I have been reminded over the past week how blessed I am and how I need to be more appreciative of the things I have in my life. I like the line from Mary Poppins where she wisely tells the children that, "Enough is as good as a feast". I have enough. I have more than enough. But still I lose sight of that. Two things happened this week to help bring this back into focus for me that I will now share with you.
A few weeks ago, I interviewed for a new job. There are some aspects of my current job I have not been happy with and they seem to have been more pronounced lately. I went into this job three years ago telling myself I wouldn't like it and I have been telling myself for three years that I was right. And yet, I love my boss and my coworkers. I laugh every day I'm there. make a (small) difference to some of the people there. I have a decent reputation. My opinions are sought and valued. I have a good amount of flexibility and some freedom. I'm paid well and I'm part time. WHAT IS NOT TO LIKE?
But I've managed to convince myself that I'm not happy. Sure, my job can be hard and is overwhelming from time to time. But what job isn't? I interviewed for this other job - outside of my current company - and received the offer a few days ago. That's when things really got hard and overwhelming. I really fretted over it. I was stressed out and torn about making the right call. I had two migraines in one week which is very rare for me, but that's how physically affected I was by the whole thing.
Without going into too much detail, it was a good opportunity. But, at the end of the day, it was not a better opportunity than what I have now. I don't know why I've never viewed my current job as a good opportunity. I haven't been grateful for it. But I was reminded through this whole experience just what a good thing I have and how foolish it would have been to give it away.
One of the main motivators for me to decline the offer was that it meant a move to a full time work schedule. Today, my youngest daughter Meg lives for Tuesdays and Thursdays. She wakes up happy on those days because she knows she will be spending it with me. The three days during the week that I go to work, she's very weepy and latches onto me begging me not to go. Now I'm not saying that I have allowed a four year old to make this decision for me. I am well aware that in two year's time she will have no choice but to go to school five days a week. But I also hated the thought of having her and Kate in school and then after school care five days a week. I know other parents can do it and do it well. I do not believe am one of those parents. I'm barely organized enough in my life to be able to manage everything only working 24 hours a week.
At one point during this decision making process, I had decided I was going to accept the new position. As soon as I have made that decision, I began to get very upset and uneasy. I felt such guilt. I thought it was just the guilt of forcing them into after school care five days a week. But I also couldn't shake the feeling that I had been ungrateful to my current company in the past three years I had had this particular job. I realized that much of the guilt I was feeling was a recognition that I had this great set-up and I was just about to throw it away. So in this process, I had waffled quite a bit and had now made the decision to accept the new role. The anxiety and uneasiness made me decide finally, ultimately to decline it. As soon as I had made that decision, I immediately felt better physically. A short while later that night, I was helping Meg into her jammies and she started crying, anticipating the next day which was a school day for her. In between the tears she said, "I don't wanna go to school". I knew then that I had made the right decision. For her and for me.
I decided that this while exercise had been designed to make me realize how good my situation has been and how lucky I have been to have it. That has definitely been the most important thing I have taken from this (that, and the stroking my ego got when I was offered the job). I decided I would change my approach to,my job and not view it as a burden but view it for what it is - a great opportunity for me to contribute something of value to an organization, to work and interact with good and interesting people, and to have the flexibility with time and money it allows to do the things that are most important in my life. I could have done without the stress this process brought me this week, but I am choosing to be grateful for it. I took my new grateful attitude to work on Friday and I had a really good day. It's just too bad it's taken me over three years in this role to come to this understanding of it.
Then, Friday night after work, I met Mike and the girls out for pizza downtown. It was a nice evening so we ate outside. People would stroll by - most of them very wisely heading to Ben and Jerry's for some yummy ice cream - when something caught my eye. It was a shiny, round thing I was seeing - almost like a smooth ball. But where I was seeing it was out of place and it took a minute for my mind to make sense of it. I looked closer and it gave me a jolt to realize I was looking at the perfectly round, perfectly smooth bald head of a 10-12 year old girl.
I was stupefied. I mean, I know there is such a thing as childhood cancer. I learned too much about it when I worked at MTSU and did terrific fundraisers for *St. Just Children's Research Hospital. But there it was - 15 feet away from me. This pretty little girl out with her family. Battling cancer.
What the hell am I worrying about?
What the hell do I have to complain about?
I have enough.
I have plenty.
I have more than I deserve.
I don't know what gratitude is next to this family.
This family is grateful to all of their friends and family who are supporting them in this fight. They are grateful to the team of doctors, nurses and other caregivers who are responsible for her care. There are grateful for a good day like today when she's healthy enough and feeling good enough that they can go out together as a family and do something mundane like getting ice cream. They are grateful for her strength and her confidence that she can be out in public at her age with a bald head and not worry about the double takes she gets from ignorant people like me. This family knows gratitude. And I am spoiled and unworthy of the things I have. To this point, I haven't been smart enough to know that enough is as good as a feast. But I know it now - having been shown it it two different ways within a span of 24 hours. And I will make it a priority to never lose sight of it again.
* For information about donating to St. Just Children's Research Hospital, please follow this link.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Whiskers
So, I recently celebrated my 38th birthday. I don't mind aging particularly (yet) but I am starting to feel older than my age would dictate that I should. All summer I have dealt with major back pain that even physical therapy and chiropractic intervention took a while to heal. I swear I have had a few hot flashes already. And last, but certainly most disturbing, I am growing whiskers on my chin and neck.
I noticed this strange growth a year or more ago. I was rubbing my chin and thought I felt something kind of wiry - like stubble - growing there. I got my vanity mirror out and turned it to the side that magnifies all of my hideous flaws, and discovered that yes, in fact, I was growing a whisker. In the time that has passed, I have routinely and dutifully plucked it when it gets long enough - about once every 2-3 weeks. Like clockwork it returns. But it hasn't been too alarming up to this point because I've only been battling one. I'm afraid that battle has now expanded and I feel like they have me surrounded.
Now, I do have a fair amount of hair on my face. I'm not proud of it by any means. I'm certainly not bragging. It is simply a fact. I always kind of thought is was just an extension of my hairline. But I suppose if that were the case, it wouldn't make sense that my hairline covers my upper lip. I never really considered it an issue until a few years ago when I was getting my eyebrows (more of my hairline?) waxed. The stylist (is that what an eyebrow-waxer is? A stylist? A waxer? A browologist?) asked me, "Would you like me to get your mustache while I'm at it?".
My mustache? My mustache?! Which mustache? The one I thought was light enough that no one noticed it? Or, the one I really didn't realize I had until that insulting question was asked? In either case, I guess the answer is yes. And by the way, this will be my last visit to you.
So, thebitch browologist waxed my mustache. And so began my journey into extreme self-consciousness over my facial hair. After the mustache was yanked off of my lip, I didn't feel the need to wax it again, but I was certainly more aware of the amount of hair I had on my face and, perhaps more importantly, the lack of it on others' faces. I never really liked my mustache or the amount of hairs I had around my jaw and chin but it didn't become something horrifying to me until the introduction of the whisker.
I can't really pinpoint the first time I noticed it; only the horror that came over me upon realizing what it was. I could picture my grandmother and the prickly little hairs shooting out of her chin that were visible to me when I'd visit her in the nursing home. I was in my early thirties and already starting to grow my you're-old-senile-and-stuck-in-a-nursing-home beard. If I didn't want others to snicker that I was growing a beard, I was going to have to pluck away my new little friend every time he (it was definitely a male hair) showed his little face.
I kept up this routine for several months - even years. I was self-conscious enough about it that I would subtly run my hands and fingers over my chin in an effort to discover any new friends that may have sprouted. The whisker problem appeared to be limited to my bottom left chin. Or so I thought.
In the past year, as I have run my fingers across my chin, I have found a new little patch (a patch!) of them - this time on the lower right hand side. This new cluster grows at a different rate of speed than my original one and because of that, I can't simply declare one night of the week as Whisker-Pluckin'-Wednesday. It doesn't work that way. I may pluck lefty this Saturday and then turn right around on Tuesday and have a soul patch to contend with on the right side.
As I mentioned, my hairline comes right up under my jawline. At times, I have been known to find a random hair that's a quarter inch long and something I feel I should address before others begin to notice it. The way I search for these annoying but very thin and light and hardly noticeable neck hairs, is I'll take my first two fingers and I'll run them across my neck and jawline making a scissor motion to try and find a hair that I can pull away from my neck with them. If no hair ends up getting pulled between my fingers, I'm in good shape. If there's one that seems to be a little long, I'll pluck it like I do my my brows or whiskers - on an as-needed basis.
