This is another blog post directed mainly at the ladies. Guys, you can read on, but the same caveat in my Girly Parts Exam posting applies here. I am known for telling it like it is, so be forewarned.
Let me start out by saying that at forty-one and eleven-twelfths, I have very much embraced the decade I am in. There are a lot of benefits. You feel no shame in saying that your favorite place to be at 10pm on a Saturday night is dozing off in bed to "House Hunters". Folks finally dial down the pressure on you to have yet another kid because they do the math and realize you can join AARP at the same time the baby is rushing a fraternity. You can buy spray paint and not get carded. The list is just endless.
However, there are many things for which I was not prepared. You know that friend who takes you aside in junior high and gives you the lowdown on what really happens when you get your period and have sex and all of the other mysteries of the developing years that you know the basics of but not the nitty gritty? Well, there is no such person for giving you some of the harsh facts of turning forty. So allow me to be your tour guide. And unlike your tween pal back in the day who got all of her information from a purloined copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" and her cousin's best friend's sister's account of her "first time", I deal only in proven facts. So grab a glass of wine, and keep the bottle handy for refills. Here we go.
Proven Fact #1: You will grow a goatee.
Don't worry, this won't happen overnight, and the actual full-on goatee can be prevented. You can go one of two routes; the tweezers or electrolysis. I am a cheapskate, therefore I pluck. Without going into further details, let's just say that the errant hairs are not always confined to your face. I recommend doing a full body scan once a month for rogue sprouts. If you have dark hair like I do, best make it twice a month. You'll be surprised at what you may find.
Proven Fact #2: Whenever you lean over to the side and see your face in the mirror, you will appear to be having a stroke.
One word: gravity. Unless you want to go the extreme route of having a face lift, the only way to avoid this one completely is to swear off any activity requiring bending or leaning from the waist. (At this point, 90% of the readers of this post will be tempted to pause here and go look in a mirror while doing a side bend. Word of advice: polish off the wine in your glass before you do.)
Proven Fact #3: Your boobs are done.
Chances are, if you've given birth and nursed at all, they threw up the white flag years ago. Again, unless you opt for surgery, gravity ain't gonna do you any favors in this area either. And even if you do drop five gees to the Boob Fairy, time will continue to march across your perky new mams until they become road weary and eventually give up the fight for the second time. Consolation: most men like ALL breasts, whether they look like they have been applied with a toilet plunger or like tube socks with tennis balls in them. Buy good bras, learn how to undress and redress in under twenty seconds, and never do so in front of a mirror.
Proven Fact #4: People are not messing with the font size on your computer/Kindle/phone.
Get readers. Yes, every time you put them on, people will think you're about to read a Dickens novel aloud to them. Embrace this new seemingly intellectual side of yourself and be kind to your aging peepers.
Proven Fact #5: You have two new best friends. Their names are Darkness & Distance.
Nothing will send a woman over forty scurrying like a cockroach faster than someone coming at them with a camera in a well-lit room. Please, a little understanding here. If you can see the color of her eyes in your lens, zoom out. If it's bright enough to discern whether she is wearing a light or a dark color, no flash is really necessary. Now, if you're a professional photographer and proficient in the art of image editing, the aforementioned advice is retracted. Honey, you are the third BFF of the Woman Over Forty. Snap away! (I am not a proponent of narcotics, but if everyone could see us all the time through the same dreamy, soft-focus filter that peyote users view the world, THAT would be a ideal for WOF. Just sayin'.)
Proven Fact #6: I can't remember what it was.
Again, if you're a mom, you are probably already into the forgetfulness thing. Turning forty is not going to help this. The good news is that this is a phenomenon that eventually transcends gender, so your hubby is probably going through it as well. No judgments will be forthcoming from him. He's too busy trying to remember where he put his readers.
Proven Fact #7: You will be tempted to start lying to your ob/gyn about fake problems with your uterus so (s)he will remove it.
You're done having babies, you've been through approximately 300 shark weeks in your life, and you're just over the whole thing. Menopause is still many years away, and the whole idea of another decade or so of a shark week every month is tiring. Maybe I'm in the minority on this one, I don't know. Some of my friends have been shocked when I tell them that since I've shuttered the Baby Factory for good, I'd like it torn down and hauled off. They say they want to keep theirs in case their daughter or DIL can't carry a baby, and then they can carry their own grandchild. *crickets* Huh? Yeah, not happening over here. Demo can start anytime, Doc.
Proven Fact #8: Speaking of grandbabies, some of you will have them before you turn 50.
If you haven't polished off that wine yet, this idea might send you to the bottom of the bottle. According to the latest statistics, 40% of people today between the ages of 40 and 49 will become grandparents before they hit 50. Four out of ten of us. I'm choosing to exempt myself from being part of that four since I had my kids in my 30s, and they will still be teenagers when I turn 50. Before you start throwing teen pregnancy stats back at me, this is MY blog, and I declare here that I shan't be a grandparent when my kids are teens. I'm going to ask you to just be nice and humor me on that one. Which may be challenging if you have personal knowledge of the Boy Child. But I digress.
Proven Fact #9: You WILL start seeing your mother in the mirror.
This could be worse. I look nothing like my mom and am the spitting image of my dad. Count your lucky stars your reflection doesn't resemble a seventy-six year old man, and carry on.
Proven Fact #10: Despite all the ways your forties can be frightening, they are also completely spectacular.
They say your twenties are your "me" decade. I disagree. In your forties, it really is about you and your journey of self-discovery. You gain wisdom and enlightenment in ways you could have never imagined. Your life on this earth is half gone, so it takes on a precious and delicate quality it never had before. The material takes a back seat, and the people and beliefs you hold dear stand at the forefront. Every day you are given is a blessing. At least that's how it is for me.
The physical body getting older does stink, there are no two ways about it. But since we are powerless to stop it, just don't let it overshadow all the amazing things getting older does for your mind and spirit. In the words of Betty Friedan, "Aging is not lost youth but a new stage of opportunity and strength". I couldn't agree more. So raise that wine glass to yourself, to me, and to all of the other fabulous forty-somethings who are not just doing life, but who try and find the beauty and blessing in living it well each and every day.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Monday, June 9, 2014
Monday, March 24, 2014
My Thoughts On: The Annual Girly Parts Inspection
If you're a guy, and you value the mysteries of women in the slightest, this is your jumping off point. Seriously, I'm generally known for telling it like it is, and in this case, it's not how the Madison Ave boys have spent 150 years trying to convince you fellas that it is over here in Woman World. Still convinced you want to read on? Okay, don't say I didn't warn you...
So for the ladies and the three guys that are still reading this blog post, today's topic is your annual girly parts inspection, a/k/a, your pap smear and breast exam. Unless you are the type who charts your bowel movements and knows by heart what your baby's Doppler heartbeat was at every check up for all of your pregnancies, you greet this appointment with all the enthusiasm that you would a six a.m. alarm clock after you have been up all night with a vomiting child. I'm in the latter group.
