Last Saturday, I went out to dinner near downtown with some friends and I was late due to a ridiculous series of circumstances. By the time I arrived, the parking garage was pretty full and I had to park in the basement level. I backed into a space as close to the stairwell as possible, knowing that was probably the safest idea since I was alone.
My friends and I had some delicious sushi and a great visit. We talked about going somewhere else for a drink, but it was St. Patrick’s Day weekend and none of us felt like being around a bunch of drunks. We said good-bye on the second level of the parking garage where they'd parked and I made my way down the several flights of stairs to my car. It was getting late and I could see as I made it to the landing there weren't many cars remaining in the vicinity.
I heard them before I saw them, eight or nine guys on motorcycles, engines revving at an ear-piercing volume. Shit. They were occupying the three parking spaces adjacent the driver's side of my car, as well as part of the aisle in front of where I'd parked.
I know not to judge a book by its cover. Just because a few of them were wearing ski masks and at least one was heavily tattooed on his face and neck, doesn't mean they were intending to be menacing. Maybe they were just some suburban soccer-dads out blowing off steam after a long, hard week in the trenches. Maybe.
But I saw them there and I got pissed that I didn't feel safe. I got pissed that my initial reaction was to be scared. I got pissed and I squared my shoulders and clenched my jaw and looked straight ahead and walked confidently over to my car. I met the gaze of the guy closest to my car and did that half-nod acknowledgement thing as I approached. I didn't even lock the door once I got inside the car, because I didn't want to seem scared. I started the engine and pulled out of my parking spot, giving myself a mental pat-on-the-back for having backed in when I parked because that allowed me to easily navigate around the guys who were partially blocking the aisle.
The two in the ski masks followed me all the way to the exit floor of the garage, revving their bike engines behind me at every stop sign, before finally circling back around to a lower level as I made my exit. It wasn't until I'd left the garage that I let myself think, "What the hell did you just do? You didn't even check to see if anyone else was around! No one would have heard you scream over all that noise. There MIGHT have been security cameras, but what are the chances they are being watched that closely? What is wrong with you?"
This is not the first time I've done something like that, the getting pissed that I feel like I need to be scared when I have a right to feel safe, and then doing something that in hindsight was probably unwise. Why is it that I can be recklessly brave when it comes to my physical safety, but when it comes to trusting my heart and my head, I let other people get to me? I’ve been thinking about this for days, and I realized something:
I'm done.
Remember the post where I wrote that growing up I learned to doubt so many things about myself? How I learned to doubt my heart and my mind and my thoughts and what I knew to be true? And remember how I said I didn't want to go back there?
I realized I have not truly left that behind and that I still let people make me doubt myself, even when I know I'm right. I let people tell me to be careful with my line of thinking and then I begin to wonder if I have the ability to really understand what I learn. I let people make me feel that I’ve misunderstood something when, no matter how many ways I look at it, I know that I haven’t. I let the words of other people make me scared to trust myself.
And now that I’ve been thinking about it, that pisses me off just as much as when I feel scared for my safety.
I’m pissed that when I say something true, I can be made to doubt it because the person I say it to doesn’t like the way it sounds. I am mad because I let the way other people question me turn me back into that 15 year old who knew with all her heart that something was wrong, but whose voice was silenced for being a girl and daring to speak up and rock the proverbial boat. And I don’t want to be that girl who gives in and doubts what she knows to be true, because being that girl pisses me off.
I'm pissed and I'm done.
I know I've stated that learning to listen is a priority for me. But I realized today that there is a difference between listening to someone else for the purpose of understanding them and listening to the point of being silenced. I do need to listen to others and strive to understand, but I need to listen to me too. When it comes to what I know and what I can tell is true, I've got to be recklessly brave about owning it. I’ve got to be recklessly brave in the right ways and about the right things, other people’s fears and baggage be damned.
I'm done buying into the bullshit that my mind and heart need someone else to tell them what to think and what to feel. I'm done giving too much time to anyone who tells me that my heart and mind can't be trusted when I know they are in the right place. And I've decided I'd rather stick to my guns and be wrong and later have to admit I was wrong than to buy into bullshit and regret it.
I may need to be a little more careful about my physical safety, but I've got the reckless bravery thing down. It's time I put it to good use.
Showing posts with label Craziness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Craziness. Show all posts
Friday, March 29, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Boys and Girls
I have no idea what made me think of this, but as I was doing laundry this morning I thought of my first "real" boyfriend. I write "real" because I guess he wasn't technically my "first" boyfriend. My "technically first" boyfriend was a guy in second grade who asked me on the playground to be his girlfriend and then never talked to me again. I remember that guy had red hair and got in trouble for eating glue when we were in first grade. I guess some things just aren't meant to be.
Anyway, my first "real" boyfriend was a guy I met at my first real (no quotes necessary) job when I was fifteen. He was a grade younger than me and had beautiful blue eyes and hair like the kid from Terminator 2. Other than seeing each other at work while we were working, we went on a total of three dates. Only these weren't actual dates, they were things we planned to do with our friends and show up at the same place at the same time. Did I mention I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend?
He broke up with me after the work Christmas party because I wouldn't let him kiss me. That worked out fine because by this time I had felt guilty enough about hiding the "relationship" from my parents that I'd told them he was my boyfriend and they'd insisted I tell him we could only be friends.
After that, my parents took the approach that if I wanted to go out with a boy for an activity (not a date, I wasn't allowed to call them dates), said boy had to call my dad and ask permission. I think I've written about this before, so I'll try to summarize. I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend and I wasn't allowed to plan activities with boys who wouldn't ask my dad for permission. It was also very rare that I was allowed to go anywhere in a car with a boy unless other people were present in the car as well. In fact, I think it only happened twice before I was eighteen, both times to a homecoming dance with a friend, with strict instructions that I was to be returned home immediately after.
There were also several guys who I was allowed to go on an activity with and who jumped through all the hoops of calling my dad and finding other people to go too and then my parents decided they were too old or too fill-in-the-blank and there would be no future activities with those guys. And my dad would tell them that the next time they called to ask if I could go out. For me this was all was somewhat humiliating and socially limiting, but I can (mostly) understand why they did it.
All of this led me to thinking about the boys and.... ugh... girls. Or maybe it was thinking of the girl thing which got me started thinking about the old boyfriend thing. Not sure. Anyway, right now, girls are just other kids at the boys' school, other kids who sometimes come over to play. I don't want to mess that up by breaching the subject too soon, so we haven't really talked about girls other than in the general, respecting-other-people way. I keep telling myself I have time, but I know it's going to go so fast and we will be talking about girlfriends before I know it.
I'm not going to tell them they can't have a girlfriend. I'm not going to try to control every decision they make. But I kind of feel like I don't have a context for how this all works outside of the way I was raised. And I kind of feel at a disadvantage because I've never been a boy.
As the boys get older, I worry about them feeling pressured to do things they shouldn't or behave in ways other than the ways they've been taught to behave. I worry about them liking the wrong girls. I worry about them not talking to me about what is going on in their lives. I worry about them taking relationships too seriously or not seriously enough. I worry about them getting their hearts broken and I worry about them breaking someone else's heart. I just worry. And I kind of feel that maybe the way the relationships of my youth were handled (for me) didn't fully prepare me for helping them navigate theirs.
Maybe.
Or maybe it did. Or maybe it doesn't really matter. We're all doing the best we can. My parents were doing what they thought was the best thing for me just like I have to do what I think is best for my kids. It won't be perfect and I'm sure time will reveal mistakes I've made with them and ways in which I've failed them. But I'm doing my best. I hope and pray the way I'm raising them is teaching them to respect and value both others and themselves enough that they can make the right choices at the right times.
And I hope to raise them each to be the kind of guy who wouldn't dump a girl after three kind-of dates because she isn't ready to kiss him.
Anyway, my first "real" boyfriend was a guy I met at my first real (no quotes necessary) job when I was fifteen. He was a grade younger than me and had beautiful blue eyes and hair like the kid from Terminator 2. Other than seeing each other at work while we were working, we went on a total of three dates. Only these weren't actual dates, they were things we planned to do with our friends and show up at the same place at the same time. Did I mention I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend?