Late last week, I was on a search for hairs on my neck. I catch myself doing it sometimes in meetings and wonder if people around the room know what I'm doing. If they do know, I don't think they're disgusted by it. I think they are probably relived and appreciative that I'm aware of the problem and trying to correct it. I was in this meeting subtly fishing for neck hairs when all of a sudden my two fingers caught something and began to pull it away from my neck. I grew concerned when I pulled it past what I thought was a reasonable distance and it didn't tug at my neck. I kept pulling and kept pulling feeling my eyes widen with the knowledge that there was seemingly no end to this strand growing out of a part of my body that always exposed to others. When I had finally pulled it the entirety of it's length and I could feel the gentle tug on the skin of my neck, I felt two things: relief and utter embarrassment. What if the other meeting attendees were watching what I was doing? Had they already been aware of this spool of thread growing out of my neck? What if they'd noticed the hair all along and were placing bets on when I'd finally decide to do something about it?
I tried to remain calm. I figured the best course of action would be to simply comb it back down, actually pay attention to the subject matter and contribute something to the meeting, and deal with it with my tweezers and vanity mirror in the privacy of my own bathroom. I worried that once home, I would not be able to locate it again. That it would simply blend in with the other blonde hairs around my chin and jaw. However, when I got home and tilted my head up to try and locate it, I saw (without having to use the extra-magnifying side to the mirror) a long, thick, black strand of hair that was practically waving at me with balloons and sparklers; begging me to see it and do something about it.
I was mortified. How long had this hideous thing been there and why was I just now becoming aware of it? And why was it so dark? Was someone secretly slipping me testosterone? How could I be capable of producing such a long, thick hair? I plucked it immediately and actually considered saving it to show Mike. I just couldn't believe how long it was and felt someone else needed to share in my astonishment. I reconsidered, thankfully (for him and for me), after realizing that a husband probably would begin to view his wife differently if she started growing more hair on her face than he did. So, I threw it away.
So, I'm 38 years old and I am already turning into an oldman woman. If this is what I have become at this age, what on earth kind of shape will I be in at 48? Should be frightening fun to see. I know one thing for sure: I will never be far away from my tweezers.
I noticed this strange growth a year or more ago. I was rubbing my chin and thought I felt something kind of wiry - like stubble - growing there. I got my vanity mirror out and turned it to the side that magnifies all of my hideous flaws, and discovered that yes, in fact, I was growing a whisker. In the time that has passed, I have routinely and dutifully plucked it when it gets long enough - about once every 2-3 weeks. Like clockwork it returns. But it hasn't been too alarming up to this point because I've only been battling one. I'm afraid that battle has now expanded and I feel like they have me surrounded.
Now, I do have a fair amount of hair on my face. I'm not proud of it by any means. I'm certainly not bragging. It is simply a fact. I always kind of thought is was just an extension of my hairline. But I suppose if that were the case, it wouldn't make sense that my hairline covers my upper lip. I never really considered it an issue until a few years ago when I was getting my eyebrows (more of my hairline?) waxed. The stylist (is that what an eyebrow-waxer is? A stylist? A waxer? A browologist?) asked me, "Would you like me to get your mustache while I'm at it?".
My mustache? My mustache?! Which mustache? The one I thought was light enough that no one noticed it? Or, the one I really didn't realize I had until that insulting question was asked? In either case, I guess the answer is yes. And by the way, this will be my last visit to you.
So, the
I can't really pinpoint the first time I noticed it; only the horror that came over me upon realizing what it was. I could picture my grandmother and the prickly little hairs shooting out of her chin that were visible to me when I'd visit her in the nursing home. I was in my early thirties and already starting to grow my you're-old-senile-and-stuck-in-a-nursing-home beard. If I didn't want others to snicker that I was growing a beard, I was going to have to pluck away my new little friend every time he (it was definitely a male hair) showed his little face.
I kept up this routine for several months - even years. I was self-conscious enough about it that I would subtly run my hands and fingers over my chin in an effort to discover any new friends that may have sprouted. The whisker problem appeared to be limited to my bottom left chin. Or so I thought.
In the past year, as I have run my fingers across my chin, I have found a new little patch (a patch!) of them - this time on the lower right hand side. This new cluster grows at a different rate of speed than my original one and because of that, I can't simply declare one night of the week as Whisker-Pluckin'-Wednesday. It doesn't work that way. I may pluck lefty this Saturday and then turn right around on Tuesday and have a soul patch to contend with on the right side.
As I mentioned, my hairline comes right up under my jawline. At times, I have been known to find a random hair that's a quarter inch long and something I feel I should address before others begin to notice it. The way I search for these annoying but very thin and light and hardly noticeable neck hairs, is I'll take my first two fingers and I'll run them across my neck and jawline making a scissor motion to try and find a hair that I can pull away from my neck with them. If no hair ends up getting pulled between my fingers, I'm in good shape. If there's one that seems to be a little long, I'll pluck it like I do my my brows or whiskers - on an as-needed basis.
Late last week, I was on a search for hairs on my neck. I catch myself doing it sometimes in meetings and wonder if people around the room know what I'm doing. If they do know, I don't think they're disgusted by it. I think they are probably relived and appreciative that I'm aware of the problem and trying to correct it. I was in this meeting subtly fishing for neck hairs when all of a sudden my two fingers caught something and began to pull it away from my neck. I grew concerned when I pulled it past what I thought was a reasonable distance and it didn't tug at my neck. I kept pulling and kept pulling feeling my eyes widen with the knowledge that there was seemingly no end to this strand growing out of a part of my body that always exposed to others. When I had finally pulled it the entirety of it's length and I could feel the gentle tug on the skin of my neck, I felt two things: relief and utter embarrassment. What if the other meeting attendees were watching what I was doing? Had they already been aware of this spool of thread growing out of my neck? What if they'd noticed the hair all along and were placing bets on when I'd finally decide to do something about it?
I tried to remain calm. I figured the best course of action would be to simply comb it back down, actually pay attention to the subject matter and contribute something to the meeting, and deal with it with my tweezers and vanity mirror in the privacy of my own bathroom. I worried that once home, I would not be able to locate it again. That it would simply blend in with the other blonde hairs around my chin and jaw. However, when I got home and tilted my head up to try and locate it, I saw (without having to use the extra-magnifying side to the mirror) a long, thick, black strand of hair that was practically waving at me with balloons and sparklers; begging me to see it and do something about it.
I was mortified. How long had this hideous thing been there and why was I just now becoming aware of it? And why was it so dark? Was someone secretly slipping me testosterone? How could I be capable of producing such a long, thick hair? I plucked it immediately and actually considered saving it to show Mike. I just couldn't believe how long it was and felt someone else needed to share in my astonishment. I reconsidered, thankfully (for him and for me), after realizing that a husband probably would begin to view his wife differently if she started growing more hair on her face than he did. So, I threw it away.
So, I'm 38 years old and I am already turning into an old
Monday, September 12, 2011
Back To School
This post was actually written in August, but I just couldn’t get it finished and posted. So, while it’s a bit outdated, you may still find something that resonates with you.
Last night I went for a run. I went earlier than I have been going lately because it was a wee bit cooler and it seemed to be getting dark earlier than it has been. I ran my usual course – a course I am so familiar with that straying from it causes my puny body to peter out prematurely. I kept hearing this strange sound as I ran down the sidewalk. I finally realized that the sound was leaves crunching under the weight of my running shoes. I hadn’t heard that sound in months. It dawned on me as I looked up and around at the houses, that I was the only person outside. Where were the kids? I passed this one house where I used to run into a gaggle of boys playing a pick-up game of football in the yard. There was no one in sight. Just a lamp I could see lighting the den. Everything was very quiet. The only thing I could hear, other than those crunchy leaves, was my lumbered breathing. Where was everyone? Where was the noise? The heat?
It was gone - because it is becoming fall and the hustle and bustle of school and the start of everything is beginning anew. Normally, this only affects me in two ways:
1. Much more traffic on the main drag in the city where I work
2. Excessive annoying posts in my news feed on Facebook about football teams, games, players, crappy calls, stupid fans (from opposing teams, of course), tickets for sale, pain, misery, elation, etc.
But this year, it has a different feel. For the first time, I have a child entering kindergarten. This is the first time that school starting will have a significant impact on my life (other than when I was in school). Of course, it will have a greater impact on Kate’s life, but we’re talking about me here. This is the first year of the next 12+ that we will go “back to school”. I am having to change my mindset about being able to keep her and Meg out of school on a Friday so we can go out of town. We will now have to be more deliberate about reading together and discussing what they are learning. We always did that, but now there will need to be more substance to it. I’ll have to be strategic about getting them to bed early since there will be no nap at school. That means I’ll have to be strategic about EVERYTHING that precipitates bedtime. Ugh. I’m getting my first back-to-school headache.