Let's start with booking the experience. (Do you like how I kinda made it sound like a cruise or a trip to Disney? Yeah, right.) I don't know about your ob/gyn office, but to see most of the doctors at mine, you have to book next year's appointment at THIS year's appointment. For crying out loud. Yes, I'm a planner, but do I know whether Tuesday at 2:00 or Friday at 9:00 is going to work better for me a YEAR from now? Um, and how about the fact that you can't even get a pap smear if it is Shark Week. (Read between the lines on that reference.) My cycles are regular, but if I need a calendar, a piece of paper and five full minutes to come up with the date for the nurse when she asks me when my last last Shark Week began, I'm going to be standing at the check out desk until every pregnant woman in the waiting room has gone into labor trying to predict when it's going to hit a year ahead of time.
I've had my babies, so it really doesn't matter to me who I see anymore. Just let me call the office and schedule me with someone within a couple of weeks at a date and time that works with my schedule. The examiner having gone to medical school is not even essential to me. If someone would come up with some sort of home exam kit, I could easily talk my husband into performing most of the procedures in the comfort of our bedroom. We could send the sample off to the lab, they email me the results, and I've scored some Wife Points in the process. Everybody wins!
Until that day comes, I'm stuck going into the office. Let's start with the Waiting Room. It's all right there in the name. It's not called the "Expediting Room", or the "In-and-Out of Here Room". It's the Waaaaaaaiting Room. I'm not the most patient or the most impatient person in the world. Somewhere in between. I can easily amuse myself during life's inevitable little delays. But there is something about someone forcing me to cool my jets on my dime that really chaps my hide. Yes, I have medical insurance, so BCBS is picking up most of the tab, but that and my co-pay make me a paying customer. This creates an expectation of Good Customer Service in my book.
Making me wait more than ten minutes is not GCS. Booking another patient for my doctor at the same time as me is not GCS. Being pissy with me the moment I walk in the door and approach the desk is not GCS. Seriously, what is up with putting people who are perpetually in a bad mood up front to greet people? You bark at me in monosyllables, thrust 24 pages of paperwork at me, and give me a pen with a cheery flower attached to it so I don't rip it off? Not feeling any GCS at all here. This office staff crankiness anomaly seems to be pervasive in the medical industry. Doctor's offices, hospitals, vision centers, labs, and so on. If you are a receptionist in the medical field and you're perky and welcoming, first, I apologize. Secondly, if you're in the KC area, please message me your medical group's info so I can patronize your practice.
So we're waiting. And waiting. And. Waiting. After thirty minutes, I approach the Keeper of the Poppy Pens behind the desk to inquire if the doctor is running on time. "Pretty much" is the reply I get. Pretty much? What does that mean? I'm going to need some clarification here, ma'am. In my book, if she were "pretty much" running on time, I'd have my feet in some stirrups by now. I think we passed "pretty much" about fifteen minutes ago. Is she here? Across the street at the hospital doing an emergency c-section? What's the haps? After being told in an exasperated tone that "it should only be a few more minutes", I give in and go to the restroom.
I've needed to pee ever since I got there, but I'm afraid if I hit the ladies room, they will call my name back in the Waaaaaiting Room. If I'm not there, you KNOW they are going to shrug their shoulders, scratch my name off the list and go on to the next one. I'm looking at another year before I can get back to the top of that list again. So I take my chances and go to the restroom but tell everyone in the Waaaaiting Room and that I encounter in the hall along the way, "I'm Deborah Rushing, and I'm going to the restroom". This annoys the office staff and puzzles the other patients, but hey, one of them may hear my name get called and have the kindness to shout out, "She's in the restroom!" and save me from being bumped off the list. Not my first rodeo, kids. And I'd do it for them too.
After fifty(!) minutes, I get called back to the exam room. I know better than to see any proverbial light at the end of the tunnel at this point. We're just changing venues here. The doctor has not taken the stage. I'm not even sure she's even in the wings or in her dressing room, er, office. The nurse does the scale thing and the blood pressure thing and the inevitable question about last month's Shark Week, then points at a piece of material that is manufactured for use both as an exam gown and for someone who is eating crab legs and tells me to completely undress and put it on. She hands me a table napkin and tells me to cover my lap with it, gives me permission to leave my socks on, and leaves. I comply but leave my hat on too just as a passive-aggressive silent protest. And I wait some more.
Time that is spent waiting while (mostly) naked is comparable to time spent waiting while clothed as dog years are to people years. One minute of clothed waiting is like seven minutes of (mostly) naked waiting. So in (Mostly) Naked Waiting time, I cool my heels (not literally since I still have my fuzzy socks on and my feet are the only part of me that are not freezing) for another two hours and ten minutes. Then Dr. Luminous comes in. That's not her real name. I'm just calling her that to respect her privacy and because she really is luminous. Her countenance and her spirit just shine. She is quite literally one of the kindest, most positive and most infectious people I have ever met. Yes, I have a (non-sexual) girl crush on my ob/gyn.
Because of said crush, all of the time I spent waiting, the rudeness of Elphaba and the rest of the Poppy Coven out front and my hypothermia are quickly forgotten. Dr. Luminous shines her light on me, and she catches up on my health and my sweet babies that she delivered. Then we move on to exam time. Here's where it gets awkward. When I'm staring at the ceiling, my legs are akimbo, and the exam is happening, it's a little harder to bask in the light. The doctor continues chatting on, but her words take on the effect of Charlie Brown's teacher, and I can't follow. It doesn't matter that I've been in this position every year for over twenty years or that I've given birth in it twice. Unless I am married to the person who kindly asks me to assume it, it's just awkward. Enough said.
As Dr. Luminous is chatting away, I sense we are nearing the end of the exam and start to fight the mental fog to dial back into what she is saying. I snap completely back when I hear the words "after forty, we conclude with a quick rectal exam" HOLD IT. Say what??? Before I can find my vocal cords and object, she is in and out and done. Huh? Wait. What just happened? Why was this not presented in the 24 pages of paperwork I was given? Surely some sort of release needs to be signed beforehand? At the very least I should have been given a bottle of wine an hour ago and some chocolate immediately after she was finished. What the heck?
The doctor congratulates me on my excellent health and leaves the room. The light is gone, and all I'm left with is a crumpled bib and a serious desire to take a shower. I get dressed and leave, irrationally feeling that everyone there knows exactly what went down in that room and will not make eye contact with me as a result. Not that I'm looking to make it with anyone myself, mind you. As I quickly move past the check out desk, they ask me if I want to go ahead and make next year's appointment. Um, thanks, I'll pass. I need some time and some distance and the all too distinct memory of this year's overall experience to fade quite a bit first. Don't call me, I'll call you.
In the meantime, I remember to be grateful that my Girly Parts are healthy and that I took the time to make sure of that. Even if it's two hours of my life that I'll never get back, that piece of mind makes it time well spent. If you haven't done it recently, get yours checked too. You owe it to yourself and your family. And when you're staring at the ceiling, just remember that there is a sisterhood out there who knows exactly how you feel, my friend. ;-)
Sparkly Kisses,
D
So for the ladies and the three guys that are still reading this blog post, today's topic is your annual girly parts inspection, a/k/a, your pap smear and breast exam. Unless you are the type who charts your bowel movements and knows by heart what your baby's Doppler heartbeat was at every check up for all of your pregnancies, you greet this appointment with all the enthusiasm that you would a six a.m. alarm clock after you have been up all night with a vomiting child. I'm in the latter group.