He broke up with me after the work Christmas party because I wouldn't let him kiss me. That worked out fine because by this time I had felt guilty enough about hiding the "relationship" from my parents that I'd told them he was my boyfriend and they'd insisted I tell him we could only be friends.
After that, my parents took the approach that if I wanted to go out with a boy for an activity (not a date, I wasn't allowed to call them dates), said boy had to call my dad and ask permission. I think I've written about this before, so I'll try to summarize. I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend and I wasn't allowed to plan activities with boys who wouldn't ask my dad for permission. It was also very rare that I was allowed to go anywhere in a car with a boy unless other people were present in the car as well. In fact, I think it only happened twice before I was eighteen, both times to a homecoming dance with a friend, with strict instructions that I was to be returned home immediately after.
There were also several guys who I was allowed to go on an activity with and who jumped through all the hoops of calling my dad and finding other people to go too and then my parents decided they were too old or too fill-in-the-blank and there would be no future activities with those guys. And my dad would tell them that the next time they called to ask if I could go out. For me this was all was somewhat humiliating and socially limiting, but I can (mostly) understand why they did it.
All of this led me to thinking about the boys and.... ugh... girls. Or maybe it was thinking of the girl thing which got me started thinking about the old boyfriend thing. Not sure. Anyway, right now, girls are just other kids at the boys' school, other kids who sometimes come over to play. I don't want to mess that up by breaching the subject too soon, so we haven't really talked about girls other than in the general, respecting-other-people way. I keep telling myself I have time, but I know it's going to go so fast and we will be talking about girlfriends before I know it.
I'm not going to tell them they can't have a girlfriend. I'm not going to try to control every decision they make. But I kind of feel like I don't have a context for how this all works outside of the way I was raised. And I kind of feel at a disadvantage because I've never been a boy.
As the boys get older, I worry about them feeling pressured to do things they shouldn't or behave in ways other than the ways they've been taught to behave. I worry about them liking the wrong girls. I worry about them not talking to me about what is going on in their lives. I worry about them taking relationships too seriously or not seriously enough. I worry about them getting their hearts broken and I worry about them breaking someone else's heart. I just worry. And I kind of feel that maybe the way the relationships of my youth were handled (for me) didn't fully prepare me for helping them navigate theirs.
Maybe.
Or maybe it did. Or maybe it doesn't really matter. We're all doing the best we can. My parents were doing what they thought was the best thing for me just like I have to do what I think is best for my kids. It won't be perfect and I'm sure time will reveal mistakes I've made with them and ways in which I've failed them. But I'm doing my best. I hope and pray the way I'm raising them is teaching them to respect and value both others and themselves enough that they can make the right choices at the right times.
And I hope to raise them each to be the kind of guy who wouldn't dump a girl after three kind-of dates because she isn't ready to kiss him.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Sidenotes and Ramblings
When I was writing yesterday's post, I did a search for scripture verses about helping. I had some vague impressions of old Sunday School memory verses I was trying to locate, but nothing was what I was looking for. I kept coming back to the 1 John verse. I've been thinking about that one A LOT as I've been sorting ever-so-tediously through my unravelings. Even though it doesn't include the word "help," I think that many of us would agree that Jesus did a lot of helping in his life on earth. I went with it.
Work has been insane lately. I can't catch up. I've been stressed. I've lost weight. My already strange sleep patterns are messed up in a different way now than they were a few weeks ago. I know it goes in cycles and I just have to get through this absurd patch, but right now I can barely keep track of my assignments. It doesn't help that I'm preoccupied with all the stuff my brain is trying to sort out, but I'm trying to manage and trying to learn to switch back and forth.
An hour into the official work day, but already into my second hour of conference calls today, I checked the YouVersion Bible app on my iPod. This is the verse of the day:
"God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them." - Hebrews 6:10
No joke.
Sometimes I look for something and can't find it to save my life. Sometimes I'm not even looking and it finds me. Life is funny like that.
I have a feeling "helping others" is going to be a vital component of my One Word this year.
Work has been insane lately. I can't catch up. I've been stressed. I've lost weight. My already strange sleep patterns are messed up in a different way now than they were a few weeks ago. I know it goes in cycles and I just have to get through this absurd patch, but right now I can barely keep track of my assignments. It doesn't help that I'm preoccupied with all the stuff my brain is trying to sort out, but I'm trying to manage and trying to learn to switch back and forth.
An hour into the official work day, but already into my second hour of conference calls today, I checked the YouVersion Bible app on my iPod. This is the verse of the day:
"God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them." - Hebrews 6:10
No joke.
Sometimes I look for something and can't find it to save my life. Sometimes I'm not even looking and it finds me. Life is funny like that.
I have a feeling "helping others" is going to be a vital component of my One Word this year.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
At Least
I am not one of those über-positive people. I am a realist. I'm not always trying to look on the bright side, nor do I think it is necessary to try in vain to find a silver lining in a situation that, quite frankly, sucks. Sometimes things are crappy. That is part of life. I think that acknowledging this fact can help us appreciate the truly great things in life. There are wonderful experiences out there. I don't think we need to cheapen them by pretending that bad things are actually good. Just let things be what they are and try to deal with them in the best way you can.
I also don't think it is very helpful to try to make oneself feel better by comparing situations with those even less fortunate or going through an even worse situation. I know I've blogged about that before, but today I think it's worth repeating. The people I know who are in really bad situations or who are going through a really tough time? I feel terrible for them and would give almost anything to make things better for them. I'm not going to try to use their pain to make myself feel better. That is just sad.
Why all this rambling? Well, today we officially became a one car family. The eleven-year-old car we've used as our commuter car has finally broken down to the point that we cannot justify sinking any more money into it. We've put about $1000 into it in the past six months, $600 of that this week. The shop put in the new fuel pump and all the stuff attached to the new fuel pump, started it up, and the head gasket blew. SUCK.
We cannot afford to buy a new car this month or even next month. Sadly we are not one of those families who has $30k stashed away to just go out and get another car. So, the boys and I are going to be pretty much stranded at home for the next however many weekends, until we can come up with what we need to get another car. Ryan needs our other vehicle for taking Owen to-and-from school Monday through Wednesday, I need to get to the office on Wednesday and Thursday, and Ryan has to drive to work Friday through Sunday. Clearly we have some logistic issues to work out.
So, there you have it. Frustrating week. Bad news right before Christmas. No, this is nothing like the worst thing that could happen. I can think of at least four families I know personally who right at this moment are dealing with much worse. But I'm not going to pretend this isn't a major frustration. I'm not going to pretend we haven't been stressed about it or aren't hating that we are going to have to go to the shop and fork over $600 for a car that doesn't even run. But you know what? This is life.
At least this didn't happen in the summer. At least the weather over the next few months is going to be crap and I'm not going to want to take the boys anywhere on the weekend anyway. At least I have family close enough who would be able to help me out if I really get into a major jam. It's not a silver lining, but I'm a realist and you'll have to settle for an "at least."
I also don't think it is very helpful to try to make oneself feel better by comparing situations with those even less fortunate or going through an even worse situation. I know I've blogged about that before, but today I think it's worth repeating. The people I know who are in really bad situations or who are going through a really tough time? I feel terrible for them and would give almost anything to make things better for them. I'm not going to try to use their pain to make myself feel better. That is just sad.
Why all this rambling? Well, today we officially became a one car family. The eleven-year-old car we've used as our commuter car has finally broken down to the point that we cannot justify sinking any more money into it. We've put about $1000 into it in the past six months, $600 of that this week. The shop put in the new fuel pump and all the stuff attached to the new fuel pump, started it up, and the head gasket blew. SUCK.
We cannot afford to buy a new car this month or even next month. Sadly we are not one of those families who has $30k stashed away to just go out and get another car. So, the boys and I are going to be pretty much stranded at home for the next however many weekends, until we can come up with what we need to get another car. Ryan needs our other vehicle for taking Owen to-and-from school Monday through Wednesday, I need to get to the office on Wednesday and Thursday, and Ryan has to drive to work Friday through Sunday. Clearly we have some logistic issues to work out.