I actually bought school supplies on Sunday. I’ve never had to do that before. All those pitiful looking people digging through the notebooks and folders that I’ve seen through the years – I was one of them. I was trying to be good about buying the “right” kind of pencil pouch. I was afraid that if I got the wrong style or color, Kate would be ostracized on her first day and would never forgive me. There was an off-brand of crayons that I never even considered buying. A kid who shows up without Crayola? A total loser. Past that, I don’t know what the acceptable brands of these items are. Mead? Trapper Keeper? Seems like a kid in my grade got beat up for having a Trapper Keeper so I’ll steer clear of that.
I am utterly clueless about how to parent a kindergartener. When Kate has homework, do I write the answers for her or do I spell everything out to her and let her write the answers that she won’t be able to read? When I ask her what she learned at school today and she responds, “I don’t know” what am I supposed to do? Do I drag it out of her or do I just let her tell me in her own time? She and Meg are starting at a new school this year and we all have some trepidation about that. Do I worry about everything on the front end or do I just let them grow and blossom in their own time and just get out of their way? I realize the answer to that last question of course, but I am not built that way. I worry about all of the possibles instead of just trying to concentrate on any probables. It’s what I do. How am I supposed to let go of all of the things I fear for both of my girls and just allow them to experience this time for themselves?
I realize I don’t have a choice in the matter. They will experience all of the things that are typical of childhood regardless of what I do. They will have good days and they will have bad days. They’ll have best friends one day who won’t speak to them the next. They will compare themselves to other kids and think they come up short. They will be self-conscious. They will be good at some things and not so good as others. They will doubt themselves. But those moments will be fleeting. If Mike and I do our job right, they will get past those feelings and learn to be happy with who they are and proud of the good things they do. I think my most important job is to make sure they feel the love I have for them. If they feel love, then those painful things they’ll experience during the next few years will simply be learning experiences for them. I am smart enough to know this, but I’m not yet seasoned enough to be confident in my ability to lead them through their childhood.
Of course, this IS just their first week of school. Perhaps I should just take it day by day as I am encouraging them to do. I just want so much for both of my girls. There’s not much I can solve for them tonight, so I think I'll focus on what I can do which is to put them to bed so they can get a good night’s sleep. I’ll leave you with this quote:
There are two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots. The other is wings.
- Hodding Carter, Jr.
Best of luck to you in establishing roots and providing wings.
Last night I went for a run. I went earlier than I have been going lately because it was a wee bit cooler and it seemed to be getting dark earlier than it has been. I ran my usual course – a course I am so familiar with that straying from it causes my puny body to peter out prematurely. I kept hearing this strange sound as I ran down the sidewalk. I finally realized that the sound was leaves crunching under the weight of my running shoes. I hadn’t heard that sound in months. It dawned on me as I looked up and around at the houses, that I was the only person outside. Where were the kids? I passed this one house where I used to run into a gaggle of boys playing a pick-up game of football in the yard. There was no one in sight. Just a lamp I could see lighting the den. Everything was very quiet. The only thing I could hear, other than those crunchy leaves, was my lumbered breathing. Where was everyone? Where was the noise? The heat?
It was gone - because it is becoming fall and the hustle and bustle of school and the start of everything is beginning anew. Normally, this only affects me in two ways:
1. Much more traffic on the main drag in the city where I work
2. Excessive annoying posts in my news feed on Facebook about football teams, games, players, crappy calls, stupid fans (from opposing teams, of course), tickets for sale, pain, misery, elation, etc.
But this year, it has a different feel. For the first time, I have a child entering kindergarten. This is the first time that school starting will have a significant impact on my life (other than when I was in school). Of course, it will have a greater impact on Kate’s life, but we’re talking about me here. This is the first year of the next 12+ that we will go “back to school”. I am having to change my mindset about being able to keep her and Meg out of school on a Friday so we can go out of town. We will now have to be more deliberate about reading together and discussing what they are learning. We always did that, but now there will need to be more substance to it. I’ll have to be strategic about getting them to bed early since there will be no nap at school. That means I’ll have to be strategic about EVERYTHING that precipitates bedtime. Ugh. I’m getting my first back-to-school headache.
I actually bought school supplies on Sunday. I’ve never had to do that before. All those pitiful looking people digging through the notebooks and folders that I’ve seen through the years – I was one of them. I was trying to be good about buying the “right” kind of pencil pouch. I was afraid that if I got the wrong style or color, Kate would be ostracized on her first day and would never forgive me. There was an off-brand of crayons that I never even considered buying. A kid who shows up without Crayola? A total loser. Past that, I don’t know what the acceptable brands of these items are. Mead? Trapper Keeper? Seems like a kid in my grade got beat up for having a Trapper Keeper so I’ll steer clear of that.
I am utterly clueless about how to parent a kindergartener. When Kate has homework, do I write the answers for her or do I spell everything out to her and let her write the answers that she won’t be able to read? When I ask her what she learned at school today and she responds, “I don’t know” what am I supposed to do? Do I drag it out of her or do I just let her tell me in her own time? She and Meg are starting at a new school this year and we all have some trepidation about that. Do I worry about everything on the front end or do I just let them grow and blossom in their own time and just get out of their way? I realize the answer to that last question of course, but I am not built that way. I worry about all of the possibles instead of just trying to concentrate on any probables. It’s what I do. How am I supposed to let go of all of the things I fear for both of my girls and just allow them to experience this time for themselves?
I realize I don’t have a choice in the matter. They will experience all of the things that are typical of childhood regardless of what I do. They will have good days and they will have bad days. They’ll have best friends one day who won’t speak to them the next. They will compare themselves to other kids and think they come up short. They will be self-conscious. They will be good at some things and not so good as others. They will doubt themselves. But those moments will be fleeting. If Mike and I do our job right, they will get past those feelings and learn to be happy with who they are and proud of the good things they do. I think my most important job is to make sure they feel the love I have for them. If they feel love, then those painful things they’ll experience during the next few years will simply be learning experiences for them. I am smart enough to know this, but I’m not yet seasoned enough to be confident in my ability to lead them through their childhood.
Of course, this IS just their first week of school. Perhaps I should just take it day by day as I am encouraging them to do. I just want so much for both of my girls. There’s not much I can solve for them tonight, so I think I'll focus on what I can do which is to put them to bed so they can get a good night’s sleep. I’ll leave you with this quote:
There are two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots. The other is wings.
- Hodding Carter, Jr.
Best of luck to you in establishing roots and providing wings.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Best Day/Worst Day
When I was in high school, the movie City Slickers came out. At the time, I thought it was hilarious. Now that I'm older and understand intelligent, clever comedy, I realize it was really just an average movie. But there was one scene that stood out to me even then. It was a scene in which the men - unhappy in their middle age - begin discussing what were their best and worst days. I struggled then to try and figure out how I would respond to that. Now that I am older and have some experience behind me, I can absolutely answer it.
My best day is kind of hard to pin down. I have had a lot of fun times. I have been able to do many of the things I have wanted to do. For the most part, I have had a very happy life thus far. I have two beautiful children and while nothing has been more significant in my life than having my girls, I can't say that the days they were born were my best days. Kate was born in my 29th week of pregnancy. It was tense and scary. Ultimately it was a wonderful outcome but at the time we were scared to death not knowing if she would be okay. We had no idea what to expect. All we knew was that we would not be taking our baby home for a long time so it wasn't exactly a time to celebrate.
With Meg, my post-partum depression had already kicked in (unbeknownst to me) so I was already in a bit of a downward spiral. Her birth was not as dramatic as Kate's was by any means. I was just kind of already in a fog. We were relieved she was healthy, but at the time, I really was not. I knew I loved her, but I was scared to death at the prospect of having a newborn PLUS a rambunctious almost two year old. Again, the outcome was beautiful. But at the time I wasn't myself. So, neither day can go down as my best day.
What was my best day you may be wondering (if you are still reading)? I would have to say it was the day after I got engaged to Mike. The actual day-of was a pretty crappy day until about 9:00 that night when he popped the question. But that next day I was absolutely floating. I could not get over the sudden appearance of this beautiful ring I thought would never be on my finger. I couldn't wait to talk about it with my family and friends. Mike and I were free to talk about our future together without me fearing I sounded like a a psycho girl trying to sink my claws into the first man who didn't run away screaming. I was so excited and giddy at what my future had in store with this wonderful man. People were so kind and seemed genuinely happy for me. It was a lovely day. Although I was excited beyond words, I could not have known what a wonderful life I would have with him and then with our girls. And things are still going strong.
