Searching For Yellow Cars

image: CC low probability by banalities

I have a 30 mile commute round-trip to work every day. I hate every minute of it. I get in my car and my stomach tightens, dreading the next 30-45 minutes, knowing I'll encounter every jerk on the planet (or at least in central Florida) on my way to and from work. Before I even leave my apartment complex, I'll be confronted with a person blowing off a stop sign, and with someone tearing around the corner into the wrong lane, causing me to swerve dangerously close to the parked cars in order to avoid being hit head-on. As I wait for a break in traffic so I can pull out onto the street, I'll meet the people who, despite the fact they're stopped at a red light and have literally no place they can go, will not let me out. I'll also meet the person behind me who gets impatient waiting, pulls around me, and darts out into traffic the second the light changes causing several people to slam on their brakes.

I'll meet the people who drive 20 miles under the speed limit for no particular reason, I'll meet the ones who play pole position, weaving in and out of traffic attempting to get just one car ahead, and I'll meet the people who fly through red lights. I'll experience the ones who drive just barely the speed limit in the passing lane, oblivious to the fact there's a string of cars tailgating him in an attempt to encourage him to move over.

My exit is always backed up at least a mile and this is where I encounter the worst of the worst - those people who are so privileged (in their minds anyway), they don't need to wait in line like the rest of us filthy peasants. No, they can just speed along to the very front, bypassing the 10+ minute wait, and cut in front of everyone else patiently (or not so patiently) awaiting their turns.

My drive home includes half a dozen jaywalkers who are seemingly trying to get themselves run over, construction traffic, and a toll that narrows from 5 lanes to 1.

By the time I arrive at my destination, I'm so stressed out I vow to become a hermit and never leave my home again. Seriously, when I grow up, I'm going to be a hermit. I can combine that dream with my Cat Plan! It's brilliant! I'll move to a cabin in the middle of Montana, adopt 27 cats, and spend my days in my bathrobe eating Ben & Jerry's from the carton and washing it down with sangria. I'll be livin' the dream! But until that glorious day, I decided I needed to make a change (besides looking for a closer job!)

I recently heard something about looking for yellow cars. There aren't a whole lot of yellow cars on the road, right? You see them infrequently. Until you start looking for them. Then suddenly, they're everywhere! It's called the Yellow Car Phenomenon. Now of course there aren't more yellow cars on the road when you're searching for them. They've been there all along. When you shift your paradigm, however, you notice them. And that's the thing - you'll find what you're looking for. So you have to ask yourself - what am I looking for?

When I leave for work expecting to encounter entitled, self-absorbed, inconsiderate jerks, I find them. When you enter your meeting expecting a terrible outcome, you'll find it. When you think your boss, coworkers, or family will let you down, they will. Every time.

But when you change your way of thinking, amazing things can happen. 

I was visiting a friend who works part-time in a gift shop situated in an independent living/assisted living home for seniors. A resident was perusing the shop and struck up a conversation with us. She went on to complain about the marinade that was on the chicken at lunch, the food in general, and the chef himself. She lamented the lack of activities, the fact there aren't enough people who like to play cards, and how she can't even go shopping because it's like she's a prisoner there. Now this home is a pretty luxurious place with many amenities, activities galore, and a bus that takes them to local shopping and restaurants every day. But this woman was ultra-focused on everything negative. And she seemed pretty unhappy.

Then there's my Aunt Vasiliki. She's had many health issues over the years. She's a breast cancer survivor. She was divorced at a pretty young age and never remarried. She lost her parents while they were still young and recently lost her sister. She probably has cause to be bitter. But I have never seen her without a smile and a laugh. She also lives in an independent/assisted living home, and let me tell ya, she's never in her apartment! Because she's busy playing cards, doing puzzles, driving someone to a doctor's appointment, reshelving books in their little library, eating with friends, making jewelry, and anything else that looks like fun. Everyone knows my aunt and enjoys her contagiously effervescent company.

When I drive to school this week, I'm going to look for yellow cars - those people who let others in. Those who patiently wait their turn. Those who aren't consumed with road rage, and those who do stop at red lights, let pedestrians cross, and use their turn signals. I'll remember that there are good people in the world. Will the entitled, self-absorbed, inconsiderate buttheads still be there? Of course they will. They always will. But time is too short, and life is too precious to concern myself with them. I will choose to focus on the positive and will continue to strive to be the kind of person that makes other people feel good; not the kind that makes other people want to throat-punch me.


Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
Philippians 4:8 New International Version (NIV)

Shopping With My Kids No Longer Makes Me Want To Gouge My Eyes Out With A Pencil

Creative Commons

Once upon a time I wrote a story about grocery shopping with my 6 young children. At the time, I was convinced that shopping with kids was the worst torture on the planet. Worse than having your ankles broken by a sledgehammer à la Kathy Bates in Misery. Worse than sitting in front of a white chocolate raspberry cheesecake and being on a diet. Worse than even going to the dentist. Just worse. Than anything at all. 