So, there you have it. Frustrating week. Bad news right before Christmas. No, this is nothing like the worst thing that could happen. I can think of at least four families I know personally who right at this moment are dealing with much worse. But I'm not going to pretend this isn't a major frustration. I'm not going to pretend we haven't been stressed about it or aren't hating that we are going to have to go to the shop and fork over $600 for a car that doesn't even run. But you know what? This is life.
At least this didn't happen in the summer. At least the weather over the next few months is going to be crap and I'm not going to want to take the boys anywhere on the weekend anyway. At least I have family close enough who would be able to help me out if I really get into a major jam. It's not a silver lining, but I'm a realist and you'll have to settle for an "at least."
Friday, August 19, 2011
Confession Friday
Being a parent terrifies me. There. I said it. I knew before I had kids that being a parent was a big responsibility, but I had no idea I would be such a weirdo about it.
My oldest son, Luke, started first grade Wednesday. He l-o-v-e-s school. Loves it. We had to fill out a questionnaire to turn in to the teacher and one of the questions read: "What are your child's likes and dislikes about school?" When I asked him, his response was, "I like everything about school and there is nothing I don't like." So, on the first day of school there was no drama about him not wanting to go. At least not from him.
I, however, was a bundle of crazy. Not so much from the "my little one is growing up" perspective, but more "How in the world do I have a first grader??"
It's not even really an age thing. I think it's just that even after six plus years of being a mother, I still don't feel like I'm qualified to be a parent. I'm terrified that there is something big I'm missing or forgetting or haven't taught him and that he will be messed up from having a crazy person for a mother.
I mean, in first grade they have homework and you have to pack their lunch and keep up with the days they have off or get out early. How can I make sure I get everything done, when all this time I feel like I've just been pretending to be a responsible adult?
I know that I should know that it will be okay. It's not like I'm an incredibly irresponsible person. I got my first job working seasonally for a local business when I was fourteen. I worked two jobs pretty much from the time I was sixteen until I had Luke. I have a college degree. I've been employed at a global company for ten years and have advanced to new opportunities and accumulated several professional certifications. Not that these things make me a "success" or anything, but it's not as though I'm a completely incompetent deadbeat either. And I'm kind of trying to give myself a pep-talk here.
So I don't know. Thankfully my husband is pretty on top of things in the schedule and homework department so it's not like I'm doing this all on my own. I guess it’s like everything else in life. There are things that have to be done and I have to just keep moving forward. Sometimes I just wish I was a little more confident and a little less scared.
My oldest son, Luke, started first grade Wednesday. He l-o-v-e-s school. Loves it. We had to fill out a questionnaire to turn in to the teacher and one of the questions read: "What are your child's likes and dislikes about school?" When I asked him, his response was, "I like everything about school and there is nothing I don't like." So, on the first day of school there was no drama about him not wanting to go. At least not from him.
I, however, was a bundle of crazy. Not so much from the "my little one is growing up" perspective, but more "How in the world do I have a first grader??"
It's not even really an age thing. I think it's just that even after six plus years of being a mother, I still don't feel like I'm qualified to be a parent. I'm terrified that there is something big I'm missing or forgetting or haven't taught him and that he will be messed up from having a crazy person for a mother.
I mean, in first grade they have homework and you have to pack their lunch and keep up with the days they have off or get out early. How can I make sure I get everything done, when all this time I feel like I've just been pretending to be a responsible adult?
I know that I should know that it will be okay. It's not like I'm an incredibly irresponsible person. I got my first job working seasonally for a local business when I was fourteen. I worked two jobs pretty much from the time I was sixteen until I had Luke. I have a college degree. I've been employed at a global company for ten years and have advanced to new opportunities and accumulated several professional certifications. Not that these things make me a "success" or anything, but it's not as though I'm a completely incompetent deadbeat either. And I'm kind of trying to give myself a pep-talk here.
So I don't know. Thankfully my husband is pretty on top of things in the schedule and homework department so it's not like I'm doing this all on my own. I guess it’s like everything else in life. There are things that have to be done and I have to just keep moving forward. Sometimes I just wish I was a little more confident and a little less scared.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Friend Quota
"Since there is nothing so well worth having as friends,
never lose a chance to make them."
Am I the only one who feels like a lot of people have some sort of pre-determined "friend quota?" I don't know. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm just not that funny or not that nice. Maybe I'm too weird or too silly. Maybe. Or maybe it really is what I think it is, that some people have reached their quota of friends and no matter how great the two of you seem to hit it off, they just don't have any more room in their lives for additional friends.
I don't mean this in any sort of desperate "I need more friends" kind of way. I actually have plenty of friends. It's just that sometimes I meet people and we seem to talk easily and we have kids the same age and feel the same about a lot of things. These are the kind of people who say things like, "We really have to get together again soon!" when we part, without me even bringing it up. And then? Nothing. I may even try to invite them over once or twice and they say they are busy but would love to get together soon. And they will let me know when. And I never hear from them.
Now, I'm pretty busy. I work full-time and have a husband and two crazy boys. My parents and my sis live nearby, so I spend a lot of time with them. There are friends who I consider very dear to me, with whom I always have a blast when we hang out, but who I can only get together with every few months or so. I guess I just don't feel like I have to be talking to someone or seeing them all the time for us to be friends, even GOOD friends. I really don't like to talk on the phone, but I usually keep up with people enough via Facebook, instant messaging, and text that I feel I have a decent idea of what is going on in their life, yet I'm not so involved in every second of their days that we have nothing to talk about when we see each other in person.
Is that it? Is it maybe because I can go a while without talking to someone and still consider them important in my life? Or maybe it's that I don't actually believe in the whole "BFF" thing. I don't have a BFF. I have my "person," my younger sister Tiffiny who I have a special connection with in a lot of ways, but I just don't like feeling as though I have to limit my interactions with friends by assigning labels. I think we need multiple people in our lives, who communicate in different ways and have different interests. I don't want my friends to all be the same as me. I just want us to have enough in common that we can really enjoy each other and be understanding enough that we can appreciate each other's differences.
I have no idea where I'm going with this. Now I'm just rambling. But seriously, has anyone else noticed this with some people or is it just me?
- Francesco Guicciardini
Am I the only one who feels like a lot of people have some sort of pre-determined "friend quota?" I don't know. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm just not that funny or not that nice. Maybe I'm too weird or too silly. Maybe. Or maybe it really is what I think it is, that some people have reached their quota of friends and no matter how great the two of you seem to hit it off, they just don't have any more room in their lives for additional friends.
I don't mean this in any sort of desperate "I need more friends" kind of way. I actually have plenty of friends. It's just that sometimes I meet people and we seem to talk easily and we have kids the same age and feel the same about a lot of things. These are the kind of people who say things like, "We really have to get together again soon!" when we part, without me even bringing it up. And then? Nothing. I may even try to invite them over once or twice and they say they are busy but would love to get together soon. And they will let me know when. And I never hear from them.
Now, I'm pretty busy. I work full-time and have a husband and two crazy boys. My parents and my sis live nearby, so I spend a lot of time with them. There are friends who I consider very dear to me, with whom I always have a blast when we hang out, but who I can only get together with every few months or so. I guess I just don't feel like I have to be talking to someone or seeing them all the time for us to be friends, even GOOD friends. I really don't like to talk on the phone, but I usually keep up with people enough via Facebook, instant messaging, and text that I feel I have a decent idea of what is going on in their life, yet I'm not so involved in every second of their days that we have nothing to talk about when we see each other in person.
Is that it? Is it maybe because I can go a while without talking to someone and still consider them important in my life? Or maybe it's that I don't actually believe in the whole "BFF" thing. I don't have a BFF. I have my "person," my younger sister Tiffiny who I have a special connection with in a lot of ways, but I just don't like feeling as though I have to limit my interactions with friends by assigning labels. I think we need multiple people in our lives, who communicate in different ways and have different interests. I don't want my friends to all be the same as me. I just want us to have enough in common that we can really enjoy each other and be understanding enough that we can appreciate each other's differences.