My worst day, you may have gathered by the date of this post, was September 11, 2001. It was the day after my birthday and the morning after my first quasi-fight with Mike. He and I had come home from my birthday dinner to find that Dudley (my dog and now Mike's step-son) had experienced explosive, projectile diarrhea in our absence. The little gift he had left us was all over Mike's pristine, cream-colored carpet. Mike had spanked him even thought I had told him that Dudley wouldn't understand at that point why he was in trouble. I was angry with Mike for hitting him especially after I had told him not to. I didn't say much to Mike that night after it happened and after we scrubbed and scrubbed his floor (to no avail).
The next morning, I was still irritated with Mike and I had a headache. I had an event later that day on campus where I worked and so I decided to go into work late. I lied down on my couch in the den and closed my eyes listening to the Today Show. That's when I heard about what was going on in New York City. My first thought, like many of yours, was, "Man some air traffic controller is gonna get fired over this". Of course, the whole thing unfolded before my eyes and before the eyes of just about everyone in America that day. I was absolutely stunned at what I was watching. Mike was supposed to be flying to Chicago that day and I grabbed the phone and called him to beg him not to go. Of course, in the end, that decision was made for him.
I remember watching the TV on the phone with my sister when the first tower collapsed. I was hysterical because I thought bombs were going off. It just didn't occur to me that those massive buildings could fall. Before the collapse I was just heartsick watching the images not only of people jumping to their deaths, but seeing those stuck above the impact zone you knew were not likely to make it out. And when the cameras cut to a picture of the Pentagon engulfed in flames, that's when I lost my innocent, naive view of the world forever. This was a deliberate, coordinated attack perpetrated by people who hated us. I couldn't understand that kind of hatred. I don't hate any group of people. Why couldn't these people just live and let live? What on earth would drive them to kill all of these innocent people? There were towers collapsing. The Pentagon was under attack. There were other planes unaccounted for. There was a sickening feeling in my stomach because you just didn't know what was going to happen next. It was the most scared, sad and hopeless I have ever felt in my life.
I ended up going in to work because I just didn't know what else to do. I was scared and felt so alone and helpless. I knew that there had been tremendous loss of life (and I am still flabbergasted and grateful to the public servants and heroes who saw to it that the numbers were not higher that day). I needed to be around people - although I was of no solace to any of them. I needed Mike. (Dudley's little gift the night before was a distant memory.) He and I snuggled up together that night and listened to President Bush and Rudy Giuliani try to calm the public while clearly stating that the people responsible for this would pay. I was grateful for their words. I had a lump in my throat watching our members of congress come together and sing God Bless America. I felt such pride that I really hadn't thought about before about being an American. Sure, I knew I was lucky to have been born and raised in this country, but I never understood what it meant until that day.
I cried a lot that day and in the days to follow. The more TV coverage was on, the more I watched it. I listened to people's stories of loss and stories of survival. There were so many heroic acts that day. I'm sure that there were several acts of heroism that none of us will ever know about because those involved did not live to tell the tales. To this day, I can get absorbed into a 9/11 documentary no matter what I'm doing. I feel like I need to watch those stories in order to honor the dead.
It's been ten years and it as still as vivid to me and to so many as though it was yesterday. It is still so utterly scary and indescribably sad. Our understanding of our world has changed. The world in which our kids will grow up is different than the world we thought we were growing up in. And let's not forget the thousands of people who lost someone they loved that day. So very sad. And still so very real.
I have been glued to the coverage of the tenth anniversary of that horrible day. So much has changed in my life since that day that I am so grateful for. I got engaged and married in 2002. I had my kids. Have had various nieces and nephews. Have had a lot of happy times. But nothing will ever be quite the same for those of us who were living during 9/11. And my experience is nothing compared to those who were there or who lost someone. But it is part of our collective consciousness as a nation. To be an American is to remember where you were and what you were doing that morning. And so, too, is it American to find ways to press on and live a good and happy life.
So, as we mark the decade that has passed since that horrific day, let us hold our loved ones close and never forget how quickly our world can change. Let us find ways to honor those whose duty is to run into the burning buildings as the rest of us run out. And let us all be thankful for every gift that we have. We all have a lot more than we could have. God Bless America indeed.
My best day is kind of hard to pin down. I have had a lot of fun times. I have been able to do many of the things I have wanted to do. For the most part, I have had a very happy life thus far. I have two beautiful children and while nothing has been more significant in my life than having my girls, I can't say that the days they were born were my best days. Kate was born in my 29th week of pregnancy. It was tense and scary. Ultimately it was a wonderful outcome but at the time we were scared to death not knowing if she would be okay. We had no idea what to expect. All we knew was that we would not be taking our baby home for a long time so it wasn't exactly a time to celebrate.
With Meg, my post-partum depression had already kicked in (unbeknownst to me) so I was already in a bit of a downward spiral. Her birth was not as dramatic as Kate's was by any means. I was just kind of already in a fog. We were relieved she was healthy, but at the time, I really was not. I knew I loved her, but I was scared to death at the prospect of having a newborn PLUS a rambunctious almost two year old. Again, the outcome was beautiful. But at the time I wasn't myself. So, neither day can go down as my best day.
What was my best day you may be wondering (if you are still reading)? I would have to say it was the day after I got engaged to Mike. The actual day-of was a pretty crappy day until about 9:00 that night when he popped the question. But that next day I was absolutely floating. I could not get over the sudden appearance of this beautiful ring I thought would never be on my finger. I couldn't wait to talk about it with my family and friends. Mike and I were free to talk about our future together without me fearing I sounded like a a psycho girl trying to sink my claws into the first man who didn't run away screaming. I was so excited and giddy at what my future had in store with this wonderful man. People were so kind and seemed genuinely happy for me. It was a lovely day. Although I was excited beyond words, I could not have known what a wonderful life I would have with him and then with our girls. And things are still going strong.
My worst day, you may have gathered by the date of this post, was September 11, 2001. It was the day after my birthday and the morning after my first quasi-fight with Mike. He and I had come home from my birthday dinner to find that Dudley (my dog and now Mike's step-son) had experienced explosive, projectile diarrhea in our absence. The little gift he had left us was all over Mike's pristine, cream-colored carpet. Mike had spanked him even thought I had told him that Dudley wouldn't understand at that point why he was in trouble. I was angry with Mike for hitting him especially after I had told him not to. I didn't say much to Mike that night after it happened and after we scrubbed and scrubbed his floor (to no avail).
The next morning, I was still irritated with Mike and I had a headache. I had an event later that day on campus where I worked and so I decided to go into work late. I lied down on my couch in the den and closed my eyes listening to the Today Show. That's when I heard about what was going on in New York City. My first thought, like many of yours, was, "Man some air traffic controller is gonna get fired over this". Of course, the whole thing unfolded before my eyes and before the eyes of just about everyone in America that day. I was absolutely stunned at what I was watching. Mike was supposed to be flying to Chicago that day and I grabbed the phone and called him to beg him not to go. Of course, in the end, that decision was made for him.
I remember watching the TV on the phone with my sister when the first tower collapsed. I was hysterical because I thought bombs were going off. It just didn't occur to me that those massive buildings could fall. Before the collapse I was just heartsick watching the images not only of people jumping to their deaths, but seeing those stuck above the impact zone you knew were not likely to make it out. And when the cameras cut to a picture of the Pentagon engulfed in flames, that's when I lost my innocent, naive view of the world forever. This was a deliberate, coordinated attack perpetrated by people who hated us. I couldn't understand that kind of hatred. I don't hate any group of people. Why couldn't these people just live and let live? What on earth would drive them to kill all of these innocent people? There were towers collapsing. The Pentagon was under attack. There were other planes unaccounted for. There was a sickening feeling in my stomach because you just didn't know what was going to happen next. It was the most scared, sad and hopeless I have ever felt in my life.
I ended up going in to work because I just didn't know what else to do. I was scared and felt so alone and helpless. I knew that there had been tremendous loss of life (and I am still flabbergasted and grateful to the public servants and heroes who saw to it that the numbers were not higher that day). I needed to be around people - although I was of no solace to any of them. I needed Mike. (Dudley's little gift the night before was a distant memory.) He and I snuggled up together that night and listened to President Bush and Rudy Giuliani try to calm the public while clearly stating that the people responsible for this would pay. I was grateful for their words. I had a lump in my throat watching our members of congress come together and sing God Bless America. I felt such pride that I really hadn't thought about before about being an American. Sure, I knew I was lucky to have been born and raised in this country, but I never understood what it meant until that day.