Let's start with booking the experience. (Do you like how I kinda made it sound like a cruise or a trip to Disney? Yeah, right.) I don't know about your ob/gyn office, but to see most of the doctors at mine, you have to book next year's appointment at THIS year's appointment. For crying out loud. Yes, I'm a planner, but do I know whether Tuesday at 2:00 or Friday at 9:00 is going to work better for me a YEAR from now? Um, and how about the fact that you can't even get a pap smear if it is Shark Week. (Read between the lines on that reference.) My cycles are regular, but if I need a calendar, a piece of paper and five full minutes to come up with the date for the nurse when she asks me when my last last Shark Week began, I'm going to be standing at the check out desk until every pregnant woman in the waiting room has gone into labor trying to predict when it's going to hit a year ahead of time.
I've had my babies, so it really doesn't matter to me who I see anymore. Just let me call the office and schedule me with someone within a couple of weeks at a date and time that works with my schedule. The examiner having gone to medical school is not even essential to me. If someone would come up with some sort of home exam kit, I could easily talk my husband into performing most of the procedures in the comfort of our bedroom. We could send the sample off to the lab, they email me the results, and I've scored some Wife Points in the process. Everybody wins!
Until that day comes, I'm stuck going into the office. Let's start with the Waiting Room. It's all right there in the name. It's not called the "Expediting Room", or the "In-and-Out of Here Room". It's the Waaaaaaaiting Room. I'm not the most patient or the most impatient person in the world. Somewhere in between. I can easily amuse myself during life's inevitable little delays. But there is something about someone forcing me to cool my jets on my dime that really chaps my hide. Yes, I have medical insurance, so BCBS is picking up most of the tab, but that and my co-pay make me a paying customer. This creates an expectation of Good Customer Service in my book.
Making me wait more than ten minutes is not GCS. Booking another patient for my doctor at the same time as me is not GCS. Being pissy with me the moment I walk in the door and approach the desk is not GCS. Seriously, what is up with putting people who are perpetually in a bad mood up front to greet people? You bark at me in monosyllables, thrust 24 pages of paperwork at me, and give me a pen with a cheery flower attached to it so I don't rip it off? Not feeling any GCS at all here. This office staff crankiness anomaly seems to be pervasive in the medical industry. Doctor's offices, hospitals, vision centers, labs, and so on. If you are a receptionist in the medical field and you're perky and welcoming, first, I apologize. Secondly, if you're in the KC area, please message me your medical group's info so I can patronize your practice.
So we're waiting. And waiting. And. Waiting. After thirty minutes, I approach the Keeper of the Poppy Pens behind the desk to inquire if the doctor is running on time. "Pretty much" is the reply I get. Pretty much? What does that mean? I'm going to need some clarification here, ma'am. In my book, if she were "pretty much" running on time, I'd have my feet in some stirrups by now. I think we passed "pretty much" about fifteen minutes ago. Is she here? Across the street at the hospital doing an emergency c-section? What's the haps? After being told in an exasperated tone that "it should only be a few more minutes", I give in and go to the restroom.
I've needed to pee ever since I got there, but I'm afraid if I hit the ladies room, they will call my name back in the Waaaaaiting Room. If I'm not there, you KNOW they are going to shrug their shoulders, scratch my name off the list and go on to the next one. I'm looking at another year before I can get back to the top of that list again. So I take my chances and go to the restroom but tell everyone in the Waaaaiting Room and that I encounter in the hall along the way, "I'm Deborah Rushing, and I'm going to the restroom". This annoys the office staff and puzzles the other patients, but hey, one of them may hear my name get called and have the kindness to shout out, "She's in the restroom!" and save me from being bumped off the list. Not my first rodeo, kids. And I'd do it for them too.
After fifty(!) minutes, I get called back to the exam room. I know better than to see any proverbial light at the end of the tunnel at this point. We're just changing venues here. The doctor has not taken the stage. I'm not even sure she's even in the wings or in her dressing room, er, office. The nurse does the scale thing and the blood pressure thing and the inevitable question about last month's Shark Week, then points at a piece of material that is manufactured for use both as an exam gown and for someone who is eating crab legs and tells me to completely undress and put it on. She hands me a table napkin and tells me to cover my lap with it, gives me permission to leave my socks on, and leaves. I comply but leave my hat on too just as a passive-aggressive silent protest. And I wait some more.
Time that is spent waiting while (mostly) naked is comparable to time spent waiting while clothed as dog years are to people years. One minute of clothed waiting is like seven minutes of (mostly) naked waiting. So in (Mostly) Naked Waiting time, I cool my heels (not literally since I still have my fuzzy socks on and my feet are the only part of me that are not freezing) for another two hours and ten minutes. Then Dr. Luminous comes in. That's not her real name. I'm just calling her that to respect her privacy and because she really is luminous. Her countenance and her spirit just shine. She is quite literally one of the kindest, most positive and most infectious people I have ever met. Yes, I have a (non-sexual) girl crush on my ob/gyn.
Because of said crush, all of the time I spent waiting, the rudeness of Elphaba and the rest of the Poppy Coven out front and my hypothermia are quickly forgotten. Dr. Luminous shines her light on me, and she catches up on my health and my sweet babies that she delivered. Then we move on to exam time. Here's where it gets awkward. When I'm staring at the ceiling, my legs are akimbo, and the exam is happening, it's a little harder to bask in the light. The doctor continues chatting on, but her words take on the effect of Charlie Brown's teacher, and I can't follow. It doesn't matter that I've been in this position every year for over twenty years or that I've given birth in it twice. Unless I am married to the person who kindly asks me to assume it, it's just awkward. Enough said.
As Dr. Luminous is chatting away, I sense we are nearing the end of the exam and start to fight the mental fog to dial back into what she is saying. I snap completely back when I hear the words "after forty, we conclude with a quick rectal exam" HOLD IT. Say what??? Before I can find my vocal cords and object, she is in and out and done. Huh? Wait. What just happened? Why was this not presented in the 24 pages of paperwork I was given? Surely some sort of release needs to be signed beforehand? At the very least I should have been given a bottle of wine an hour ago and some chocolate immediately after she was finished. What the heck?
The doctor congratulates me on my excellent health and leaves the room. The light is gone, and all I'm left with is a crumpled bib and a serious desire to take a shower. I get dressed and leave, irrationally feeling that everyone there knows exactly what went down in that room and will not make eye contact with me as a result. Not that I'm looking to make it with anyone myself, mind you. As I quickly move past the check out desk, they ask me if I want to go ahead and make next year's appointment. Um, thanks, I'll pass. I need some time and some distance and the all too distinct memory of this year's overall experience to fade quite a bit first. Don't call me, I'll call you.
In the meantime, I remember to be grateful that my Girly Parts are healthy and that I took the time to make sure of that. Even if it's two hours of my life that I'll never get back, that piece of mind makes it time well spent. If you haven't done it recently, get yours checked too. You owe it to yourself and your family. And when you're staring at the ceiling, just remember that there is a sisterhood out there who knows exactly how you feel, my friend. ;-)
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Thursday, November 28, 2013
My Thoughts On: Being Thankful
Today is Thanksgiving. Of course I'm thankful all year for a LOT of stuff, and I tell the Lord that all the time. The Big 3 for me are His Son, my family and my health. I thought it might be fun to come up with a list of some of the little things I'm thankful for each day. So in no particular order, here are twenty-five of them.