I have no idea where I'm going with this. Now I'm just rambling. But seriously, has anyone else noticed this with some people or is it just me?
Friday, June 10, 2011
Confession Friday
When I was little, I wanted to be a ballerina. I loved the shoes and the costumes and watching the graceful, beautiful dancers. My mom, God love her, was kind enough to never say that I was not graceful enough or tall enough or athletic enough and she let me take lessons. She was kind enough to never point out to me the obvious: that I am a huge klutz and have the gracefulness of a duck. I eventuality got bored and quit, and it wasn't till later that I realized that I would never have been not-a-klutz enough to be a ballerina.
Lucky girls outgrow their awkward klutziness and grow into their adult bodies and lives. Girls like me can grow up and dress up like an adult and get a degree and start a career and have a family, but just can't shake the klutz. Let me give an example.
There is a nice shopping area right near my office building. Recently, I went in to White House|Black Market on lunch and found some cute clothes on their clearance racks. I tried on several outfits, then put my my own dress and heels back on before realizing I hadn't tried on a black skirt I'd picked up. No sense to undress again, right? I'll just slip it on real quick. That is what I thought right before trying to step into the skirt and SLICING the side of my knee open with the heel of my shoe.
So... there I was, standing in the dressing room, leg bleeding, wondering what in the heck I should do now. I mean, I was wearing a dress, so it's not like there are pants to cover it. I scrounged around in my purse and found the little first aid kit I keep in there for the boys. Of course, it's out of band-aids (and if it had them they would probably be brightly-colored cartoon ones anyway). I see there is still an antiseptic wipe, so I try to use that. Only, of course, it is the worlds smallest wipe. Not kidding. It comes in a pack like those regular moist towelettes, but only unfolds once. I had to blot the blood with this tiny, two-inch by one-inch wipe. Oy.
There you have it. These are the kinds of things that happen to me. I know that might not sound so bad, and it wouldn't be if these were only occasional occurrences. But no. I have (epically and like something from a movie) fallen in public more than once. I drop things, bump in to things, bruise, scrape, and maim myself. My name is Trischa, and I'm a klutz.
Lucky girls outgrow their awkward klutziness and grow into their adult bodies and lives. Girls like me can grow up and dress up like an adult and get a degree and start a career and have a family, but just can't shake the klutz. Let me give an example.
There is a nice shopping area right near my office building. Recently, I went in to White House|Black Market on lunch and found some cute clothes on their clearance racks. I tried on several outfits, then put my my own dress and heels back on before realizing I hadn't tried on a black skirt I'd picked up. No sense to undress again, right? I'll just slip it on real quick. That is what I thought right before trying to step into the skirt and SLICING the side of my knee open with the heel of my shoe.
So... there I was, standing in the dressing room, leg bleeding, wondering what in the heck I should do now. I mean, I was wearing a dress, so it's not like there are pants to cover it. I scrounged around in my purse and found the little first aid kit I keep in there for the boys. Of course, it's out of band-aids (and if it had them they would probably be brightly-colored cartoon ones anyway). I see there is still an antiseptic wipe, so I try to use that. Only, of course, it is the worlds smallest wipe. Not kidding. It comes in a pack like those regular moist towelettes, but only unfolds once. I had to blot the blood with this tiny, two-inch by one-inch wipe. Oy.
There you have it. These are the kinds of things that happen to me. I know that might not sound so bad, and it wouldn't be if these were only occasional occurrences. But no. I have (epically and like something from a movie) fallen in public more than once. I drop things, bump in to things, bruise, scrape, and maim myself. My name is Trischa, and I'm a klutz.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Confession Friday
If I can't figure out how to write some good posts, I may as well use my blog as a form of therapy. I guess confession is supposed to make a person feel better. I don't actually feel bad, but everyone can always stand to feel better, right?
My confession of the week is that I kick things under the couch. Before I had kids and even when my kids were still pretty small, I maintained that my kids would clean up each thing or group of things as they went. They would know that before getting out the toy tractors, all the Trio blocks must be picked up and put away. And then before they got out the trains, the tractors had to be cleaned up. Books and magazines say this is the best method. And it really sounds great, doesn't it?
Only I live in real life. I work full time. Three days a week I work from home. I also have meals to cook and laundry to do and sanity to maintain on the weekends when my husband is at work. It is absolutely remarkable the number of things two boys can find to drag out while I'm putting in a load of laundry. Or answering emails. Or on a conference call. Or blinking.
So I've adopted a more real-life approach. All the toys will be picked up before bedtime. Of course, ideally this would be the two people who made the mess cleaning it up by themselves and without being prompted. It would also mean all the toys all over the entire house would be picked up and put where they belong. Reality is more like... the two boys being helped by whichever parent is home to clean up all the toys visible in the main area of the house. If we get to tidying the playroom, great. If not, we just close the door. Of course, all the pick-up is usually done in a hurry as we race the clock to bedtime.
So... can you really blame me when the house is finally quiet and the kitchen tidied, that I really don't feel like picking up any more toys? Sure, the kids should have picked up that ball or cardboard-tube-turned-spyglass or flip flop. And yes, squatting down to pick it up and then walking to put it away would almost count as exercise. But, if I take a good look at it and sweep it under the couch with my foot, then the living room will look clean when I flop down on the couch to catch up on reading, facebooking, or the DVR. And I will know exactly where said item is when someone is whining for it three days from now. And that will make me a hero.
I'll take being a bad-housekeeper-yet-hero-mom over those burning those five extra calories any day.
My confession of the week is that I kick things under the couch. Before I had kids and even when my kids were still pretty small, I maintained that my kids would clean up each thing or group of things as they went. They would know that before getting out the toy tractors, all the Trio blocks must be picked up and put away. And then before they got out the trains, the tractors had to be cleaned up. Books and magazines say this is the best method. And it really sounds great, doesn't it?
Only I live in real life. I work full time. Three days a week I work from home. I also have meals to cook and laundry to do and sanity to maintain on the weekends when my husband is at work. It is absolutely remarkable the number of things two boys can find to drag out while I'm putting in a load of laundry. Or answering emails. Or on a conference call. Or blinking.
So I've adopted a more real-life approach. All the toys will be picked up before bedtime. Of course, ideally this would be the two people who made the mess cleaning it up by themselves and without being prompted. It would also mean all the toys all over the entire house would be picked up and put where they belong. Reality is more like... the two boys being helped by whichever parent is home to clean up all the toys visible in the main area of the house. If we get to tidying the playroom, great. If not, we just close the door. Of course, all the pick-up is usually done in a hurry as we race the clock to bedtime.
So... can you really blame me when the house is finally quiet and the kitchen tidied, that I really don't feel like picking up any more toys? Sure, the kids should have picked up that ball or cardboard-tube-turned-spyglass or flip flop. And yes, squatting down to pick it up and then walking to put it away would almost count as exercise. But, if I take a good look at it and sweep it under the couch with my foot, then the living room will look clean when I flop down on the couch to catch up on reading, facebooking, or the DVR. And I will know exactly where said item is when someone is whining for it three days from now. And that will make me a hero.
I'll take being a bad-housekeeper-yet-hero-mom over those burning those five extra calories any day.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Pizza and Potato Chips
It's so crazy how something I've probably seen hundreds of times will randomly spark a memory I haven't thought of in years. My boys and I were at the Reds game on Sunday, walking near the stadium, when I looked up and saw a sign for "Mike-sells". Mike-sells is a local potato chip/snack food company that distributes mostly in the Midwest. Their wavy potato chips, including the ones that have the greenish edges from being cute too close to the peel (?), have a special place in my heart. On Sunday afternoon when I saw that sign, I was transported for a second to pizza night at my parents' house WAY back when I was little.
Pizza night when I was growing up did not involve a delivery guy or carry-out. Sure, from time-to-time we did buy pizza. But that wasn't "pizza night." Pizza night when I was growing up always started with some yeast, water, flour, and a pinch of sugar. Pizza was the thing my dad made. And as soon as we were old enough to spread tomato sauce or sprinkle oregano, my sisters and I had our hands all over it. I don't remember a time in my life when I didn't help make pizza or know how to make pizza.