I cried a lot that day and in the days to follow. The more TV coverage was on, the more I watched it. I listened to people's stories of loss and stories of survival. There were so many heroic acts that day. I'm sure that there were several acts of heroism that none of us will ever know about because those involved did not live to tell the tales. To this day, I can get absorbed into a 9/11 documentary no matter what I'm doing. I feel like I need to watch those stories in order to honor the dead.
It's been ten years and it as still as vivid to me and to so many as though it was yesterday. It is still so utterly scary and indescribably sad. Our understanding of our world has changed. The world in which our kids will grow up is different than the world we thought we were growing up in. And let's not forget the thousands of people who lost someone they loved that day. So very sad. And still so very real.
I have been glued to the coverage of the tenth anniversary of that horrible day. So much has changed in my life since that day that I am so grateful for. I got engaged and married in 2002. I had my kids. Have had various nieces and nephews. Have had a lot of happy times. But nothing will ever be quite the same for those of us who were living during 9/11. And my experience is nothing compared to those who were there or who lost someone. But it is part of our collective consciousness as a nation. To be an American is to remember where you were and what you were doing that morning. And so, too, is it American to find ways to press on and live a good and happy life.
So, as we mark the decade that has passed since that horrific day, let us hold our loved ones close and never forget how quickly our world can change. Let us find ways to honor those whose duty is to run into the burning buildings as the rest of us run out. And let us all be thankful for every gift that we have. We all have a lot more than we could have. God Bless America indeed.
Monday, August 1, 2011
My Old Friend
Those of you who know me know that I have a 14 year old Jack Russell Terrier named Dudley. I have had Duds since he was 6 weeks old. He and I have been through a lot together. In the beginning, I was a single mother. I would work and come home at lunch and let him out of his crate to run around and take care of his bowel and urinary needs. I would rush home at the end of the work day to once again free him from his crate. I would go out on dates based on whether or not the guy was worth sticking Dudley back in his crate during the time I’d be gone. Most of them were not.
Dudley was seen as part of the package when it came to family gatherings. My sister would bring her husband and her young sons for Christmas. I’d bring Dudley. Cousins would share a bed with their spouses. Dudley and I would spoon in my queen sized bed. On weekends, I’d schedule errands around his schedule. I wouldn’t want to be gone too long at a stretch. I’d make sure it wasn’t too hot when we’d go on walks or play with his racquetballs. I’d talk to him a lot. Sing to him (and change lyrics of songs to make them about him). Cuddle with him a lot. Worry and fuss over him. I loved, loved, loved that dog.
When I started dating my husband, I worried that Dudley would come between us. Mike was not used to having pets in the house - much less a dog curled up in his lap or begging for food at the dinner table. After Mike met me, he confided to one of his friends that he liked me enough to where Dudley was not necessarily a “deal-breaker”. Not a deal-breaker? My sweet Dudley?! Let me tell you something, if anyone’s the deal-breaker it’s YOU! Dudley and I are perfectly happy in our little world and don’t need any disruptions to our little routine, thank you very much.
And Dudley did not like Mike at all, either. Their first few months together were just a disaster. I likened it to a teenager getting a new step-parent and pushing the boundaries with all the angst and resentment they can muster. That was how Dudley behaved. He’d growl and snarl at Mike and whimper so I’d think Mike had just struck him (which he hadn’t… that I’m aware of). He was extremely manipulative like a child would be.
You may think I’m exaggerating but picture this: These two hate each other and then we go to my parents’ house for the dreaded, “this is my new boyfriend” weekend of humiliation and Dudley spends the entire time IN MIKE’S LAP. That’s right. He was perched there every time Mike sat down. Now this was due, in part, to the fact that my parents had several dogs and he was trying to “claim” Mike as his. But it also made it seem to others as though Mike was exaggerating or lying about all of Dudley’s childish (doggish) antics. Thankfully, after a potentially relationship-ending encounter between Dudley and some not-quite-dry cement that Mike got blamed for letting him ruin, Mike and Dudley finally made their peace and actually became little buddies in their own right.
In fact, I dare say that Mike is now more of Dudley’s caregiver than I am. When I was single and used to have to leave him in his crate when I’d go to work, I would tell him that someday he wouldn’t have to sit in a crate all day. That I’d create a better life for him somehow. I felt such guilt about having to leave him in his cramped little crate. Enter Mike who is (or, was at the time) self-employed. Dudley now gets to go to work everyday and earn a living. Mike even made him Director of Employee Complaints. Who could complain around such a cute little face? He was the office mascot. And he and Mike got to spend all day together.
Dudley has always been what you’d call a high-needs dog. From a very early age, he had major separation anxiety. It got so bad that at one point he was Prozac – human Prozac – to try and calm him down. It didn’t even make a dent in his behavior, so I considered just taking it myself so I wouldn’t worry so much about him.
In his younger years, we went through a rough stretch where he was being regularly targeted and attacked by a menacing neighborhood mockingbird. If you’ve ever had a run-in with a mockingbird, you know their chirp immediately. They are aptly named – they truly do mock with their aggressive chirps. This one would fly over to a certain point on my roof and would watch him for a while and then swoop down and fly right into him Kamikaze-style with his beak. It got so bad that as soon as we would hear his chirp, Dudley would tuck his tail and run to me, begging to be rescued and taken inside. In fact, we went though a period where Dudley wouldn’t even go outside to relieve himself anymore because he was so frightened of being hurt. I contacted Animal Control who told me that the bird was probably just protecting his nest and that they’d come over and remove the next once I was able to locate it. Okay, I would think locating the nest would be something Animal Control would do. And anyway, I’ve seen the way this bird treats my dog. I’m not going to go try and piss him off. The problem ended when we left for a week on vacation (Dudley couldn’t come – rental house). I guess the bird got bored with no one to pick on and so he flew off to find his next victim.
So, yes, Dudley has always had some special needs. But, they were cute little quirks. Things that made him uniquely Duds. And I loved him for all of the trouble he was. I still do, although my feelings for him have been changing lately. He is now 14 years old which is hard to imagine as you watch him run, swim and play. He looks much younger and is in great shape. But you are quickly reminded when he… say… pees on the bed. Or…just as an example….poops on the dining room rug so that you can smell a hint of feces as you are eating your savory meal. I know he probably can’t help it, but I already have two children. I don’t need a third one. And he now requires more care than I have the time or inclination to give him. And I feel so guilty for it. He has been my little buddy for 14 years and I am getting so annoyed with him these days. It’s not his fault. It’s his age.
I guess it's his age. but I do look at him differently now than I used to. Where he once once the center of my universe he has become a burden to me. Do I find him expendable because he’s old and no longer capable of things that he once was? My goodness - Is this how my kids will feel about me when I begin to age and become incontinent? Will they resent having to yell things to me because I can no longer hear? Will I get in trouble if I chew up the wooden blinds because I’m upset that I’m alone in the house? Will they be angry when I need a bath because I’ve rolled in something dead because it is in my nature to do so? Hopefully not. So why am I so impatient with Dudley? I really do love him and I will be crushed – a sobbing mess – when he dies. It will be awful. Mike and I get teary-eyed just talking about the fact that he won’t be around forever. To actually be faced with it will be excruciating for both of us.
When these things cross my mind, I feel guilty for being so intolerant of him and I’ll go and cuddle with him or scratch him or feed him a piece of something he likes. In the time he has left with our family, I want try and be sure he knows every day that he’s my little buddy no matter where he pees or poops. I’ve seen a lot of posts on Facebook recently where people have had to put their dogs to sleep after a long, healthy life. That will be me sooner rather than later and I don’t need to take it for granted.
Sorry to ramble, but I needed to express it. I needed to focus again on my love for that doggie. Plus, I got nervous that something tragic might happen to me and my last words to all of you would be a post about feminine odor. Thought this one was slightly more heartwarming. Here's a nice quote for you:
Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really.
~Agnes Sligh Turnbull
Dudley was seen as part of the package when it came to family gatherings. My sister would bring her husband and her young sons for Christmas. I’d bring Dudley. Cousins would share a bed with their spouses. Dudley and I would spoon in my queen sized bed. On weekends, I’d schedule errands around his schedule. I wouldn’t want to be gone too long at a stretch. I’d make sure it wasn’t too hot when we’d go on walks or play with his racquetballs. I’d talk to him a lot. Sing to him (and change lyrics of songs to make them about him). Cuddle with him a lot. Worry and fuss over him. I loved, loved, loved that dog.
