job kept me structured and now that it's gone, I'm a little worried about how I will fill my time. I said earlier that I don't know if my calling is to be a full-time mother. I love being a mother of course, and I adore my sweet children. But I am not a *great* mother. I have great intentions. But I'm not creative, I'm lazy, as I've said, and I have very little patience. I see my friends who stay home full time and they are much better, sweeter mothers than I am. They are stay-at-home-moms whose kids are benefiting from their being home. Time will tell if mine will. I know I need adult interaction. I need my brain to be able to focus on something that's just mine; not my kids, if that makes any sense. But, for the time being, I will be at home full time doing the most important job I will ever have.
I'm not real sure where life is going for me, but I suppose I'll enjoy the ride until, well, I don't enjoy it. And then I'll find something else to do. Something that is more conducive to being a present, involved parent. And something that is a better match for my personality. We'll see how this goes...
My only complaint really is that about three years ago we were told that we should no longer call our employees "employees". It was noted that "Associate" or "Team Member" was the less demoralizing term for the people who work for our company. Um... yeah. I really don't think that anyone felt better about themselves or their job because I referred to them as an associate. In fact, had they know how I would abbreviate it when writing ("Ass."), they probably wouldn't have appreciated it at all. I get so annoyed with these little things we do to further point out how thin-skinned we have become as a society. (A symptom of the problem described in my previous post.) But, anyway, for three of my nine years at this company I was an "associate". Either way, I'm going to miss my friends there. And if I'm honest with myself, I'll probably miss some of the work too.
I left my job in order to stay at home full time with the girls.
Let me stop right here and cover something that's bothered me for several of these posts. There is a movement out there that has several women out there referring to their breasts as "the girls". Every time I say "the girls" or "my girls", I picture this. Please note that I am talking about staying home to be with my daughters. Not my breasts, although they will be there, too. They pretty much go wherever I go.
Moving on...
I left my job in order to be a full-time mother to my girls. Is that my calling? It's one of them certainly. I'm not convinced it's the only thing I'm supposed to do. One day perhaps I'll figure out the rest of it. Part of what made me want to be home was my schedule. I had been working three days a week which was really a great set-up. But, I had a 45 minute commute. That meant that on the days that I worked, I would leave at 7:00 a.m. (okay, 7:30) and wouldn't get home until almost or just after 6:00 in the evening. Mike travels quite a bit, so when he's gone, I have to get both girls up and dressed, all of us fed, the dog out, the kids dropped off and then somehow get to work at around 8:30. Then I'd also have to leave work early in order to get them on time from after school care. It wouldn't have been that big of a deal except that missing thirty minutes at the beginning and end of my work day took a chunk out of my work time when you consider I was only in the office 24 hours a week to begin with. Plus, if the kids were sick - which they often are - I'd have to be home. I often felt like I was letting the girls down and also letting down the folks I supported at work. Mommy guilt. And work guilt. Not a great combination.
Plus, my job really wasn't a part-time job. It was a full-time job that I just did part-time. I was constantly getting phone calls and emails on my "days off". I did get pretty good at being able to "shut it off" on those days - determining which calls and emails I needed to pay attention to and letting the rest wait until my next day in the office - but certainly none of us could expect HR issues to only happen on Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays. That's just not realistic. Also, it didn't really fit my personality; that type of work. I had to deliver a lot of bad news. I had to discipline people and give them unwelcomed feedback. When I walked into the room, people would joke that they couldn't have any more fun because HR was in the room. Really? Me? Prevent you from having fun?! If anything, I am usually the one stirring up the inappropriate conversation. What on earth am I doing having to squelch it? Not me at all.
Two things happened that let me know it was time to leave. Mike and I had actually discussed it several times before but this time it seemed right. First, the girl we had lined up to keep the girls this summer got a full-time offer from another family. I had given her a window - through the end of March - to find something full-time before she committed to me. She called me on Friday, March 30th to let me know. I mentioned it to Mike that following Monday. He was leaving for an out of town work trip and I asked him to take a look at our budget, etc. while he was on the plane. Once he got to his destination, he was presented with a nice raise and a contract extension. Done deal. Friday, April 6th, I told my boss and the ball was rolling.