The dough that results from my dad's recipe is very... yeast-forward (no, I don't know if that's a real thing, but "yeast-y" just sounds weird). It's not like anything I've every had in a restaurant, and yet it is still my favorite pizza to eat. I now make it with my boys at least a few times a month. Back in the day, pizza night was a huge deal and usually involved company. Even if that company was just the neighbors.
I know we ate a lot of pizza in the winter, including every Christmas Eve, but my main memories of pizza night were in the summertime. We didn't have air conditioning and despite having every window open and multiple fans working overtime, the house would get increasingly warm from the oven being on and opened/closed to cook multiple pizzas. We (my sisters and I, the neighbor kids, and all the adults) would eat in shifts around the ancient, creaky table in the dining room. When the pizza with the toppings you liked was ready, you'd get a paper plate with a slice, a perspiring cup of 'Pepsi-free' (pizza night was one of the few times we were allowed to have soda), and a handful of wavy, Mike's-sells potato chips.
And there you have it. The crazy way my mind works. Walking on a chilly, rainy day in the city with my kids, and all it takes is seeing an advertisement to take me back to a sweet memory of a sweltering, summertime joy from my childhood. I don't think I've eaten chips with pizza in years, but for the past few days all I could think about was getting some Mike-sells chips and savoring a memory. Luckily, I went to the supermarket today. If you'll excuse me, my writing is keeping me from a salty, crispy snack and some serious reminiscing.
Pizza night when I was growing up did not involve a delivery guy or carry-out. Sure, from time-to-time we did buy pizza. But that wasn't "pizza night." Pizza night when I was growing up always started with some yeast, water, flour, and a pinch of sugar. Pizza was the thing my dad made. And as soon as we were old enough to spread tomato sauce or sprinkle oregano, my sisters and I had our hands all over it. I don't remember a time in my life when I didn't help make pizza or know how to make pizza.
The dough that results from my dad's recipe is very... yeast-forward (no, I don't know if that's a real thing, but "yeast-y" just sounds weird). It's not like anything I've every had in a restaurant, and yet it is still my favorite pizza to eat. I now make it with my boys at least a few times a month. Back in the day, pizza night was a huge deal and usually involved company. Even if that company was just the neighbors.
I know we ate a lot of pizza in the winter, including every Christmas Eve, but my main memories of pizza night were in the summertime. We didn't have air conditioning and despite having every window open and multiple fans working overtime, the house would get increasingly warm from the oven being on and opened/closed to cook multiple pizzas. We (my sisters and I, the neighbor kids, and all the adults) would eat in shifts around the ancient, creaky table in the dining room. When the pizza with the toppings you liked was ready, you'd get a paper plate with a slice, a perspiring cup of 'Pepsi-free' (pizza night was one of the few times we were allowed to have soda), and a handful of wavy, Mike's-sells potato chips.
And there you have it. The crazy way my mind works. Walking on a chilly, rainy day in the city with my kids, and all it takes is seeing an advertisement to take me back to a sweet memory of a sweltering, summertime joy from my childhood. I don't think I've eaten chips with pizza in years, but for the past few days all I could think about was getting some Mike-sells chips and savoring a memory. Luckily, I went to the supermarket today. If you'll excuse me, my writing is keeping me from a salty, crispy snack and some serious reminiscing.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Confession Time
I was just going to add a little blurb to my post tonight, confessing that I'm failing miserably at my "alternate day" writing, but then I figured I may as well do an entire confession post. Why not?
As I've already said, I failed at writing every day. There is just too much going on. Too many days when I feel beaten down by things at work or overwhelmed by things at home or I'm just too busy. I'm trying to be okay with it since I'm still posting on here with realitive consistancy, but I am a bit dissapointed in myself.
I cherish alone time. Don't get me wrong, I love my husband and my kids and the rest of my family and my friends. I appreciate the time I get to spend with the people I care about. But I also have to admit that I am kinda a loner. I like my commute when I can listen to NPR without interruption and the the nights when Ryan is at work and the boys are in bed and I am alone with my thoughts and can kinda do what I want (you know, like write run-on sentences or eat too much Boursin cheese). It may be weird, but it's me.
I am not nearly as conservative as many people assume I am. I grew up in a conservative family and I was homeschooled(!) and went to a midwestern Christian college where dancing and drinking were not allowed. I can understand (mostly) why people are staunchly conservative, and I think that if we lived in an ideal world where everyone had equal opportunity and upbringing and access, then MAYBE the conservative views would be accpetable in a lot of circumstances. But, in case you haven't looked around or watched the news or visited anywhere outside your upper-middle class subdivision... we don't live in an ideal world. So I think that issues and problems in this country and in this world need to be looked at individually and evaluated for the best way to make things work to the benefit of the people who really need it. And if that means giving someone free access to birth control or helping them buy groceries to feed their family, I'm okay with it.
I am addicted to Food Network. I think I may have mentioned something like this before, but I really think it might be an issue. If I have control of the TV and it is on, it is probably on Food Network. This is an issue for me since I am really not that good of a cook and watching it makes me hungry and then I eat food that isn't good for me. But whatever. It does sometimes inspire me to make things I'd never thought of trying before. I've actually made popovers. And my kids ate them. For the most part.
I am not a baby person. I know I have mentioned this before too, but it is true. I'm happy for other people if they have babies, but I'm totally fine with not having any more babies. This is why it doesn't make me sad that my kids are way past the baby stage. I can deal with kids, but babies are a real challenge for me. My kids can tell me what's up and help me with stuff. Babies cry and scream and screech and rob you of sleep. Do you see where I'm coming from?
I hate being cold. Not sure if it qualifies as a confession since I've never kept it a secret, but to me being cold equals physical pain. I reall hate it and I wish it could be warm all year. Why can't it?
This isn't a very good confession post, but it's Friday, at the end of a long week, and I'm tired. Yay.
As I've already said, I failed at writing every day. There is just too much going on. Too many days when I feel beaten down by things at work or overwhelmed by things at home or I'm just too busy. I'm trying to be okay with it since I'm still posting on here with realitive consistancy, but I am a bit dissapointed in myself.
I cherish alone time. Don't get me wrong, I love my husband and my kids and the rest of my family and my friends. I appreciate the time I get to spend with the people I care about. But I also have to admit that I am kinda a loner. I like my commute when I can listen to NPR without interruption and the the nights when Ryan is at work and the boys are in bed and I am alone with my thoughts and can kinda do what I want (you know, like write run-on sentences or eat too much Boursin cheese). It may be weird, but it's me.
I am not nearly as conservative as many people assume I am. I grew up in a conservative family and I was homeschooled(!) and went to a midwestern Christian college where dancing and drinking were not allowed. I can understand (mostly) why people are staunchly conservative, and I think that if we lived in an ideal world where everyone had equal opportunity and upbringing and access, then MAYBE the conservative views would be accpetable in a lot of circumstances. But, in case you haven't looked around or watched the news or visited anywhere outside your upper-middle class subdivision... we don't live in an ideal world. So I think that issues and problems in this country and in this world need to be looked at individually and evaluated for the best way to make things work to the benefit of the people who really need it. And if that means giving someone free access to birth control or helping them buy groceries to feed their family, I'm okay with it.
I am addicted to Food Network. I think I may have mentioned something like this before, but I really think it might be an issue. If I have control of the TV and it is on, it is probably on Food Network. This is an issue for me since I am really not that good of a cook and watching it makes me hungry and then I eat food that isn't good for me. But whatever. It does sometimes inspire me to make things I'd never thought of trying before. I've actually made popovers. And my kids ate them. For the most part.
I am not a baby person. I know I have mentioned this before too, but it is true. I'm happy for other people if they have babies, but I'm totally fine with not having any more babies. This is why it doesn't make me sad that my kids are way past the baby stage. I can deal with kids, but babies are a real challenge for me. My kids can tell me what's up and help me with stuff. Babies cry and scream and screech and rob you of sleep. Do you see where I'm coming from?