When I started dating my husband, I worried that Dudley would come between us. Mike was not used to having pets in the house - much less a dog curled up in his lap or begging for food at the dinner table. After Mike met me, he confided to one of his friends that he liked me enough to where Dudley was not necessarily a “deal-breaker”. Not a deal-breaker? My sweet Dudley?! Let me tell you something, if anyone’s the deal-breaker it’s YOU! Dudley and I are perfectly happy in our little world and don’t need any disruptions to our little routine, thank you very much.
And Dudley did not like Mike at all, either. Their first few months together were just a disaster. I likened it to a teenager getting a new step-parent and pushing the boundaries with all the angst and resentment they can muster. That was how Dudley behaved. He’d growl and snarl at Mike and whimper so I’d think Mike had just struck him (which he hadn’t… that I’m aware of). He was extremely manipulative like a child would be.
You may think I’m exaggerating but picture this: These two hate each other and then we go to my parents’ house for the dreaded, “this is my new boyfriend” weekend of humiliation and Dudley spends the entire time IN MIKE’S LAP. That’s right. He was perched there every time Mike sat down. Now this was due, in part, to the fact that my parents had several dogs and he was trying to “claim” Mike as his. But it also made it seem to others as though Mike was exaggerating or lying about all of Dudley’s childish (doggish) antics. Thankfully, after a potentially relationship-ending encounter between Dudley and some not-quite-dry cement that Mike got blamed for letting him ruin, Mike and Dudley finally made their peace and actually became little buddies in their own right.
In fact, I dare say that Mike is now more of Dudley’s caregiver than I am. When I was single and used to have to leave him in his crate when I’d go to work, I would tell him that someday he wouldn’t have to sit in a crate all day. That I’d create a better life for him somehow. I felt such guilt about having to leave him in his cramped little crate. Enter Mike who is (or, was at the time) self-employed. Dudley now gets to go to work everyday and earn a living. Mike even made him Director of Employee Complaints. Who could complain around such a cute little face? He was the office mascot. And he and Mike got to spend all day together.
Dudley has always been what you’d call a high-needs dog. From a very early age, he had major separation anxiety. It got so bad that at one point he was Prozac – human Prozac – to try and calm him down. It didn’t even make a dent in his behavior, so I considered just taking it myself so I wouldn’t worry so much about him.
In his younger years, we went through a rough stretch where he was being regularly targeted and attacked by a menacing neighborhood mockingbird. If you’ve ever had a run-in with a mockingbird, you know their chirp immediately. They are aptly named – they truly do mock with their aggressive chirps. This one would fly over to a certain point on my roof and would watch him for a while and then swoop down and fly right into him Kamikaze-style with his beak. It got so bad that as soon as we would hear his chirp, Dudley would tuck his tail and run to me, begging to be rescued and taken inside. In fact, we went though a period where Dudley wouldn’t even go outside to relieve himself anymore because he was so frightened of being hurt. I contacted Animal Control who told me that the bird was probably just protecting his nest and that they’d come over and remove the next once I was able to locate it. Okay, I would think locating the nest would be something Animal Control would do. And anyway, I’ve seen the way this bird treats my dog. I’m not going to go try and piss him off. The problem ended when we left for a week on vacation (Dudley couldn’t come – rental house). I guess the bird got bored with no one to pick on and so he flew off to find his next victim.
So, yes, Dudley has always had some special needs. But, they were cute little quirks. Things that made him uniquely Duds. And I loved him for all of the trouble he was. I still do, although my feelings for him have been changing lately. He is now 14 years old which is hard to imagine as you watch him run, swim and play. He looks much younger and is in great shape. But you are quickly reminded when he… say… pees on the bed. Or…just as an example….poops on the dining room rug so that you can smell a hint of feces as you are eating your savory meal. I know he probably can’t help it, but I already have two children. I don’t need a third one. And he now requires more care than I have the time or inclination to give him. And I feel so guilty for it. He has been my little buddy for 14 years and I am getting so annoyed with him these days. It’s not his fault. It’s his age.
I guess it's his age. but I do look at him differently now than I used to. Where he once once the center of my universe he has become a burden to me. Do I find him expendable because he’s old and no longer capable of things that he once was? My goodness - Is this how my kids will feel about me when I begin to age and become incontinent? Will they resent having to yell things to me because I can no longer hear? Will I get in trouble if I chew up the wooden blinds because I’m upset that I’m alone in the house? Will they be angry when I need a bath because I’ve rolled in something dead because it is in my nature to do so? Hopefully not. So why am I so impatient with Dudley? I really do love him and I will be crushed – a sobbing mess – when he dies. It will be awful. Mike and I get teary-eyed just talking about the fact that he won’t be around forever. To actually be faced with it will be excruciating for both of us.
When these things cross my mind, I feel guilty for being so intolerant of him and I’ll go and cuddle with him or scratch him or feed him a piece of something he likes. In the time he has left with our family, I want try and be sure he knows every day that he’s my little buddy no matter where he pees or poops. I’ve seen a lot of posts on Facebook recently where people have had to put their dogs to sleep after a long, healthy life. That will be me sooner rather than later and I don’t need to take it for granted.
Sorry to ramble, but I needed to express it. I needed to focus again on my love for that doggie. Plus, I got nervous that something tragic might happen to me and my last words to all of you would be a post about feminine odor. Thought this one was slightly more heartwarming. Here's a nice quote for you:
Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really.
~Agnes Sligh Turnbull
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Yep, I'm Going There
*Guys, you probably don’t want to read this. You’ve been warned.
A lot of what this blog is, is a platform for me to use to complain about things I find annoying (which is a considerable – and ever growing - list). There is one thing that has really found it’s way under my skin (pardon the pun that you don’t really “get” now but will after reading on a little further…) lately that I have been reluctant to address but feel I can avoid no longer. That is, the amount and the content of vaginal product advertisements out there right now. Not only are these ads completely degrading and ridiculous, but they paint a picture that the only thing women do is drip, itch, and stink.
In a previous post, I talked about my fear of flying and how I feel like the whole time we are up in the air, the pilot is wrestling with the controls trying desperately to keep the plane in the air when what it really wants to do is crash. These ads make me feel the same way because they would have you believe that women have to constantly work to keep the itch, stench and general not-so-freshness at bay in order to function normally in their lives. Now, I have noted before that I am not a big feminist. I’m not even a small feminist, really. But I do think that these ads are demeaning and I am tired of being portrayed in this way. Let’s walk through a couple of examples, shall we?
First, we have a commercial where a woman is in her wedding dress with her attentive bridesmaids helping put the finishing touches on her hair on the most important day of her life. The very reasoned and comforting voice-over says something to the effect of this being the very last place you would want your feminine itch cream to stop working. My first problem with this ad is they refer to it as “feminine itch” as though that is supposed to make it sound dainty and delicate. You are talking about someone’s vagina itching, how pleasant is that? My second problem is pretty much everything else about the ad. It’s as though this woman could one day be looking at her wedding photo album and instead of recalling the cutting of the cake or the wedding kiss, she’ll be thinking, “I just wish I hadn’t had such an itchy vagina”. I can assure you that vaginal itch NEVER crossed my mind on my wedding day. Not once. Well, maybe once. But certainly not twice.
Another commercial that is loathsome to me is a tampon ad wherein there is a lady in a white bathing suit doing a flip off of the diving board. They pause her mid-spin and leave her there, upside down. She tells you that this is a time she hopes that she can rely on the strength of the tampon currently collecting what must be a geyser in her vagina. As though the tampon will fail and she will look like one of those old vaudeville clowns that shoots seltzer water at the crowd. Again, it leaves the viewer to assume that women are hyper-bleeders and that at any moment one could blow and we’d all be neck-deep in…well, you get the picture. I mean really, why should we even leave the house when it’s “our time of the month”? It’s much too risky for all involved.
Finally, the commercial that really prompted me to cover this topic in the first place is the one for Vagisil Feminine Wash. In the ad, there’s a girl who seems to be headed into a party or something. She very sheepishly opens the door to enter with a look of nervousness on her face. You see, she is self-conscious because of her “feminine odor”. And who wouldn’t be?
Let me ask this: How little are you bathing if you are concerned that merely walking into a room will reveal your palpable vaginal stench? Based on this, the next scene in the commercial should be her walking by and people collapsing into the punchbowl because the pungent smell has overtaken them. And then, her friend – the only one who hasn’t passed out due to years of building up a tolerance to it after repeated exposure – would walk over to her and say, “Sally, you really must do something about your vagina”. I don’t recall how it actually ends because I change the channel every time it comes on.