1. heated seats in my car
2. books you stay up way later than you should so you can finish them
3. friends who will tell you you have something in your teeth
4. that my kids are no longer infants
5. that my kids are not yet teenagers
6. drinking my first cup of coffee in the morning in absolute silence in my house
7. summers off
8. that my husband still thinks I'm smokin' hot after 14 years together
9. living close to where I work
10. getting to see my kids there every day
11. all the modern conveniences in my house
12. climbing into bed with freshly washed sheets
13. being able to set reminders on my phone
14. living in a neighborhood where my kids have half a dozen friends just outside their door
15. every single time my husband helps around the house
16. tissues with lotion
17. being able to park in my garage
18. when I miss a call, and they send a text instead of leaving a voice mail
19. that my mom taught me the value of good manners and thank you notes
20. that my dad taught me how to change a flat
21. seedless watermelon
22. the clearance rack
23. when something starts to spill, and I catch it
24. copy and paste
25. knowing that I am making a difference, I matter, and I am fulfilling God's purpose for me (Okay, so that's a Big Thing. Still grateful for it every day.)
1. heated seats in my car
2. books you stay up way later than you should so you can finish them
3. friends who will tell you you have something in your teeth
4. that my kids are no longer infants
5. that my kids are not yet teenagers
6. drinking my first cup of coffee in the morning in absolute silence in my house
7. summers off
8. that my husband still thinks I'm smokin' hot after 14 years together
9. living close to where I work
10. getting to see my kids there every day
11. all the modern conveniences in my house
12. climbing into bed with freshly washed sheets
13. being able to set reminders on my phone
14. living in a neighborhood where my kids have half a dozen friends just outside their door
15. every single time my husband helps around the house
16. tissues with lotion
17. being able to park in my garage
18. when I miss a call, and they send a text instead of leaving a voice mail
19. that my mom taught me the value of good manners and thank you notes
20. that my dad taught me how to change a flat
21. seedless watermelon
22. the clearance rack
23. when something starts to spill, and I catch it
24. copy and paste
25. knowing that I am making a difference, I matter, and I am fulfilling God's purpose for me (Okay, so that's a Big Thing. Still grateful for it every day.)
Sunday, July 21, 2013
My Thoughts On: A Happy Happy Happy "Non-Traditional" Birthday
Birthdays. We all have one. Some of you may even have enough to see Halley's comet twice in your lifetime. I LOVE celebrating birthdays. Other people's that is. Don't get me wrong, I am not shy about my age (forty-one, thank you very much) or preoccupied with growing older. That's because I just get more fabulous every year. ;-) I simply do not like a fuss made over me, especially in the "hey, we've gathered 100 of your closest acquaintances, and now you have to spend four hours talking to everyone" kind of way.
Again, don't get me wrong, I love socializing with people. In small groups. For a while. And when I am not expected to give a speech or blow out candles after some yahoo makes a tired joke about having to call the fire department over the number of them. ("I don't know what happened, Barb. We were singing 'Happy Birthday' one minute, and the next minute, she had Bob in a full nelson on the floor")
And let me digress for a moment and give a little advice to the folks who go around celebrating their "birthday week" or "birthday weekend". If you are turning one, I will give you a week to celebrate. If you are under the age of 18, or you are celebrating a "milestone" birthday (21, 30, 40, etc), I will give you a weekend. If you have any other amount of candles on your cake and would like my participation in some way, you get a birthDAY. One. Uno. End of story. Moving on...
Some of you probably have birthdays that are an extravaganza of celebration from the moment you are awoken with being served breakfast in bed by your adoring spouse and excited children, who are showering you with kisses and birthday wishes. They are also shoving flowers and cards and gifts at you, while singing "Happy Birthday to You" in a three-part harmony. You go on to have a day where you basically sit on a throne while your loved ones bestow you with gifts, surprises and a plethora of all of your favorite experiences. That is awesome, and I am genuinely happy for you. Enjoy!
My birthdays are a bit more non-traditional. Some of that is by choice, and some of it is just circumstance. One of the reasons is that I am married to a guy who is not big on occasions. Celebrating them, planning for them, or even remembering them in the first place. My HH is easy on the eyes, and he has many redeeming qualities. Making a "to do" over someone's birthday is just not in his skill set. I do get a "Happy Birthday Baby" and a card every year, and some flowers about every fifth year, but that pretty much wraps it up, and that's fine. At this point in our marriage, if he went beyond that, I would think that he's either having an affair or that I have been diagnosed with a terminal illness that my doctor told him about and not me.
Another reason my birthdays are non-traditional is because of my upbringing. To avoid turning this blog entry into a therapy session (and to avoid opening any cans of worms with any relatives who may be reading this), just know that my childhood was quite different from many of my peers. If it had been a TV show, if would have been "The Brady Bunch" with heavy doses of "All My Children" and "Monday Night Raw" (Google that one if you're not a fan) thrown in there. Now before you go feeling all sorry for me, the upside to this is that as an adult, I can tolerate (just about) anybody, and I ain't skeered of anybody either. *crouching into Ralph Macchio's crane pose from "Karate Kid"* Both are definitely good life skills to have.
But the main reason my birthday is non-traditional is because of me. I don't do well with any hoopla over me, and those closest to me know that. The idea of a big party makes me all rashy, and I start to pit sweat just thinking about it. Instead, I take my birthday happiness in the Little Things, which are Big Things to me. Take my birthday this year for example. It was yesterday, which is obviously why I turned these thoughts into a blog entry.
I was the first one up at my house as usual. I got my coffee and got on my computer. Lots of birthday wishes to me on Facebook. Little (Big) Thing. My kids got up next, having no clue at first it was my birthday. That's fine because I still got my usual morning hugs, kisses and snuggles. Little (Big) Thing. HH woke up and gave me a card and my quinquenneal flowers before he went to work. L(B)T. My kids realized in the late morning it was my birthday. They made me cards with printer paper and wrapped up stuff from their rooms to give me as gifts. A favorite bracelet of the Girl Child's, and some of his prized marbles from the Boy Child. L(B)T.
I then spent the afternoon pulling up carpet, pad, tack strip, nails and staples from our bedroom floor as the result of water damage from one of the HH's ideas that had hit the crapper. Hard. My friend Marty stopped by to drop off some stuff and wish me a HBD, and she offered (multiple times) to stay and help me. Any ol' friend will offer to go to lunch, the spa, etc. with you on your birthday. A friggin' fantastic friend offers to sacrifice her afternoon by spending it down on her knees pulling staples out of the floor beside you on your birthday. L(B)T.
Despite being tired and (more than) slightly cranky when I was done, I allowed myself to be talked by Marty and one of my other dear friends, Jolie, into going out to dinner to (not) celebrate my birthday. They know very well to keep things at the restaurant on the DL. If I see a herd of waitstaff coming at me with a dessert with a candle on it, I will fly out of there so fast, the breeze I create in my wake will blow it out.