I hate being cold. Not sure if it qualifies as a confession since I've never kept it a secret, but to me being cold equals physical pain. I reall hate it and I wish it could be warm all year. Why can't it?
This isn't a very good confession post, but it's Friday, at the end of a long week, and I'm tired. Yay.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Here We Go Again
WAY back when Luke started preschool, I posted several posts about how I am a misfit among mothers. This one is the one I remember the most, but I know there are others. I know I am not the only mother who works full-time aside from my mommy duties, but somehow I often end up feeling that I am.
Now Luke is in Kindergarten and has started playing t-ball. The first time I took him to practice, I ended up setting on a bench with another mom and another dad (no relationship to each other). I tried making conversation with the mom, asking her about her son, etc., but all she did was answer my questions. No actual conversation or asking questions about my kid. Um, okay.
The dad, on the other hand, was fine talking to me about our kids and about t-ball and about the teams his older kids had played on their first years. At least I didn't have to sit only with stoic-mom the entire time.
This past week, I again had better luck talking with the dads at first. After a while I realized I was the only mom standing on one side of the field, while all the other moms had somehow migrated to the benches on the other side of the field. Nothing makes you feel more like you're back in jr. high, than seeing a group of females who all seem to be hitting it off swimmingly, while you are the outcast girl who doesn't pinch-roll (peg? pinch-cuff? Whatever that stupid fad was called) her jeans.
I know I'm writing about it so it seems like it gets to me, but what I really worry about is how it will affect Luke and Owen in the future. I don't want them to be those kids who other kids don't like because none of the other moms like their mom. Is that a thing? Would that happen?
Thankfully I did manage to find a mom who I got along with as our kids were playing on the playground after practice. She is a vetrinarian and didn't really seem to fit right in with the other moms either, but did seem like a lovely and genuine person. Maybe there is hope. I don't need to be BFFs with all the other moms. But having one or two allies as I navigate this new mom-to-a-school-kid phase would be a very good thing.
Now Luke is in Kindergarten and has started playing t-ball. The first time I took him to practice, I ended up setting on a bench with another mom and another dad (no relationship to each other). I tried making conversation with the mom, asking her about her son, etc., but all she did was answer my questions. No actual conversation or asking questions about my kid. Um, okay.
The dad, on the other hand, was fine talking to me about our kids and about t-ball and about the teams his older kids had played on their first years. At least I didn't have to sit only with stoic-mom the entire time.
This past week, I again had better luck talking with the dads at first. After a while I realized I was the only mom standing on one side of the field, while all the other moms had somehow migrated to the benches on the other side of the field. Nothing makes you feel more like you're back in jr. high, than seeing a group of females who all seem to be hitting it off swimmingly, while you are the outcast girl who doesn't pinch-roll (peg? pinch-cuff? Whatever that stupid fad was called) her jeans.
I know I'm writing about it so it seems like it gets to me, but what I really worry about is how it will affect Luke and Owen in the future. I don't want them to be those kids who other kids don't like because none of the other moms like their mom. Is that a thing? Would that happen?
Thankfully I did manage to find a mom who I got along with as our kids were playing on the playground after practice. She is a vetrinarian and didn't really seem to fit right in with the other moms either, but did seem like a lovely and genuine person. Maybe there is hope. I don't need to be BFFs with all the other moms. But having one or two allies as I navigate this new mom-to-a-school-kid phase would be a very good thing.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
My Name is Trischa....
...And I have a shoe addiction. I believe this stems from not knowing how to create outfits or accessorize. I try to make up for it by having great shoes. That's okay, right? I do try to be frugal about my shoes. I'm not going to go out and buy really cheap ones that are going to fall apart in three days, but I also can't justify paying full price. I try to watch for sales and use coupon codes and can typically get great shoes for less than $40.
I recently ordered a pair of nude pumps. This pair, if you're curious. I hav
e lots of black shoes and several black boots, but I have been working to add variety. Before these, I bought a great pair of army green heels. These nude heels arrived on a day when I was working from home and I tried them on right away. They are so cute.
But then my husband came home and I showed them to him. He acutally (usually) has great taste in clothes. He isn't one of those guys who obsesses about his looks, but he also looks good when he leaves the house. He took one look at these shoes and said, "They look like high-heel wooden shoes from Holland."
Talk about a blow to my enthusiasm. Of course, I wanted to say they look nothing like that, but... I couldn't. All I could do was laugh. They don't really look like that, but I could kind of see what he meant! And now every time I wear them, all I can think of is "wooden shoes."
So, if I can just get into my closet this weekend to sort, organize, discard, and evaluate.... I'm hoping that I can find some items that go perfectly with wooden high heels.
I recently ordered a pair of nude pumps. This pair, if you're curious. I hav
e lots of black shoes and several black boots, but I have been working to add variety. Before these, I bought a great pair of army green heels. These nude heels arrived on a day when I was working from home and I tried them on right away. They are so cute. But then my husband came home and I showed them to him. He acutally (usually) has great taste in clothes. He isn't one of those guys who obsesses about his looks, but he also looks good when he leaves the house. He took one look at these shoes and said, "They look like high-heel wooden shoes from Holland."
Talk about a blow to my enthusiasm. Of course, I wanted to say they look nothing like that, but... I couldn't. All I could do was laugh. They don't really look like that, but I could kind of see what he meant! And now every time I wear them, all I can think of is "wooden shoes."
So, if I can just get into my closet this weekend to sort, organize, discard, and evaluate.... I'm hoping that I can find some items that go perfectly with wooden high heels.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
It's Not THAT Weird
I have an unusually-spelled name. I get that. But, c'mon. It's not THAT weird. However, the other day, I had a very strange experience at the doctor that made me wonder if maybe I am wrong in thinking my name, while uncommonly spelled, isn't that difficult.
I had an appointment with a new doctor. When I made the appointment over the phone, the girl put me on hold for about five minutes, then I got disconnected. That should have been a sign right there, but I called back, the girl apologized and took my information. I gave her my name and my social security number, so she could verify my insurance. The thought crossed my mind that I didn't spell my name for her, but she was going to check my insurance so I figured she could get the correct spelling from that.
Apparently not. When I arrived for my appointment, I was given a clipboard of paperwork to fill out, on which my name and insurance information were already filled in. As the receptionist handed me the clipboard, I noticed the following in the 'Last Name' line: (Tricia) Goodwin. The first name line read: Trischa. Then she said, "Your insurance is listed under this name," pointing to where it read Trischa, "But we can put both names on your file."
Not quite sure what was going on, I pointed to the correct spelling and said, "That does say 'Trischa' (pronounced Trisha). That is how my name is spelled."
To which she replied, "That's fine if your name is spelled that way. We can put that name," again pointing to the actual spelling of my name, "But we can put Tricia (saying it out loud) as well. We can put both names on your file."
I know it's bad, but by now I was completely annoyed. What part of "Trischa" is my name didn't make sense to her. So I just said, "Why would you put both names on my file?? My name is Trischa (pointing to that spelling) and it is pronounced "Trish-a" so you don't need to put the other spelling (pointing to Tricia)."
A little indignant, she said, "Well, the appointment book had it spelled this way (pointing to Tricia), but we have to go by what your insurance is under."
Goodness. I mean, is it really that confusing? Why is it so hard to understand that a lot of names have multiple spellings? Finally I just told her, "Well, the girl who took my appointment didn't ask for the correct spelling and I thought she could get it from my insurance. Please only put this spelling (indicating Trischa) on my file and leave the other spelling off."
I'm sure this story isn't nearly as amusing to read as it is to hear me tell it out loud, but it is all I have for today. I spent the day at the ballpark in Cincinnati with my boys, watching the Reds lose. Now my nose is sunburned and I am tired. I'm hoping to have a much better post this weekend.
I had an appointment with a new doctor. When I made the appointment over the phone, the girl put me on hold for about five minutes, then I got disconnected. That should have been a sign right there, but I called back, the girl apologized and took my information. I gave her my name and my social security number, so she could verify my insurance. The thought crossed my mind that I didn't spell my name for her, but she was going to check my insurance so I figured she could get the correct spelling from that.