Come on, is this product really necessary? Can’t the Dove or Dial I’m currently using keep things ship-shape down there? Do I really have to have a separate cleaner for my crotch? Do men have Scrotophyl Penis Wash? No. So, why is this necessary? And who buys this stuff?
Actually, I can tell you who buys these things. And it ain’t pretty. I was in line at the grocery store behind a woman who appeared to be in her mid-sixties a few years ago. It was very troubling to me which is why I still remember it. She was purchasing two items. Bananas and douche. The check-out guy was about 18 years old and was probably thinking the same thing I was: this woman is going to go home, eat a banana, and cleanse her vagina. (At least I hope to God that’s what the bananas were for.) I have no idea why this woman felt she needed a good dousing, but apparently she did. Even if I ever needed a product like that – which, I haven’t so far after 37 years of reasonably decent hygienic practices – I would never buy it. I wouldn’t want someone to be pondering just what in the hell was wrong down there as he or she was ringing it up.
Sorry to be so gross and so negative. I just get riled up about these things. Plus, I get that way when I’m about to start my period. Everyone, seek cover.
A lot of what this blog is, is a platform for me to use to complain about things I find annoying (which is a considerable – and ever growing - list). There is one thing that has really found it’s way under my skin (pardon the pun that you don’t really “get” now but will after reading on a little further…) lately that I have been reluctant to address but feel I can avoid no longer. That is, the amount and the content of vaginal product advertisements out there right now. Not only are these ads completely degrading and ridiculous, but they paint a picture that the only thing women do is drip, itch, and stink.
In a previous post, I talked about my fear of flying and how I feel like the whole time we are up in the air, the pilot is wrestling with the controls trying desperately to keep the plane in the air when what it really wants to do is crash. These ads make me feel the same way because they would have you believe that women have to constantly work to keep the itch, stench and general not-so-freshness at bay in order to function normally in their lives. Now, I have noted before that I am not a big feminist. I’m not even a small feminist, really. But I do think that these ads are demeaning and I am tired of being portrayed in this way. Let’s walk through a couple of examples, shall we?
First, we have a commercial where a woman is in her wedding dress with her attentive bridesmaids helping put the finishing touches on her hair on the most important day of her life. The very reasoned and comforting voice-over says something to the effect of this being the very last place you would want your feminine itch cream to stop working. My first problem with this ad is they refer to it as “feminine itch” as though that is supposed to make it sound dainty and delicate. You are talking about someone’s vagina itching, how pleasant is that? My second problem is pretty much everything else about the ad. It’s as though this woman could one day be looking at her wedding photo album and instead of recalling the cutting of the cake or the wedding kiss, she’ll be thinking, “I just wish I hadn’t had such an itchy vagina”. I can assure you that vaginal itch NEVER crossed my mind on my wedding day. Not once. Well, maybe once. But certainly not twice.
Another commercial that is loathsome to me is a tampon ad wherein there is a lady in a white bathing suit doing a flip off of the diving board. They pause her mid-spin and leave her there, upside down. She tells you that this is a time she hopes that she can rely on the strength of the tampon currently collecting what must be a geyser in her vagina. As though the tampon will fail and she will look like one of those old vaudeville clowns that shoots seltzer water at the crowd. Again, it leaves the viewer to assume that women are hyper-bleeders and that at any moment one could blow and we’d all be neck-deep in…well, you get the picture. I mean really, why should we even leave the house when it’s “our time of the month”? It’s much too risky for all involved.
Finally, the commercial that really prompted me to cover this topic in the first place is the one for Vagisil Feminine Wash. In the ad, there’s a girl who seems to be headed into a party or something. She very sheepishly opens the door to enter with a look of nervousness on her face. You see, she is self-conscious because of her “feminine odor”. And who wouldn’t be?
Let me ask this: How little are you bathing if you are concerned that merely walking into a room will reveal your palpable vaginal stench? Based on this, the next scene in the commercial should be her walking by and people collapsing into the punchbowl because the pungent smell has overtaken them. And then, her friend – the only one who hasn’t passed out due to years of building up a tolerance to it after repeated exposure – would walk over to her and say, “Sally, you really must do something about your vagina”. I don’t recall how it actually ends because I change the channel every time it comes on.
Come on, is this product really necessary? Can’t the Dove or Dial I’m currently using keep things ship-shape down there? Do I really have to have a separate cleaner for my crotch? Do men have Scrotophyl Penis Wash? No. So, why is this necessary? And who buys this stuff?
Actually, I can tell you who buys these things. And it ain’t pretty. I was in line at the grocery store behind a woman who appeared to be in her mid-sixties a few years ago. It was very troubling to me which is why I still remember it. She was purchasing two items. Bananas and douche. The check-out guy was about 18 years old and was probably thinking the same thing I was: this woman is going to go home, eat a banana, and cleanse her vagina. (At least I hope to God that’s what the bananas were for.) I have no idea why this woman felt she needed a good dousing, but apparently she did. Even if I ever needed a product like that – which, I haven’t so far after 37 years of reasonably decent hygienic practices – I would never buy it. I wouldn’t want someone to be pondering just what in the hell was wrong down there as he or she was ringing it up.
Sorry to be so gross and so negative. I just get riled up about these things. Plus, I get that way when I’m about to start my period. Everyone, seek cover.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Kneel Before Zod
For those of you who do not recognize the title of this post, you are either A. too young; B. too cool; or C. both too young and too cool. I however, know exactly what it means since my sister and I proudly work it into at least one conversation every other week. It is a very powerful line from *one of the best action movies ever made, Superman II. I use it as my title today in order to prove how awesome I am and to engage in a little foreshadowing for how my kids will turn out.
Yes, I am slowly ruining my children. I am exposing them to things that I think are funny or interesting or cool and I see them emulating that and it scares the crap out of me. You see, I am almost 38 years old. I can go around quoting Superman II and it could be perceived as ** "funny" or "hipster" or "hey, she's SO cool she can quote a lame-ass movie and still be okay with herself". But if my kids watch, say, *** one of the all-time greatest musical movies ever - The Pirates of Penzance - and walk around singing the songs, the other kids will simply think they are weird. And will most likely stop playing with them.
You know, the older we get, the more comfortable we are in our skin. We know ourselves better. We care less what others think of us. We are fine with our little weird tastes, habits and idiosyncrasies. We are even fine if someone else thinks we're weird because - HEY - maybe they're weird. They don't sing folk songs by The Kingston Trio at the top of their lungs in their car??? What's their problem?!! But when we are kids, we want desperately to fit in. Even before we understand what it means to fit in, we want acceptance from others. We want the same bow so-and-so was wearing in her hair. We don't want to be ****the last person picked for the kickball team. We want others to like us and think we're neat.
That's where this issue with my children begins to get complicated. You see, I have a fairly juvenile sense of humor. I will do anything to make my girls laugh even if I have to talk about boogers and poo-poo to do it. You know they march into their school and tell people what their mother has taught them. They don't dare mention that I also taught them how snap their fingers or to make a ponytail. It's the idiotic things I do that most likely make it to the playground. I dance around like a robot when I give them their weight-gain shake they have to drink so they won't be forever saddled with my childhood body. They laugh. I continue to do it. They have picked up on this little routine and now dance the same way I do. They don't realize they are being taught to dance by a complete moron.
I like Bugs Bunny cartoons. They now watch them, and quote them, religiously. They are really funny - to people in their 60s. Seriously, how many kids nowadays watch those cartoons? Few if any. They are classic. Utter ridiculousness. My sister and I still quote the silly lines to this day. You know what kids are quoting today? Fart jokes. But, I won't let my kids say "fart". We don't fart in the McCallie household. We toot. All of their friends can say "fart". My kids want desperately to say "fart" and will even say it in a hushed tone so I can't hear it. But they know they aren't supposed to and so they usually go with "toot". I fear the labeling of them as weirdos has already begun.