No candles or cake then, just a dozen or so of my favorite people having good food and fellowship together. When we got to the restaurant, Marty's hubby, The Good Cowboy, had a present for me. It was a Duck Dynasty pink cammo coozie with the phrase "happy happy happy" on it. He knows how much I adore the Robertsons, so that gift was very thoughtful and spot on. L(B)T. My friend Jolie and her family were there as well. Jolie had worked all day and had a major headache, but she still came. L(B)T.
When you look at life overall, there aren't that many Big Things that happen on a day-to-day basis. If you measure the importance of your life based upon Big Things, you're probably going to be disappointed. I've learned to base my happiness on my birthday and every other day of the year on Little Things. A hug, a small gift with a lot of heart wrapped into it, an offer of help, or someone taking the time to let you know you matter to them. All of those Little Things really are the Big Things in life if you look at them the right way.
Everyone creates their own happiness, birthday and everyday. You can make your own traditions by celebrating your birthday any way you want. Maybe you want marching bands, jumbo-tron shout outs, a party with 1000 of your closest friends. Go ahead, whatever makes you feel celebrated for being born. I will stick to my "non-traditional" birthday of L(B)Ts. At forty-one, I have learned that I want my birthdays to be more about counting blessings than candles and about taking pleasure in the gifts of the people God has put in my life rather than the presents any one of them might give me.
So to those who gave me a L(B)T yesterday, thank you. For those who give them to me all throughout the year, I thank you even more. I am a year older, I am a year better, and because of the people I love and that I am loved by, I am blessed on my birthday and always.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Again, don't get me wrong, I love socializing with people. In small groups. For a while. And when I am not expected to give a speech or blow out candles after some yahoo makes a tired joke about having to call the fire department over the number of them. ("I don't know what happened, Barb. We were singing 'Happy Birthday' one minute, and the next minute, she had Bob in a full nelson on the floor")
And let me digress for a moment and give a little advice to the folks who go around celebrating their "birthday week" or "birthday weekend". If you are turning one, I will give you a week to celebrate. If you are under the age of 18, or you are celebrating a "milestone" birthday (21, 30, 40, etc), I will give you a weekend. If you have any other amount of candles on your cake and would like my participation in some way, you get a birthDAY. One. Uno. End of story. Moving on...
Some of you probably have birthdays that are an extravaganza of celebration from the moment you are awoken with being served breakfast in bed by your adoring spouse and excited children, who are showering you with kisses and birthday wishes. They are also shoving flowers and cards and gifts at you, while singing "Happy Birthday to You" in a three-part harmony. You go on to have a day where you basically sit on a throne while your loved ones bestow you with gifts, surprises and a plethora of all of your favorite experiences. That is awesome, and I am genuinely happy for you. Enjoy!
My birthdays are a bit more non-traditional. Some of that is by choice, and some of it is just circumstance. One of the reasons is that I am married to a guy who is not big on occasions. Celebrating them, planning for them, or even remembering them in the first place. My HH is easy on the eyes, and he has many redeeming qualities. Making a "to do" over someone's birthday is just not in his skill set. I do get a "Happy Birthday Baby" and a card every year, and some flowers about every fifth year, but that pretty much wraps it up, and that's fine. At this point in our marriage, if he went beyond that, I would think that he's either having an affair or that I have been diagnosed with a terminal illness that my doctor told him about and not me.
Another reason my birthdays are non-traditional is because of my upbringing. To avoid turning this blog entry into a therapy session (and to avoid opening any cans of worms with any relatives who may be reading this), just know that my childhood was quite different from many of my peers. If it had been a TV show, if would have been "The Brady Bunch" with heavy doses of "All My Children" and "Monday Night Raw" (Google that one if you're not a fan) thrown in there. Now before you go feeling all sorry for me, the upside to this is that as an adult, I can tolerate (just about) anybody, and I ain't skeered of anybody either. *crouching into Ralph Macchio's crane pose from "Karate Kid"* Both are definitely good life skills to have.
But the main reason my birthday is non-traditional is because of me. I don't do well with any hoopla over me, and those closest to me know that. The idea of a big party makes me all rashy, and I start to pit sweat just thinking about it. Instead, I take my birthday happiness in the Little Things, which are Big Things to me. Take my birthday this year for example. It was yesterday, which is obviously why I turned these thoughts into a blog entry.
I was the first one up at my house as usual. I got my coffee and got on my computer. Lots of birthday wishes to me on Facebook. Little (Big) Thing. My kids got up next, having no clue at first it was my birthday. That's fine because I still got my usual morning hugs, kisses and snuggles. Little (Big) Thing. HH woke up and gave me a card and my quinquenneal flowers before he went to work. L(B)T. My kids realized in the late morning it was my birthday. They made me cards with printer paper and wrapped up stuff from their rooms to give me as gifts. A favorite bracelet of the Girl Child's, and some of his prized marbles from the Boy Child. L(B)T.
I then spent the afternoon pulling up carpet, pad, tack strip, nails and staples from our bedroom floor as the result of water damage from one of the HH's ideas that had hit the crapper. Hard. My friend Marty stopped by to drop off some stuff and wish me a HBD, and she offered (multiple times) to stay and help me. Any ol' friend will offer to go to lunch, the spa, etc. with you on your birthday. A friggin' fantastic friend offers to sacrifice her afternoon by spending it down on her knees pulling staples out of the floor beside you on your birthday. L(B)T.
Despite being tired and (more than) slightly cranky when I was done, I allowed myself to be talked by Marty and one of my other dear friends, Jolie, into going out to dinner to (not) celebrate my birthday. They know very well to keep things at the restaurant on the DL. If I see a herd of waitstaff coming at me with a dessert with a candle on it, I will fly out of there so fast, the breeze I create in my wake will blow it out.
No candles or cake then, just a dozen or so of my favorite people having good food and fellowship together. When we got to the restaurant, Marty's hubby, The Good Cowboy, had a present for me. It was a Duck Dynasty pink cammo coozie with the phrase "happy happy happy" on it. He knows how much I adore the Robertsons, so that gift was very thoughtful and spot on. L(B)T. My friend Jolie and her family were there as well. Jolie had worked all day and had a major headache, but she still came. L(B)T.
When you look at life overall, there aren't that many Big Things that happen on a day-to-day basis. If you measure the importance of your life based upon Big Things, you're probably going to be disappointed. I've learned to base my happiness on my birthday and every other day of the year on Little Things. A hug, a small gift with a lot of heart wrapped into it, an offer of help, or someone taking the time to let you know you matter to them. All of those Little Things really are the Big Things in life if you look at them the right way.
Everyone creates their own happiness, birthday and everyday. You can make your own traditions by celebrating your birthday any way you want. Maybe you want marching bands, jumbo-tron shout outs, a party with 1000 of your closest friends. Go ahead, whatever makes you feel celebrated for being born. I will stick to my "non-traditional" birthday of L(B)Ts. At forty-one, I have learned that I want my birthdays to be more about counting blessings than candles and about taking pleasure in the gifts of the people God has put in my life rather than the presents any one of them might give me.