I knew I'd be sad about leaving, but I never dreamed I'd cry like a baby ALL DAY like I did. My eyelids weighed about 17 pounds each and looked like albino footballs by the end of the day. It was kind of like a funeral before you die. People say such nice things and let you know what you've meant to them. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure some of them were just being nice and let's face it: it's not like they're going to tell you what an idiot they always thought you were when you are so weepy about leaving. But, it still meant a lot. I truly loved so many of those people. Even the ones I didn't know that well but would exchange simple pleasantries with. They were part of my work day. They made it a welcoming place to be for all of those years. I am honored to have been an employee AND an associate there for that long. It's a truly special place.
Now on to my new reality.
Monday was my first Monday-of-unemployment. How did I spend my first day of freedom? Let's see. It was pouring for most of the day. I had my yearly gyno visit (not exactly the glamorous life) and I was actually late for it for no good reason except that my children wouldn't cooperate. When I got there all frazzled and fuzzy (from the humidity), the nurse told me that I must be "having a Monday". What is a Monday to a person who is unemployed? Just a day, I guess. I don't really know yet. I ran some errands and got on the treadmill. Fixed a good, healthy dinner. Read some of my book. I even wore make-up. I took a shower (obviously; given the gyno visit) which is actually a good sign. I was worried I might only take the occasional shower since I didn't have a job to go to. I've told my work friends that if they start seeing pictures of me on Facebook in my pajamas and no make-up to please intervene.
So far, things are going well. I've set my alarm for 7:15 during my first two days of freedom because I just feel like I should get up and get moving. I've showered both days - accomplishment. I've fixed five meals which is good BUT I broke down and bought pizza for dinner tonight. Oh well, baby steps...
I worry because I am a generally lazy person. My job kept me structured and now that it's gone, I'm a little worried about how I will fill my time. I said earlier that I don't know if my calling is to be a full-time mother. I love being a mother of course, and I adore my sweet children. But I am not a *great* mother. I have great intentions. But I'm not creative, I'm lazy, as I've said, and I have very little patience. I see my friends who stay home full time and they are much better, sweeter mothers than I am. They are stay-at-home-moms whose kids are benefiting from their being home. Time will tell if mine will. I know I need adult interaction. I need my brain to be able to focus on something that's just mine; not my kids, if that makes any sense. But, for the time being, I will be at home full time doing the most important job I will ever have.
I'm not real sure where life is going for me, but I suppose I'll enjoy the ride until, well, I don't enjoy it. And then I'll find something else to do. Something that is more conducive to being a present, involved parent. And something that is a better match for my personality. We'll see how this goes...
Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
My New Hero
I'm sure by now you've all seen clips or read articles about the commencement address given by Wellesley High School English Professor, David McCullough, Jr.
So here we are… commencement… life's great forward-looking ceremony. (And don't say, "What about weddings?" Weddings are one-sided and insufficiently effective. Weddings are bride-centric pageantry. Other than conceding to a list of unreasonable demands, the groom just stands there. No stately, hey-everybody-look-at-me procession. No being given away. No identity-changing pronouncement. And can you imagine a television show dedicated to watching guys try on tuxedos? Their fathers sitting there misty-eyed with joy and disbelief, their brothers lurking in the corner muttering with envy. Left to men, weddings would be, after limits-testing procrastination, spontaneous, almost inadvertent… during halftime… on the way to the refrigerator. And then there's the frequency of failure: statistics tell us half of you will get divorced. A winning percentage like that'll get you last place in the American League East. The Baltimore Orioles do better than weddings.)
But this ceremony… commencement… a commencement works every time. From this day forward… truly… in sickness and in health, through financial fiascos, through midlife crises and passably attractive sales reps at trade shows in Cincinnati, through diminishing tolerance for annoyingness, through every difference, irreconcilable and otherwise, you will stay forever graduated from high school, you and your diploma as one, 'til death do you part.
No, commencement is life's great ceremonial beginning, with its own attendant and highly appropriate symbolism. Fitting, for example, for this auspicious rite of passage, is where we find ourselves this afternoon, the venue. Normally, I avoid clichés like the plague, wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole, but here we are on a literal level playing field. That matters. That says something. And your ceremonial costume… shapeless, uniform, one-size-fits-all. Whether male or female, tall or short, scholar or slacker, spray-tanned prom queen or intergalactic X-Box assassin, each of you is dressed, you'll notice, exactly the same. And your diploma… but for your name, exactly the same.