Getting back to Pirates of Penzance, Kate has now proudly proclaimed on several different occasions that this is her favorite movie. MY GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE TO HER? I love the movie - grew up watching it - and the music is great. And yes, my sister and I still quote it. But no ***** self-respecting person admits this. And certainly no child should admit to this. I am so embarrassed for her that I have begun a process of manipulation to convince her that Despicable Me is actually her favorite. I think it's rated PG (I'm wanting her to be the "bad girl") and it has Steve Carell in it. What could be cooler than that? But no, she insists that Pirates of Penzance is her favorite. And really, what 5 year old wouldn't love the song stylings of Mr. Rex Smith and the incomparable Angela Landsbury? Kevin Kline and Linda Rondstadt are also in it which ******slightly raises the cool factor, but geez, it's still Angela Landsbury! I don't think my kids could identify Justin Beiber or even Hannah Montana. But that lady from Murder She Wrote? They know her. Rex Smith, who hosted Solid Gold in the 80s alongside Marilyn McCoo? Yep, they know him. Kate sings the songs and discusses the various predicaments of the characters all the time. You know the kids on the playground are thinking, "who the hell is the Pirate King?".
And then there's Meg. She is slightly better off because she doesn't emulate things that I do to the degree that her sister does. But I'm afraid I have warped her a bit, too. A good example is this coming Halloween. My kids have been talking about what costumes they want to wear for months now. They both love the movie Annie (Starring Aileen Quinn. You know, Aileen Quinn. Hello? Anyone?) so I suggested to Meg that she go trick or treating as Annie. She happily agreed and now there is no talking her out of it. That's great and all, except it was totally my idea... from 1982!! Other kids will be going as Jessie form Toy Story with their hair braided and their cute cowgirl boots. Other kids will dress up in a pretty dress with long, white gloves and a tiara and go as a princess. Other kids will wear pretty, sheer wings and have glitter in their hair and go as a fairy. Meg will be clomping around the neighborhood wearing a big, red afro.
So what are some other things my children have to *******look forward to? Well, my sister and I happily quote Superman II (as well as the original Superman of course!), The Pirates of Penzance, Looney Tunes, Annie, and scores of other embarrassing, ridiculous movies pretty much EVERY time were speak to or see each other. We do quote a lot of Saturday Night Live, but before you go thinking that somehow ********redeems us, you should know that a lot of it is from the early 80s when people like Tim Kazurinsky were on. (In case you are wondering, her kids are probably no better off than my own. My apologies to them as well as to my kids who are doomed to turn out just like me.)
While I am doling out apologies, I obviously owe a big one to my sister whom I have outed as being as gigantic a geek as I am. I will have to now throw myself at her mercy. I hope she doesn't hit me with a stern, "KNEEEEEL BEFORE ZODDDDD"!!!!
Anyway, if you or your children come in contact with either of my girls, please do your best to undo some of the monumental damage I have done. Please put them in touch with the right movies, music, dancing and popular culture for a child their age. Please intervene as you see fit and they will thank you for it one day when they realize they have forgotten all of the words to "A Rollicking Band of Pirates We".
* No one has ever called Superman II one of the best action, or any other type of movie, ever made.
** It is actually perceived as none of these.
*** The Pirates of Penzance has never been labeled as one of the all-time greatest movie musicals ever. Ever.
**** Say hello to the last person picked to be on the kickball team. :(
***** I have no self-respect.
****** Not nearly enough.
******* Dread.
******** As if anything could.
Yes, I am slowly ruining my children. I am exposing them to things that I think are funny or interesting or cool and I see them emulating that and it scares the crap out of me. You see, I am almost 38 years old. I can go around quoting Superman II and it could be perceived as ** "funny" or "hipster" or "hey, she's SO cool she can quote a lame-ass movie and still be okay with herself". But if my kids watch, say, *** one of the all-time greatest musical movies ever - The Pirates of Penzance - and walk around singing the songs, the other kids will simply think they are weird. And will most likely stop playing with them.
You know, the older we get, the more comfortable we are in our skin. We know ourselves better. We care less what others think of us. We are fine with our little weird tastes, habits and idiosyncrasies. We are even fine if someone else thinks we're weird because - HEY - maybe they're weird. They don't sing folk songs by The Kingston Trio at the top of their lungs in their car??? What's their problem?!! But when we are kids, we want desperately to fit in. Even before we understand what it means to fit in, we want acceptance from others. We want the same bow so-and-so was wearing in her hair. We don't want to be ****the last person picked for the kickball team. We want others to like us and think we're neat.
That's where this issue with my children begins to get complicated. You see, I have a fairly juvenile sense of humor. I will do anything to make my girls laugh even if I have to talk about boogers and poo-poo to do it. You know they march into their school and tell people what their mother has taught them. They don't dare mention that I also taught them how snap their fingers or to make a ponytail. It's the idiotic things I do that most likely make it to the playground. I dance around like a robot when I give them their weight-gain shake they have to drink so they won't be forever saddled with my childhood body. They laugh. I continue to do it. They have picked up on this little routine and now dance the same way I do. They don't realize they are being taught to dance by a complete moron.
I like Bugs Bunny cartoons. They now watch them, and quote them, religiously. They are really funny - to people in their 60s. Seriously, how many kids nowadays watch those cartoons? Few if any. They are classic. Utter ridiculousness. My sister and I still quote the silly lines to this day. You know what kids are quoting today? Fart jokes. But, I won't let my kids say "fart". We don't fart in the McCallie household. We toot. All of their friends can say "fart". My kids want desperately to say "fart" and will even say it in a hushed tone so I can't hear it. But they know they aren't supposed to and so they usually go with "toot". I fear the labeling of them as weirdos has already begun.
Getting back to Pirates of Penzance, Kate has now proudly proclaimed on several different occasions that this is her favorite movie. MY GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE TO HER? I love the movie - grew up watching it - and the music is great. And yes, my sister and I still quote it. But no ***** self-respecting person admits this. And certainly no child should admit to this. I am so embarrassed for her that I have begun a process of manipulation to convince her that Despicable Me is actually her favorite. I think it's rated PG (I'm wanting her to be the "bad girl") and it has Steve Carell in it. What could be cooler than that? But no, she insists that Pirates of Penzance is her favorite. And really, what 5 year old wouldn't love the song stylings of Mr. Rex Smith and the incomparable Angela Landsbury? Kevin Kline and Linda Rondstadt are also in it which ******slightly raises the cool factor, but geez, it's still Angela Landsbury! I don't think my kids could identify Justin Beiber or even Hannah Montana. But that lady from Murder She Wrote? They know her. Rex Smith, who hosted Solid Gold in the 80s alongside Marilyn McCoo? Yep, they know him. Kate sings the songs and discusses the various predicaments of the characters all the time. You know the kids on the playground are thinking, "who the hell is the Pirate King?".
And then there's Meg. She is slightly better off because she doesn't emulate things that I do to the degree that her sister does. But I'm afraid I have warped her a bit, too. A good example is this coming Halloween. My kids have been talking about what costumes they want to wear for months now. They both love the movie Annie (Starring Aileen Quinn. You know, Aileen Quinn. Hello? Anyone?) so I suggested to Meg that she go trick or treating as Annie. She happily agreed and now there is no talking her out of it. That's great and all, except it was totally my idea... from 1982!! Other kids will be going as Jessie form Toy Story with their hair braided and their cute cowgirl boots. Other kids will dress up in a pretty dress with long, white gloves and a tiara and go as a princess. Other kids will wear pretty, sheer wings and have glitter in their hair and go as a fairy. Meg will be clomping around the neighborhood wearing a big, red afro.
So what are some other things my children have to *******look forward to? Well, my sister and I happily quote Superman II (as well as the original Superman of course!), The Pirates of Penzance, Looney Tunes, Annie, and scores of other embarrassing, ridiculous movies pretty much EVERY time were speak to or see each other. We do quote a lot of Saturday Night Live, but before you go thinking that somehow ********redeems us, you should know that a lot of it is from the early 80s when people like Tim Kazurinsky were on. (In case you are wondering, her kids are probably no better off than my own. My apologies to them as well as to my kids who are doomed to turn out just like me.)
While I am doling out apologies, I obviously owe a big one to my sister whom I have outed as being as gigantic a geek as I am. I will have to now throw myself at her mercy. I hope she doesn't hit me with a stern, "KNEEEEEL BEFORE ZODDDDD"!!!!
Anyway, if you or your children come in contact with either of my girls, please do your best to undo some of the monumental damage I have done. Please put them in touch with the right movies, music, dancing and popular culture for a child their age. Please intervene as you see fit and they will thank you for it one day when they realize they have forgotten all of the words to "A Rollicking Band of Pirates We".
* No one has ever called Superman II one of the best action, or any other type of movie, ever made.
** It is actually perceived as none of these.
*** The Pirates of Penzance has never been labeled as one of the all-time greatest movie musicals ever. Ever.
**** Say hello to the last person picked to be on the kickball team. :(
***** I have no self-respect.
****** Not nearly enough.
******* Dread.
******** As if anything could.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)