Apparently not. When I arrived for my appointment, I was given a clipboard of paperwork to fill out, on which my name and insurance information were already filled in. As the receptionist handed me the clipboard, I noticed the following in the 'Last Name' line: (Tricia) Goodwin. The first name line read: Trischa. Then she said, "Your insurance is listed under this name," pointing to where it read Trischa, "But we can put both names on your file."
Not quite sure what was going on, I pointed to the correct spelling and said, "That does say 'Trischa' (pronounced Trisha). That is how my name is spelled."
To which she replied, "That's fine if your name is spelled that way. We can put that name," again pointing to the actual spelling of my name, "But we can put Tricia (saying it out loud) as well. We can put both names on your file."
I know it's bad, but by now I was completely annoyed. What part of "Trischa" is my name didn't make sense to her. So I just said, "Why would you put both names on my file?? My name is Trischa (pointing to that spelling) and it is pronounced "Trish-a" so you don't need to put the other spelling (pointing to Tricia)."
A little indignant, she said, "Well, the appointment book had it spelled this way (pointing to Tricia), but we have to go by what your insurance is under."
Goodness. I mean, is it really that confusing? Why is it so hard to understand that a lot of names have multiple spellings? Finally I just told her, "Well, the girl who took my appointment didn't ask for the correct spelling and I thought she could get it from my insurance. Please only put this spelling (indicating Trischa) on my file and leave the other spelling off."
I'm sure this story isn't nearly as amusing to read as it is to hear me tell it out loud, but it is all I have for today. I spent the day at the ballpark in Cincinnati with my boys, watching the Reds lose. Now my nose is sunburned and I am tired. I'm hoping to have a much better post this weekend.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Jealous
I'm always so jealous when I see girls who seem to have mastered their own personal style, especially when that style looks like what I wish was my personal style. I'm not really sure of how to describe what I would like to be my style, but maybe funky-classic? Casual-classic? I dunno. I'm not a trendy person, but I do try to make sure that I'm not wearing things that are horribly out-of-fashion. If I ever take "fashion quizes" in magazines, I usually just barely fall under "classic," but I know I'm not classic in the glamorous, Audrey Hepburn or Jackie Kennedy way.
No, I'm not glamorous at all. I don't know how to accessorize. I don't wear lipstick. I'm not sure how so many other people seem to be able to look so cute and put together. My default work clothes are dresses, since there is very little involved in making sure the outfit "works." Just coordinate the shoes and go. My default at-home wear is whatever is super comfortable and warm. Yet I still wish I had whatever gene it is that makes people know exactly what looks good together and exactly what looks good on their bodies, all while looking as though they put very little effort into the whole thing. Like it just came naturally for them to know how to mix all the elements of their wardrobe into an amazing collage of perfect outfits.
I recently stumbled onto this blog. I can't remember how I found it and I hope this girl doesn't hate me for linking to her since I am not a fashion blogger, but I just think she is completely adorable. I know that not all of her outfits would work for me (she looks super-cute in skinny jeans and flats, while I look weird and frumpy in them), but she does such a great job of mixing together outfits that are workable for a mom, and yet fun and flattering. I would love to be more like that.
There is also the whole make-up thing. I wear powder foundation and mascara. And chapstick (what? that's not make-up?) I recently started wearing eye shadow, but I have somewhat hooded eyes and I am just not good at putting it on. My friend Sara, on the other hand, her make-up always looks fabulous. As though her make-up is professionally done each time she leaves the house. Is it bad to be jealous of how good your friends look?
Anyway, I'm not really sure of what to do. I think I will start with cleaning out my closet. I tried to start this weekend, but there was a birthday party and a baby shower and t-ball practice and two little boys running around like crazy people that kept me from getting to it. But this weekend, I really am going to try. I'm going to try to go through my closet and get rid of everything that doesn't fit well or that I haven't worn in over a year. And then I'm going to try pairing things together that I've never worn together. And I'm going to try to make a list of some accessories I think might help me expand/enhance some of those outfits
We'll see how it goes. But taking baby steps in the direction of working on my personal style is certainly better than sitting around being jealous of how great other people look.
No, I'm not glamorous at all. I don't know how to accessorize. I don't wear lipstick. I'm not sure how so many other people seem to be able to look so cute and put together. My default work clothes are dresses, since there is very little involved in making sure the outfit "works." Just coordinate the shoes and go. My default at-home wear is whatever is super comfortable and warm. Yet I still wish I had whatever gene it is that makes people know exactly what looks good together and exactly what looks good on their bodies, all while looking as though they put very little effort into the whole thing. Like it just came naturally for them to know how to mix all the elements of their wardrobe into an amazing collage of perfect outfits.
I recently stumbled onto this blog. I can't remember how I found it and I hope this girl doesn't hate me for linking to her since I am not a fashion blogger, but I just think she is completely adorable. I know that not all of her outfits would work for me (she looks super-cute in skinny jeans and flats, while I look weird and frumpy in them), but she does such a great job of mixing together outfits that are workable for a mom, and yet fun and flattering. I would love to be more like that.
There is also the whole make-up thing. I wear powder foundation and mascara. And chapstick (what? that's not make-up?) I recently started wearing eye shadow, but I have somewhat hooded eyes and I am just not good at putting it on. My friend Sara, on the other hand, her make-up always looks fabulous. As though her make-up is professionally done each time she leaves the house. Is it bad to be jealous of how good your friends look?
Anyway, I'm not really sure of what to do. I think I will start with cleaning out my closet. I tried to start this weekend, but there was a birthday party and a baby shower and t-ball practice and two little boys running around like crazy people that kept me from getting to it. But this weekend, I really am going to try. I'm going to try to go through my closet and get rid of everything that doesn't fit well or that I haven't worn in over a year. And then I'm going to try pairing things together that I've never worn together. And I'm going to try to make a list of some accessories I think might help me expand/enhance some of those outfits
We'll see how it goes. But taking baby steps in the direction of working on my personal style is certainly better than sitting around being jealous of how great other people look.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Day One
If I could explain how bad my writer's block has been lately, I would. I'm really not sure of what happened. But I do know that I've got to try something to get back on track. I wouldn't exactly say that I've missed writing, at least, not in the way I would miss a dear friend or a favorite food if I'd gone months without. But I have felt like something has been missing lately and I think that is me putting effort into anything other than what is absolutely necessary to maintain my life.
So here I am. Back to another write-everyday-for-a-month month. Only this time I'm going to do something different. I've been mulling over the thought that maybe knowing that people I know might read everything I post has in some way made me less likely to post. I'm going to write every day, but I'm only going to post here every other day. The in-between days I will write, but not post to this blog. At the end of the month, I will evaluate my work and see how it is different in quality and content.
If there is something really worth sharing in my in-between writing, I may post it here after the end of April, but I guess we will see how it goes. I am actually starting to get excited about this little experiment. I'm really hoping it gets me back into my writing and a little bit out of my predictable routine.
So here I am. Back to another write-everyday-for-a-month month. Only this time I'm going to do something different. I've been mulling over the thought that maybe knowing that people I know might read everything I post has in some way made me less likely to post. I'm going to write every day, but I'm only going to post here every other day. The in-between days I will write, but not post to this blog. At the end of the month, I will evaluate my work and see how it is different in quality and content.
If there is something really worth sharing in my in-between writing, I may post it here after the end of April, but I guess we will see how it goes. I am actually starting to get excited about this little experiment. I'm really hoping it gets me back into my writing and a little bit out of my predictable routine.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
I Feel Old!
So. I'm trying to watch the Grammy Awards. Many of these people... I've never heard their music. And when I watch them perform, I feel so uncomfortable that they are up there with all those shiny costumes and synchronized dance moves... it makes me feel strange just watching them.
I like lots of different types of music, but my favorites are by people who perform in small theatres and venues, without shiny costumes. I either listen to CDs or NPR on my commute. Tonight was the first time I'd heard a Justin Bieber song.