All of this is as it should be, because none of you is special.
You are not special.
You are not exceptional.
Contrary to what your u9 soccer trophy suggests, your glowing seventh grade report card, despite every assurance of a certain corpulent purple dinosaur, that nice Mister Rogers and your batty Aunt Sylvia, no matter how often your maternal caped crusader has swooped in to save you… you're nothing special.
Yes, you've been pampered, cosseted, doted upon, helmeted, bubble-wrapped. Yes, capable adults with other things to do have held you, kissed you, fed you, wiped your mouth, wiped your bottom, trained you, taught you, tutored you, coached you, listened to you, counseled you, encouraged you, consoled you and encouraged you again. You've been nudged, cajoled, wheedled and implored. You've been feted and fawned over and called sweetie pie. Yes, you have. And, certainly, we've been to your games, your plays, your recitals, your science fairs. Absolutely, smiles ignite when you walk into a room, and hundreds gasp with delight at your every tweet. Why, maybe you've even had your picture in the Townsman! And now you've conquered high school… and, indisputably, here we all have gathered for you, the pride and joy of this fine community, the first to emerge from that magnificent new building…
But do not get the idea you're anything special. Because you're not.
The empirical evidence is everywhere, numbers even an English teacher can't ignore. Newton, Natick, Nee… I am allowed to say Needham, yes? …that has to be two thousand high school graduates right there, give or take, and that's just the neighborhood Ns. Across the country no fewer than 3.2 million seniors are graduating about now from more than 37,000 high schools. That's 37,000 valedictorians… 37,000 class presidents… 92,000 harmonizing altos… 340,000 swaggering jocks… 2,185,967 pairs of Uggs. But why limit ourselves to high school? After all, you're leaving it. So think about this: even if you're one in a million, on a planet of 6.8 billion that means there are nearly 7,000 people just like you. Imagine standing somewhere over there on Washington Street on Marathon Monday and watching sixty-eight hundred yous go running by. And consider for a moment the bigger picture: your planet, I'll remind you, is not the center of its solar system, your solar system is not the center of its galaxy, your galaxy is not the center of the universe. In fact, astrophysicists assure us the universe has no center; therefore, you cannot be it. Neither can Donald Trump… which someone should tell him… although that hair is quite a phenomenon.
"But, Dave," you cry, "Walt Whitman tells me I'm my own version of perfection! Epictetus tells me I have the spark of Zeus!" And I don't disagree. So that makes 6.8 billion examples of perfection, 6.8 billion sparks of Zeus. You see, if everyone is special, then no one is. If everyone gets a trophy, trophies become meaningless. In our unspoken but not so subtle Darwinian competition with one another-which springs, I think, from our fear of our own insignificance, a subset of our dread of mortality - we have of late, we Americans, to our detriment, come to love accolades more than genuine achievement. We have come to see them as the point - and we're happy to compromise standards, or ignore reality, if we suspect that's the quickest way, or only way, to have something to put on the mantelpiece, something to pose with, crow about, something with which to leverage ourselves into a better spot on the social totem pole. No longer is it how you play the game, no longer is it even whether you win or lose, or learn or grow, or enjoy yourself doing it… Now it's "So what does this get me?" As a consequence, we cheapen worthy endeavors, and building a Guatemalan medical clinic becomes more about the application to Bowdoin than the well-being of Guatemalans. It's an epidemic - and in its way, not even dear old Wellesley High is immune… one of the best of the 37,000 nationwide, Wellesley High School… where good is no longer good enough, where a B is the new C, and the midlevel curriculum is called Advanced College Placement. And I hope you caught me when I said "one of the best." I said "one of the best" so we can feel better about ourselves, so we can bask in a little easy distinction, however vague and unverifiable, and count ourselves among the elite, whoever they might be, and enjoy a perceived leg up on the perceived competition. But the phrase defies logic. By definition there can be only one best. You're it or you're not.
If you've learned anything in your years here I hope it's that education should be for, rather than material advantage, the exhilaration of learning. You've learned, too, I hope, as Sophocles assured us, that wisdom is the chief element of happiness. (Second is ice cream… just an fyi) I also hope you've learned enough to recognize how little you know… how little you know now… at the moment… for today is just the beginning. It's where you go from here that matters.