So to those who gave me a L(B)T yesterday, thank you. For those who give them to me all throughout the year, I thank you even more. I am a year older, I am a year better, and because of the people I love and that I am loved by, I am blessed on my birthday and always.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Friday, May 10, 2013
My Thoughts on: Meetings
I could make this blog entry really short. Meetings suck. But then I wouldn't get to use any humor, sarcasm, pontification or run-on sentences. What's the fun in that? So instead I will list my pet peeves when it comes to said subject.
Now before you get all wonky on me and ask me what, as a SAHM, I could possibly have to complain about when it comes to meetings, pipe down over there Tito. I'm Michael Jackson in this blog, and you're Tito, and I don't need to rattle off my resume of current pro bono positions that require me to go to more meetings each week than I care to even think about. So grab an agenda and go sit in the corner with LaToya.
Meetings for the Sake of Having a Meeting
This is the one where there are no clear cut agenda, objectives, outcomes or point for anyone to have gone through four rounds of "Evening Kid Activities Logistics" with your spouse in order to attend it.
Meetings Where the Materials are Read to You Point by Point
Uhhhhhh, I've been reading since I was five. Save some trees and my time, and just email me this stuff. If you want to also email me a follow up pop quiz, bring it on son!
"Breakfast", "Lunch" and "Dinner" Meetings
If you are trying to get me to come to your meeting by luring me with a meal, lemme break it down for you:
-Breakfast: Y'all had best be serving some hot food. Cantaloupe and some mini-muffins that are so dry they turn into an inedible mass of crumbs when I try and bite into one is NOT breakfast. And REAL 1/2 and 1/2 for the coffee, people. You don't put powdered gas treatment in your car to make it run more efficiently. I'm not putting any powdered crap in my coffee either for the same reason.
-Lunch: I have been to "lunch" meetings where I am given the same amount of food that I pack in my seven-year-old's lunch box. While I am not a big gal, I do appreciate enough food to keep my stomach full at least for the duration of the meeting.
Dinner: If it resembles anything that is part of the meal service on an airplane, rethink the budget and the caterer next time. Nuff said.
Endless Q&A Sessions in Meetings
I get it. You lead a meeting, some people are going to have a follow up question or two. By all means, let them ask. I said one or two. If someone goes beyond two, I'm likely to "accidently" kick her/him under the table with the pointy toe of my stiletto as I uncross my legs. Being the good Christian that I am, I will assist them out of the meeting and to their car so they can hurry on home and get some ice on that bump, and I will be praying for swift healing for them in the name of Jesus, and BUH-bye now!
And like with the presidential debates, set a time limit on the A. If you can't sufficiently answer someone's question in a minute or two, do some research and follow up with an email. And if you send the answer to everyone on the meeting roster, for heaven's sake, blind copy it. Otherwise the Q person will "reply all" with ANOTHER question, and now the meeting has spilled over into my inbox and has no end point.
-Loooooooooooooong Meetings
Sweet Mary and Joseph, no meeting should ever last longer than two hours. And you had better have some good stuff in that agenda packet if you are going longer than ninety minutes. Like some covers from "Men's Health" magazine interspersed throughout or a couple of crosswords and a "doodle" page. Some meetings you can get away with playing on your phone, but others you can't, and it would be nice to have something as an incentive to stay awake.
So if I come to your meeting, I promise I will be a good girl and pay attention if you adhere to the guidelines above. And I practice what I preach with the meetings I lead. Short, sweet, informative and punctuated with humor are my main objectives. And oftentimes, followed up with post-meeting "debriefings" on the patio of a local restaurant with daily drink specials. So thanks for letting me air my meeting grievances, and I hereby declare this meeting adjourned!
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Now before you get all wonky on me and ask me what, as a SAHM, I could possibly have to complain about when it comes to meetings, pipe down over there Tito. I'm Michael Jackson in this blog, and you're Tito, and I don't need to rattle off my resume of current pro bono positions that require me to go to more meetings each week than I care to even think about. So grab an agenda and go sit in the corner with LaToya.
Meetings for the Sake of Having a Meeting
This is the one where there are no clear cut agenda, objectives, outcomes or point for anyone to have gone through four rounds of "Evening Kid Activities Logistics" with your spouse in order to attend it.
Meetings Where the Materials are Read to You Point by Point
Uhhhhhh, I've been reading since I was five. Save some trees and my time, and just email me this stuff. If you want to also email me a follow up pop quiz, bring it on son!
"Breakfast", "Lunch" and "Dinner" Meetings
If you are trying to get me to come to your meeting by luring me with a meal, lemme break it down for you:
-Breakfast: Y'all had best be serving some hot food. Cantaloupe and some mini-muffins that are so dry they turn into an inedible mass of crumbs when I try and bite into one is NOT breakfast. And REAL 1/2 and 1/2 for the coffee, people. You don't put powdered gas treatment in your car to make it run more efficiently. I'm not putting any powdered crap in my coffee either for the same reason.
-Lunch: I have been to "lunch" meetings where I am given the same amount of food that I pack in my seven-year-old's lunch box. While I am not a big gal, I do appreciate enough food to keep my stomach full at least for the duration of the meeting.
Dinner: If it resembles anything that is part of the meal service on an airplane, rethink the budget and the caterer next time. Nuff said.
Endless Q&A Sessions in Meetings
I get it. You lead a meeting, some people are going to have a follow up question or two. By all means, let them ask. I said one or two. If someone goes beyond two, I'm likely to "accidently" kick her/him under the table with the pointy toe of my stiletto as I uncross my legs. Being the good Christian that I am, I will assist them out of the meeting and to their car so they can hurry on home and get some ice on that bump, and I will be praying for swift healing for them in the name of Jesus, and BUH-bye now!
And like with the presidential debates, set a time limit on the A. If you can't sufficiently answer someone's question in a minute or two, do some research and follow up with an email. And if you send the answer to everyone on the meeting roster, for heaven's sake, blind copy it. Otherwise the Q person will "reply all" with ANOTHER question, and now the meeting has spilled over into my inbox and has no end point.
-Loooooooooooooong Meetings
Sweet Mary and Joseph, no meeting should ever last longer than two hours. And you had better have some good stuff in that agenda packet if you are going longer than ninety minutes. Like some covers from "Men's Health" magazine interspersed throughout or a couple of crosswords and a "doodle" page. Some meetings you can get away with playing on your phone, but others you can't, and it would be nice to have something as an incentive to stay awake.
So if I come to your meeting, I promise I will be a good girl and pay attention if you adhere to the guidelines above. And I practice what I preach with the meetings I lead. Short, sweet, informative and punctuated with humor are my main objectives. And oftentimes, followed up with post-meeting "debriefings" on the patio of a local restaurant with daily drink specials. So thanks for letting me air my meeting grievances, and I hereby declare this meeting adjourned!
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Saturday, May 4, 2013
My Thoughts on: Cleaning My House
If you're the type of person who gets out of bed on Saturday morning, and your top priorities have nothing to do with a trip to the john and starting the coffeemaker, but instead of cleaning both of those, this blog entry is most certainly not for you. If cleaning for you is more of a "have to" and not a "get to", read on my friend.