I'm by no means a trendy person. I am usually aware of trends, but I only partake of the ones that I am confident will not make me look like an idiot.... for example, you may catch me in a Mad Men-esque dress at the office, but you will never catch me wearing skinny jeans and flats (I don't have the body for it). So, sure, I've heard of Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga... but as for being well-versed in their song titles or trivia? Not so much.
I'm not that old. But, for some reason, seeing all these super-star music people who I know very little about makes me feel old. And the fact that I feel uncomfortable watching them with their shiny clothes and odd dance moves, makes me feel even older.
Bleh. I don't want to be old. But I also realized that I don't care about the Grammy Awards. Time to watch some Food Network and go to bed early. ;)
I like lots of different types of music, but my favorites are by people who perform in small theatres and venues, without shiny costumes. I either listen to CDs or NPR on my commute. Tonight was the first time I'd heard a Justin Bieber song.
I'm by no means a trendy person. I am usually aware of trends, but I only partake of the ones that I am confident will not make me look like an idiot.... for example, you may catch me in a Mad Men-esque dress at the office, but you will never catch me wearing skinny jeans and flats (I don't have the body for it). So, sure, I've heard of Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga... but as for being well-versed in their song titles or trivia? Not so much.
I'm not that old. But, for some reason, seeing all these super-star music people who I know very little about makes me feel old. And the fact that I feel uncomfortable watching them with their shiny clothes and odd dance moves, makes me feel even older.
Bleh. I don't want to be old. But I also realized that I don't care about the Grammy Awards. Time to watch some Food Network and go to bed early. ;)
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
New Year, New Motto
"Every opportunity has an expiration date,
and the cost of missing out is greater than the cost of messing up."
— Pete Wilson
I am a hesitator. A what-if?-er. An over-analyzer. A second-guesser. I like to just say I'm "indecisive," but that's really being nice. I agonize over even the simplest decision, wondering if I'm making the right choice. It is annoying, frustrating, and tiring. And I want to stop.
So this is my new motto. I keep telling myself that the missing out on opportunities is so much worse than things not turning out exactly how I want. I have many good intentions, but when it comes down to it I freak myself out that things will go badly so I don't follow through. I'm not getting any younger. I don't want to look back at my life with regrets.
Maybe I will start blogging again, since I have sadly neglected my blog for quite some time now. Maybe I will keep track of some of the things I tackle without hesitating. Maybe. For now, I have some people to call and places to go.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Bittersweet
My eldest son is starting Kindergarten tomorrow. I've known since before he was born that this day was coming, and yet I still find myself horribly unprepared. I'm not concerned about how he will do in school, at least not academically. I'm scared for him as he learns to navigate the frightening social environment that is riding the bus and dealing with classmates.
I hate the thought of him sitting on the bus all alone, or worse yet, sitting with the wrong people. Some kid who might be mean to him or make fun of him for being shy and quiet or try to bully him into doing something wrong. I don't want him to feel alone or ostracised. I basically don't want him to have to deal with the hard or negative parts of growing up.
I know that is completely unrealistic. I know that we all become who we are based on learning to deal with the people around us. I know that he must learn how to interact with people to reach adulthood with the ability to cope, to rise above, to navigate friendships, and to make good choices.
But I think the real reason this bothers me is that there is something so final about the first day of Kindergarten. Yes, it's the first day of something exciting for him. Yes, I'm excited for him. I'm excited to see what he loves to learn about, to hear about the friends he makes, and to watch him grow in this whole new way. But his first day of Kindergarten is also the the last of him being home every day with us. It's the last day of me being able to call from work to check and see what he's up to. I know he will always be my son, but after tomorrow, things won't be the same. Which is good, but for me, it's very bittersweet.
I hate the thought of him sitting on the bus all alone, or worse yet, sitting with the wrong people. Some kid who might be mean to him or make fun of him for being shy and quiet or try to bully him into doing something wrong. I don't want him to feel alone or ostracised. I basically don't want him to have to deal with the hard or negative parts of growing up.
I know that is completely unrealistic. I know that we all become who we are based on learning to deal with the people around us. I know that he must learn how to interact with people to reach adulthood with the ability to cope, to rise above, to navigate friendships, and to make good choices.
But I think the real reason this bothers me is that there is something so final about the first day of Kindergarten. Yes, it's the first day of something exciting for him. Yes, I'm excited for him. I'm excited to see what he loves to learn about, to hear about the friends he makes, and to watch him grow in this whole new way. But his first day of Kindergarten is also the the last of him being home every day with us. It's the last day of me being able to call from work to check and see what he's up to. I know he will always be my son, but after tomorrow, things won't be the same. Which is good, but for me, it's very bittersweet.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Distractions
I know it has been forever since I've written. I blame my third-of-life crisis. I'm mad that I know what I want to be when I grow up, but I can't be that and instead I'm being something else. I can barely tolerate all the office politics and stupidness that consume my job right now. I was talking with my friend Irena today about how much time work sucks up out of our weeks and it was completely depressing. Despite that there were years in the past that I was working two jobs, weekends included, I don't remember feeling this way back then. She feels same way and thinks it's because we had goals then, biding our time till we graduated college, moved away, got married, or whatever was the next step then and we thought our real lives would begin soon.
Now that our real lives are here, we realize that we're kind of trapped. And that makes it almost unbearable. It's nice to have a distraction.
Tonight, my distraction came in the form of a long-time friend's wedding. She looked gorgeous and happy and I am ecstatic for her that she has found someone who treats her the way she deserves. My husband couldn't attend with me because of work, so I met up with my dear friend from forever, her husband, and a friend from back in my working-all-the-time phase. There is something so refreshing and almost soul-cleansing about spending time with people you spent so much time with in your past. People who knew you back when you were an awkward teenager and then college student, trying to figure it all out, and who still embrace you as a grown-up once you've all realized you will never have it all figured out.
I'm not really sure of what else to say about it. I love those moments when you are completely comfortable in the company of people who really know you. This night could not have happened at a better time.
Now that our real lives are here, we realize that we're kind of trapped. And that makes it almost unbearable. It's nice to have a distraction.
Tonight, my distraction came in the form of a long-time friend's wedding. She looked gorgeous and happy and I am ecstatic for her that she has found someone who treats her the way she deserves. My husband couldn't attend with me because of work, so I met up with my dear friend from forever, her husband, and a friend from back in my working-all-the-time phase. There is something so refreshing and almost soul-cleansing about spending time with people you spent so much time with in your past. People who knew you back when you were an awkward teenager and then college student, trying to figure it all out, and who still embrace you as a grown-up once you've all realized you will never have it all figured out.
I'm not really sure of what else to say about it. I love those moments when you are completely comfortable in the company of people who really know you. This night could not have happened at a better time.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Almost There
As I was pulling in the parking lot this morning, I noticed a gaggle of geese blocking off some good spaces. It was really all I could do to keep myself from mowing them down. It would have been in self-defense. Really.
Why am I bringing this up? Oh... right. Because I'm getting ready to write another post about tattoos and I thought maybe if you wanted to read something else you could read this instead: one of my favorite posts.
Starting this past Wednesday night, I began a marathon extended weekend of craziness. Dinner with my sister's family that night, swim lessons tonight, family night at church tomorrow night, Gap Party Saturday, and........ getting my tattoo finished Sunday! I think.
I've thought I was getting this tattoo twice before. I'm trying to be optimistic that this is actually going to happen. I really, really can't wait till it's finished. You know what else I can't wait to be finished? This week. And this month. *sigh*
Why am I bringing this up? Oh... right. Because I'm getting ready to write another post about tattoos and I thought maybe if you wanted to read something else you could read this instead: one of my favorite posts.
Starting this past Wednesday night, I began a marathon extended weekend of craziness. Dinner with my sister's family that night, swim lessons tonight, family night at church tomorrow night, Gap Party Saturday, and........ getting my tattoo finished Sunday! I think.
I've thought I was getting this tattoo twice before. I'm trying to be optimistic that this is actually going to happen. I really, really can't wait till it's finished. You know what else I can't wait to be finished? This week. And this month. *sigh*
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