As you commence, then, and before you scatter to the winds, I urge you to do whatever you do for no reason other than you love it and believe in its importance. Don't bother with work you don't believe in any more than you would a spouse you're not crazy about, lest you too find yourself on the wrong side of a Baltimore Orioles comparison. Resist the easy comforts of complacency, the specious glitter of materialism, the narcotic paralysis of self-satisfaction. Be worthy of your advantages. And read… read all the time… read as a matter of principle, as a matter of self-respect. Read as a nourishing staple of life. Develop and protect a moral sensibility and demonstrate the character to apply it. Dream big. Work hard. Think for yourself. Love everything you love, everyone you love, with all your might. And do so, please, with a sense of urgency, for every tick of the clock subtracts from fewer and fewer; and as surely as there are commencements there are cessations, and you'll be in no condition to enjoy the ceremony attendant to that eventuality no matter how delightful the afternoon.
The fulfilling life, the distinctive life, the relevant life, is an achievement, not something that will fall into your lap because you're a nice person or mommy ordered it from the caterer. You'll note the founding fathers took pains to secure your inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness-quite an active verb, "pursuit"-which leaves, I should think, little time for lying around watching parrots rollerskate on Youtube. The first President Roosevelt, the old rough rider, advocated the strenuous life. Mr. Thoreau wanted to drive life into a corner, to live deep and suck out all the marrow. The poet Mary Oliver tells us to row, row into the swirl and roil. Locally, someone… I forget who… from time to time encourages young scholars to carpe the heck out of the diem. The point is the same: get busy, have at it. Don't wait for inspiration or passion to find you. Get up, get out, explore, find it yourself, and grab hold with both hands. (Now, before you dash off and get your YOLO tattoo, let me point out the illogic of that trendy little expression-because you can and should live not merely once, but every day of your life. Rather than You Only Live Once, it should be You Live Only Once… but because YLOO doesn't have the same ring, we shrug and decide it doesn't matter.)
None of this day-seizing, though, this YLOOing, should be interpreted as license for self-indulgence. Like accolades ought to be, the fulfilled life is a consequence, a gratifying byproduct. It's what happens when you're thinking about more important things. Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you. Go to Paris to be in Paris, not to cross it off your list and congratulate yourself for being worldly. Exercise free will and creative, independent thought not for the satisfactions they will bring you, but for the good they will do others, the rest of the 6.8 billion-and those who will follow them. And then you too will discover the great and curious truth of the human experience is that selflessness is the best thing you can do for yourself. The sweetest joys of life, then, come only with the recognition that you're not special.
Because everyone is.
Congratulations. Good luck. Make for yourselves, please, for your sake and for ours, extraordinary lives.
Very well said, Mr. McCullough.
No surprisingly, it has sparked some controversy, although most of what I've read has people saying it's about damn time someone said these things. I agree with everything he is saying. All of the trophies we hand out to the winners AND losers teach nothing. Young people are ill-equipped to get realistic, critical feedback about themselves because they've never been told that they need to do better. I know this because I've tried to do it at work and it's gone over like a lead balloon. The "you can do anything" approach to our society breeds mediocre performance, because there is going to be a reward for losing or coming in second anyway. Heck, even American Idol allows more than just the winner to get recording contracts. So what's the big deal with winning?
Saturday Night Live recently poked fun at this phenomenon when they aired the following sketch:
So, for this man to finally clue these kids in that they are not special, was a breath of fresh air. And incidentally, I'm not suggesting that young people are the only ones who have this affliction. It's societal. But I do think that this is the first generation who largely have been told that they are special and unique even when they have not done much to earn that. A few witty tweets don't make you interesting. Neither does blogging (touche). At any rate, that this man had the guts and the insight to say these things make him my new hero. I swear, if Barbara Walters passes over him for her "Most Fascinating People" list in favor of a Kardashian or a Gaga, I will forever lose all hope in our country.
Here is the full speech that I pulled from various sources on the internet.
Dr. Wong, Dr. Keough, Mrs. Novogroski, Ms. Curran, members of the board of education, family and friends of the graduates, ladies and gentlemen of the Wellesley High School class of 2012, for the privilege of speaking to you this afternoon, I am honored and grateful. Thank you.