Before we talk about my current stance on housecleaning, let me first take you on a short journey first through my childhood of the 70's and 80's and my twenty-something years in the 90's. I grew up with a chore list. Started when I was five, and every year, a chore was added. Now this was not stuff we got paid for or earned allowance for. This was a "you do this because you live here" type-deal. I dusted, vacuumed, cleaned bathrooms, washed floors, and a lot of other stuff that would leave some of you pampered children picturing a mini-me in a red curly wig singing "It's a Hard Knocks Life". Suffice it to say that by age 10, I could argue the use of Comet vs. Bon Ami with any housewife.
Moving along to my 20's. I got my first apartment in 1991, and I was all about keeping it spotless. Immaculate. Not a cobweb in the corner or dust bunny under the couch. My Saturday morning routine without fail was to clean my place from top to bottom, stem to stern. Whatever that means. I think it has something to do with boats. I grew up and live in Kansas, so the only experience I have as a boat captain is a part-time one as I'm driving it across the lake back to the dock, while holding the red Solo cup of the full-time captain we are boating with who has had to much to drink.
So from 1977-2002 (that's 25 years for those of you who get all confused counting years that span two centuries), I was all about getting behind a thorough cleaning of the house each and every week. Then in 2002, something happened that took that particular crazy train right off the rails. I became a mom. Nothing throws every routine you ever had completely out of whack like having a baby.
Oh, you used to clean the bathtub every day while you were in the shower? Yeah, well now you have 120 seconds to get in the shower and attempt to cleanse yourself before the baby takes the "Where's my mom?" whimper to a full-on "If someone doesn't pick me up RIGHT NOW, the neighbors are going to call Child Protective Services" scream. Aww, you used to have trouble going to sleep at night unless every dish in the sink was washed, dried and put away? Yeah, well now your husband has to pull your face out of your dinner plate because your sleep-deprived self passed out in it fifteen seconds after sitting down for the first time all day.
You get my drift. Babies change priorities. And that's a good thing. When I became a mom, I realized that I could not care less about dust bunnies and washing windows anymore. I would not trade one minute of time with my baby, then my baby and toddler, and now my kids, to spend the day cleaning every nook and cranny of my house.
Now, say you run a home daycare business like my friend Marty. Not keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts your business. And to clarify, CLEAN and ORGANIZED to me are not synonymous. I am all about an orderly house. I freely admit I am an anal-retentive OCD freak, just not about dust on the tops of the pictures hanging on the wall or people walking on the vacuum lines on the carpet. (Seriously, it's a thing for some people. What are you supposed to do, jump across the furniture to get around the room?) For me, keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts not my business, but my sanity, because I already have my hands full with the battle of "The Creep".
Everything in my house definitely has a designated place, and ideally, everything goes in said place. I said ideally. I live with three other people y'all, including Sandford and his son. Sandford is my Handsome Husband. Without my intervention, he and the Boy Child would maintain an existence that belongs in a homeless camp. Further details are not needed for you to effectively get the point.
Just believe me when I say it's an ongoing battle just to keep all their "stuff" (I would use a different word, but Jesus doesn't like it) from accumulating all over the house to the point where it looks like raccoons have taken up residence in our home. This would be the battle of "The Creep". Most of the moms reading this (and the 2% of the dads out there who care about such things) are nodding their heads right now because they too fight "The Creep" at their house.
With that ongoing struggle, who has the time or energy to CARE if the dining room light fixture is free of cobwebs, or heavens, when was the last time was I moved the fridge and cleaned behind it? But hey, I do have SOME standards for housekeeping. The laundry, vacuuming and de-toothpasting of the bathroom sinks get done on a weekly basis. Note that I did not say that ALL the laundry gets put away or that EVERY room in the house gets vacuumed every week. Just keepin' it real over here.
So if you come to my front door, you'd best check your judgy judgments about my housecleaning right there at it. Otherwise, I will hand you my cleaning supplies and tell you to go for it. Instead, I will be devoting my time to some other pursuit that, unlike house cleaning, doesn't leave me wondering one day and three family members later if I had done anything at all in the first place.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Before we talk about my current stance on housecleaning, let me first take you on a short journey first through my childhood of the 70's and 80's and my twenty-something years in the 90's. I grew up with a chore list. Started when I was five, and every year, a chore was added. Now this was not stuff we got paid for or earned allowance for. This was a "you do this because you live here" type-deal. I dusted, vacuumed, cleaned bathrooms, washed floors, and a lot of other stuff that would leave some of you pampered children picturing a mini-me in a red curly wig singing "It's a Hard Knocks Life". Suffice it to say that by age 10, I could argue the use of Comet vs. Bon Ami with any housewife.
Moving along to my 20's. I got my first apartment in 1991, and I was all about keeping it spotless. Immaculate. Not a cobweb in the corner or dust bunny under the couch. My Saturday morning routine without fail was to clean my place from top to bottom, stem to stern. Whatever that means. I think it has something to do with boats. I grew up and live in Kansas, so the only experience I have as a boat captain is a part-time one as I'm driving it across the lake back to the dock, while holding the red Solo cup of the full-time captain we are boating with who has had to much to drink.
So from 1977-2002 (that's 25 years for those of you who get all confused counting years that span two centuries), I was all about getting behind a thorough cleaning of the house each and every week. Then in 2002, something happened that took that particular crazy train right off the rails. I became a mom. Nothing throws every routine you ever had completely out of whack like having a baby.
Oh, you used to clean the bathtub every day while you were in the shower? Yeah, well now you have 120 seconds to get in the shower and attempt to cleanse yourself before the baby takes the "Where's my mom?" whimper to a full-on "If someone doesn't pick me up RIGHT NOW, the neighbors are going to call Child Protective Services" scream. Aww, you used to have trouble going to sleep at night unless every dish in the sink was washed, dried and put away? Yeah, well now your husband has to pull your face out of your dinner plate because your sleep-deprived self passed out in it fifteen seconds after sitting down for the first time all day.
You get my drift. Babies change priorities. And that's a good thing. When I became a mom, I realized that I could not care less about dust bunnies and washing windows anymore. I would not trade one minute of time with my baby, then my baby and toddler, and now my kids, to spend the day cleaning every nook and cranny of my house.
Now, say you run a home daycare business like my friend Marty. Not keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts your business. And to clarify, CLEAN and ORGANIZED to me are not synonymous. I am all about an orderly house. I freely admit I am an anal-retentive OCD freak, just not about dust on the tops of the pictures hanging on the wall or people walking on the vacuum lines on the carpet. (Seriously, it's a thing for some people. What are you supposed to do, jump across the furniture to get around the room?) For me, keeping an immaculately clean house negatively impacts not my business, but my sanity, because I already have my hands full with the battle of "The Creep".
Everything in my house definitely has a designated place, and ideally, everything goes in said place. I said ideally. I live with three other people y'all, including Sandford and his son. Sandford is my Handsome Husband. Without my intervention, he and the Boy Child would maintain an existence that belongs in a homeless camp. Further details are not needed for you to effectively get the point.
Just believe me when I say it's an ongoing battle just to keep all their "stuff" (I would use a different word, but Jesus doesn't like it) from accumulating all over the house to the point where it looks like raccoons have taken up residence in our home. This would be the battle of "The Creep". Most of the moms reading this (and the 2% of the dads out there who care about such things) are nodding their heads right now because they too fight "The Creep" at their house.