So here we are… commencement… life's great forward-looking ceremony. (And don't say, "What about weddings?" Weddings are one-sided and insufficiently effective. Weddings are bride-centric pageantry. Other than conceding to a list of unreasonable demands, the groom just stands there. No stately, hey-everybody-look-at-me procession. No being given away. No identity-changing pronouncement. And can you imagine a television show dedicated to watching guys try on tuxedos? Their fathers sitting there misty-eyed with joy and disbelief, their brothers lurking in the corner muttering with envy. Left to men, weddings would be, after limits-testing procrastination, spontaneous, almost inadvertent… during halftime… on the way to the refrigerator. And then there's the frequency of failure: statistics tell us half of you will get divorced. A winning percentage like that'll get you last place in the American League East. The Baltimore Orioles do better than weddings.)
But this ceremony… commencement… a commencement works every time. From this day forward… truly… in sickness and in health, through financial fiascos, through midlife crises and passably attractive sales reps at trade shows in Cincinnati, through diminishing tolerance for annoyingness, through every difference, irreconcilable and otherwise, you will stay forever graduated from high school, you and your diploma as one, 'til death do you part.
No, commencement is life's great ceremonial beginning, with its own attendant and highly appropriate symbolism. Fitting, for example, for this auspicious rite of passage, is where we find ourselves this afternoon, the venue. Normally, I avoid clichés like the plague, wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole, but here we are on a literal level playing field. That matters. That says something. And your ceremonial costume… shapeless, uniform, one-size-fits-all. Whether male or female, tall or short, scholar or slacker, spray-tanned prom queen or intergalactic X-Box assassin, each of you is dressed, you'll notice, exactly the same. And your diploma… but for your name, exactly the same.
All of this is as it should be, because none of you is special.
You are not special.
You are not exceptional.
Contrary to what your u9 soccer trophy suggests, your glowing seventh grade report card, despite every assurance of a certain corpulent purple dinosaur, that nice Mister Rogers and your batty Aunt Sylvia, no matter how often your maternal caped crusader has swooped in to save you… you're nothing special.
Yes, you've been pampered, cosseted, doted upon, helmeted, bubble-wrapped. Yes, capable adults with other things to do have held you, kissed you, fed you, wiped your mouth, wiped your bottom, trained you, taught you, tutored you, coached you, listened to you, counseled you, encouraged you, consoled you and encouraged you again. You've been nudged, cajoled, wheedled and implored. You've been feted and fawned over and called sweetie pie. Yes, you have. And, certainly, we've been to your games, your plays, your recitals, your science fairs. Absolutely, smiles ignite when you walk into a room, and hundreds gasp with delight at your every tweet. Why, maybe you've even had your picture in the Townsman! And now you've conquered high school… and, indisputably, here we all have gathered for you, the pride and joy of this fine community, the first to emerge from that magnificent new building…
But do not get the idea you're anything special. Because you're not.
The empirical evidence is everywhere, numbers even an English teacher can't ignore. Newton, Natick, Nee… I am allowed to say Needham, yes? …that has to be two thousand high school graduates right there, give or take, and that's just the neighborhood Ns. Across the country no fewer than 3.2 million seniors are graduating about now from more than 37,000 high schools. That's 37,000 valedictorians… 37,000 class presidents… 92,000 harmonizing altos… 340,000 swaggering jocks… 2,185,967 pairs of Uggs. But why limit ourselves to high school? After all, you're leaving it. So think about this: even if you're one in a million, on a planet of 6.8 billion that means there are nearly 7,000 people just like you. Imagine standing somewhere over there on Washington Street on Marathon Monday and watching sixty-eight hundred yous go running by. And consider for a moment the bigger picture: your planet, I'll remind you, is not the center of its solar system, your solar system is not the center of its galaxy, your galaxy is not the center of the universe. In fact, astrophysicists assure us the universe has no center; therefore, you cannot be it. Neither can Donald Trump… which someone should tell him… although that hair is quite a phenomenon.
"But, Dave," you cry, "Walt Whitman tells me I'm my own version of perfection! Epictetus tells me I have the spark of Zeus!" And I don't disagree. So that makes 6.8 billion examples of perfection, 6.8 billion sparks of Zeus. You see, if everyone is special, then no one is. If everyone gets a trophy, trophies become meaningless. In our unspoken but not so subtle Darwinian competition with one another-which springs, I think, from our fear of our own insignificance, a subset of our dread of mortality - we have of late, we Americans, to our detriment, come to love accolades more than genuine achievement. We have come to see them as the point - and we're happy to compromise standards, or ignore reality, if we suspect that's the quickest way, or only way, to have something to put on the mantelpiece, something to pose with, crow about, something with which to leverage ourselves into a better spot on the social totem pole. No longer is it how you play the game, no longer is it even whether you win or lose, or learn or grow, or enjoy yourself doing it… Now it's "So what does this get me?" As a consequence, we cheapen worthy endeavors, and building a Guatemalan medical clinic becomes more about the application to Bowdoin than the well-being of Guatemalans. It's an epidemic - and in its way, not even dear old Wellesley High is immune… one of the best of the 37,000 nationwide, Wellesley High School… where good is no longer good enough, where a B is the new C, and the midlevel curriculum is called Advanced College Placement. And I hope you caught me when I said "one of the best." I said "one of the best" so we can feel better about ourselves, so we can bask in a little easy distinction, however vague and unverifiable, and count ourselves among the elite, whoever they might be, and enjoy a perceived leg up on the perceived competition. But the phrase defies logic. By definition there can be only one best. You're it or you're not.
If you've learned anything in your years here I hope it's that education should be for, rather than material advantage, the exhilaration of learning. You've learned, too, I hope, as Sophocles assured us, that wisdom is the chief element of happiness. (Second is ice cream… just an fyi) I also hope you've learned enough to recognize how little you know… how little you know now… at the moment… for today is just the beginning. It's where you go from here that matters.
As you commence, then, and before you scatter to the winds, I urge you to do whatever you do for no reason other than you love it and believe in its importance. Don't bother with work you don't believe in any more than you would a spouse you're not crazy about, lest you too find yourself on the wrong side of a Baltimore Orioles comparison. Resist the easy comforts of complacency, the specious glitter of materialism, the narcotic paralysis of self-satisfaction. Be worthy of your advantages. And read… read all the time… read as a matter of principle, as a matter of self-respect. Read as a nourishing staple of life. Develop and protect a moral sensibility and demonstrate the character to apply it. Dream big. Work hard. Think for yourself. Love everything you love, everyone you love, with all your might. And do so, please, with a sense of urgency, for every tick of the clock subtracts from fewer and fewer; and as surely as there are commencements there are cessations, and you'll be in no condition to enjoy the ceremony attendant to that eventuality no matter how delightful the afternoon.
The fulfilling life, the distinctive life, the relevant life, is an achievement, not something that will fall into your lap because you're a nice person or mommy ordered it from the caterer. You'll note the founding fathers took pains to secure your inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness-quite an active verb, "pursuit"-which leaves, I should think, little time for lying around watching parrots rollerskate on Youtube. The first President Roosevelt, the old rough rider, advocated the strenuous life. Mr. Thoreau wanted to drive life into a corner, to live deep and suck out all the marrow. The poet Mary Oliver tells us to row, row into the swirl and roil. Locally, someone… I forget who… from time to time encourages young scholars to carpe the heck out of the diem. The point is the same: get busy, have at it. Don't wait for inspiration or passion to find you. Get up, get out, explore, find it yourself, and grab hold with both hands. (Now, before you dash off and get your YOLO tattoo, let me point out the illogic of that trendy little expression-because you can and should live not merely once, but every day of your life. Rather than You Only Live Once, it should be You Live Only Once… but because YLOO doesn't have the same ring, we shrug and decide it doesn't matter.)
None of this day-seizing, though, this YLOOing, should be interpreted as license for self-indulgence. Like accolades ought to be, the fulfilled life is a consequence, a gratifying byproduct. It's what happens when you're thinking about more important things. Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you. Go to Paris to be in Paris, not to cross it off your list and congratulate yourself for being worldly. Exercise free will and creative, independent thought not for the satisfactions they will bring you, but for the good they will do others, the rest of the 6.8 billion-and those who will follow them. And then you too will discover the great and curious truth of the human experience is that selflessness is the best thing you can do for yourself. The sweetest joys of life, then, come only with the recognition that you're not special.
Because everyone is.
Congratulations. Good luck. Make for yourselves, please, for your sake and for ours, extraordinary lives.
Very well said, Mr. McCullough.
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