With that ongoing struggle, who has the time or energy to CARE if the dining room light fixture is free of cobwebs, or heavens, when was the last time was I moved the fridge and cleaned behind it? But hey, I do have SOME standards for housekeeping. The laundry, vacuuming and de-toothpasting of the bathroom sinks get done on a weekly basis. Note that I did not say that ALL the laundry gets put away or that EVERY room in the house gets vacuumed every week. Just keepin' it real over here.
So if you come to my front door, you'd best check your judgy judgments about my housecleaning right there at it. Otherwise, I will hand you my cleaning supplies and tell you to go for it. Instead, I will be devoting my time to some other pursuit that, unlike house cleaning, doesn't leave me wondering one day and three family members later if I had done anything at all in the first place.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
My Thoughts on: The Chocolate vs. The Bikini
It's April in the midwest. Flowers are blooming, trees are pollinating, allergy sufferers are miserable, and I am at an annual crossroads in my life. This is the point in time where we are about six weeks out from pool season, and a decision has to be made. A lifestyle-altering decision. Do I continue my obsessive and destructive love affair with The Chocolate, or cease the affair to reconnect with my faithful summer love of twenty-five years, The Bikini?
If you don't dig chocolate, and you haven't worn a bikini in your life, this blog entry probably ain't for you. But for those of you whose pulse rate spikes when you open a Whitman's Sampler (ahhh, you can smell it right now, can't you?), and for those who have committed to memory the first rule of the Bikini Code (a bikini is a privilege, and not a right), you are feelin' me big time right now.
I admit, the loooong KC winter of 2013 found me much more seduced by the siren call of Hershey, Cadbury, Dove and Rocher (kind of sounds like a yummy law firm, don't you think?) than I normally am. I can't help it. I get seriously bummed out by cold weather, and hey, chocolate makes me feel goooooood. So if one piece makes me feel gooooood, fifteen make me feel friggin' awesome! Shut up. We all have our addictions. I'm getting to the part where I turn the corner on mine, just hang on.
So around this time of year, I am forced to reintroduce myself to my body-mind psychotherapist. She lives in my full-length mirror in my bedroom. She makes me come to therapy in my underwear, and it's kind of weird because she comes in her underwear too, but whatever, she's the one in charge here.
And then we have a frank conversation about how this love affair is controlling my life, it's no good for me, I'm not who I once was, I'm avoiding people who care about me just so I can spend more time in it. It's not pretty. Eyes are opened, tears are shed, and a new resolve is born to do what needs to be done to cut the ties of this affair and reconnect with the faithful love, The Bikini.
Now everybody who has a modicum of Body Awareness knows that you cannot jump straight from breaking the chains of The Chocolate back into The Bikini. No, no, no, no, no. Remember Rule #1 of the Bikini Code. I wish more people had Rule #1 tattooed across their should-not-be-exposed-in-public midriff, but I digress.
I have to EARN my way back into the bikini. Yes, I teach yoga twice a week, run at least two days a week, yada, yada, yada. But weight gain and loss is simple math.
Calories in = Calories burned = Bikini Ready At All Times.
Calories in > Calories burned = You Got Some Work to do, Dough Girl
So I add another workout day of intense cardio/muscle work and start saying my goodbyes. To sugar and other white foods, dairy, carbonated beverages and all the other delicious delights who stand between me and The Bikini. Now I do have a bit of each from time to time. Going cold turkey takes me to a place of insanity that causes my family to force me out of the car and onto the shoulder of I-70 somewhere between KC and Lawrence.
I have never been, nor could I ever be a gluten-free vegan. Meat, good. Dough, good. Sheridan's Royal Turtle sundae, majestic. But for the purpose of honoring The Bikini, all of those things take a back seat until the glorious day when I can stand in front of my therapist in The Bikini, and she will proudly say to me, "My work here is done". Until next spring when the cycle repeats itself.
So if we cross paths in the next six weeks, and I seem a little less sparkly, please be kind and understanding that I am in limbo between my happy place with The Chocolate and the self-satisfaction of having earned my way back into The Bikini. Raise a low-cal protein smoothie in solidarity with me, and together, I promise we will make it through. Until then...
Sparkly Kisses,
D
If you don't dig chocolate, and you haven't worn a bikini in your life, this blog entry probably ain't for you. But for those of you whose pulse rate spikes when you open a Whitman's Sampler (ahhh, you can smell it right now, can't you?), and for those who have committed to memory the first rule of the Bikini Code (a bikini is a privilege, and not a right), you are feelin' me big time right now.
I admit, the loooong KC winter of 2013 found me much more seduced by the siren call of Hershey, Cadbury, Dove and Rocher (kind of sounds like a yummy law firm, don't you think?) than I normally am. I can't help it. I get seriously bummed out by cold weather, and hey, chocolate makes me feel goooooood. So if one piece makes me feel gooooood, fifteen make me feel friggin' awesome! Shut up. We all have our addictions. I'm getting to the part where I turn the corner on mine, just hang on.
So around this time of year, I am forced to reintroduce myself to my body-mind psychotherapist. She lives in my full-length mirror in my bedroom. She makes me come to therapy in my underwear, and it's kind of weird because she comes in her underwear too, but whatever, she's the one in charge here.
And then we have a frank conversation about how this love affair is controlling my life, it's no good for me, I'm not who I once was, I'm avoiding people who care about me just so I can spend more time in it. It's not pretty. Eyes are opened, tears are shed, and a new resolve is born to do what needs to be done to cut the ties of this affair and reconnect with the faithful love, The Bikini.
Now everybody who has a modicum of Body Awareness knows that you cannot jump straight from breaking the chains of The Chocolate back into The Bikini. No, no, no, no, no. Remember Rule #1 of the Bikini Code. I wish more people had Rule #1 tattooed across their should-not-be-exposed-in-public midriff, but I digress.
I have to EARN my way back into the bikini. Yes, I teach yoga twice a week, run at least two days a week, yada, yada, yada. But weight gain and loss is simple math.
Calories in = Calories burned = Bikini Ready At All Times.
Calories in > Calories burned = You Got Some Work to do, Dough Girl
So I add another workout day of intense cardio/muscle work and start saying my goodbyes. To sugar and other white foods, dairy, carbonated beverages and all the other delicious delights who stand between me and The Bikini. Now I do have a bit of each from time to time. Going cold turkey takes me to a place of insanity that causes my family to force me out of the car and onto the shoulder of I-70 somewhere between KC and Lawrence.
I have never been, nor could I ever be a gluten-free vegan. Meat, good. Dough, good. Sheridan's Royal Turtle sundae, majestic. But for the purpose of honoring The Bikini, all of those things take a back seat until the glorious day when I can stand in front of my therapist in The Bikini, and she will proudly say to me, "My work here is done". Until next spring when the cycle repeats itself.
So if we cross paths in the next six weeks, and I seem a little less sparkly, please be kind and understanding that I am in limbo between my happy place with The Chocolate and the self-satisfaction of having earned my way back into The Bikini. Raise a low-cal protein smoothie in solidarity with me, and together, I promise we will make it through. Until then...
Sparkly Kisses,
D
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