I remember back when Brooklyn would throw a fit and cry her way through the entire store. I remember how Clay would maneuver his way out of the seatbelt and try to get brain damage by flipping himself out of the cart. I remember how Lexi would insist on dressing in a princess costume, and she'd pirouette down the aisles. Jackson would alternately tease someone and beg me for candy. Savannah would ram the cart into my ankles, Austin would walk around, bored and fed up with his siblings. Then my kids grew up. And now they're (wait for it . . .) helpful!

This weekend, I uncharacteristically walked around Walmart without a list; just a vague idea of what I needed to get. My kids said stuff like, "Hey Mom, we're out of bread." I hadn't realized we were out of it. They said, "Can I get a frozen pizza to eat for when you and Clay are at his band banquet?" Oh crap, that's right! I'd forgotten about the banquet. Instead of trying to sneak random junk food into the cart, the reminded me to get celery and beans and almond milk.

I don't always even notice all the help they give me, but I'm reminded of it on those rare occasions when I run to the store by myself. The cashier will give me a raised eyebrow look and wonder if I'm completely stupid as I stand there waiting to pay while the little carousel of packed bags fills up. "Um, can you put those bags in your cart ma'am?" Oh right! I belatedly realize my kids aren't here to do that for me. I'm so used to them transferring the filled bags to my cart. They are totally helpful these days!

As I wheel the cart outside, I head down an aisle to my car. Only my car isn't there. So I scan the parking lot, searching for my van. I make my way up and down two more aisles. Where on earth did I park?! The little "beep beep" thing on my key fob ceased working years ago so I continue to march up and down the aisles, searching for my vehicle. At some point, usually when I'm about to call the police to file a stolen vehicle report, I'll remember that I didn't even park at that door and I'll head across the parking lot to the opposite side. This never happens when my kids are with me. When I head out the door with the cart, they immediately turn me around. "You parked over there, Mom. How do you not remember? It was like 20 minutes ago!"

And these days, I no longer get embarrassed. I was shopping with Clay and Brooklyn this weekend and as we headed toward the refrigerated section, a song came over the speaker system, so naturally I started singing along.

I'm not a present for your friends to open
This boy's too young to be singing, the blue-ooo-oooos, 
ahhh-ah-ah-ah-ah, 
ah-ah-ahhhh-ah

"Hey Mom?"

"What, Brooklyn?"

"Who sings this song?"

I mentally pat myself on the back for instilling a love of music in my kids' hearts. They have eclectic tastes and will sing along to an enormous variety of tunes, many of which are from when I was a kid and even before. I answer her, "Elton John."

She looks at me, deadpan and says, "Let's keep it that way."

Oh no she didn't! She wasn't interested in knowing who the artist was! She just set me up for a burn! Clearly, I had only one option.

So I sang louder.

Oh I've finally decided my future lies
Beyond the yellow brick ro-oa-oad, 
Ahhh-ah-ah-ah-ah, 
ah-ah-ahhh-ah

See kids? I'm impervious to embarrassment. All of those years of shopping with you guys and wishing a hole would open up and swallow me as we shopped have rendered me numb. Those times when I'd be embarrassed because you were wearing a Cinderella dress, cowboy boots, a flannel shirt, and a Cubs hat? Gone. The times I'd be embarrassed because you would just. not. stop. crying? Gone. The times I'd be embarrassed when you'd point to an overweight woman and loudly ask, "Does she have a baby in her tummy?" Gone.

So you moms of little ones who would rather (to steal a phrase from that old post) be a contestant on Fear Factor when they're having pig brains for lunch than to go shopping with your little ones, take heart. It gets better. So. much. better. I promise!

Survival Mode

A friend recently asked me, “Why did you stop writing?”

Well, that’s a good question. I thought about it and came up with this answer: Because I’ve been playing in Survival Mode for 10 years.

My younger kids play Minecraft now and then. If you’re unfamiliar, in the most basic terms, it’s a video game wherein you can build things. Minecraft can be played in different modes. In Creative Mode, for example, you have unlimited resources. You can build anything you want from the bottomless stash of supplies. In Creative Mode, you don’t have to worry about eating, sleeping, or keeping up your health because you cannot die. In Creative Mode you can fly. You can literally fly.

Then there’s Survival Mode. In Survival Mode, you have to work for all your supplies. You have to mine minerals with a pickaxe. You have to plant vegetables and raise animals for food in order to stay alive. Creatures like Creepers and Zombies, Spiders, Endermen, Witches, and Withers will kill you. You cannot fly. Your mission is to stay alive which can be challenging. For example, you’re trying to plant corn like a good little farmer so you’ll have food for the winter when BLAM! A Skeleton attacks you! Or maybe you’re in a cave chipping away at rocks to find diamonds and BOO! A Ghast attacks you! This is Survival Mode.

To illustrate this point, I asked my kids to teach me how to play Minecraft. That conversation went like this:

MOM:  Will you teach me how to play Minecraft? It's for a blog post.
CLAY:  suurrrre it is
CLAY:  i know you just want to play
CLAY: it's okay your secret is safe with me
MOM:  

So I played for 45 minutes in Creative Mode. This is what I accomplished. I built a little house. My kids think it's lame, but let's remember that I had no idea what I was doing so it took me a ridiculously long time to figure out how to even do basic things like walk.

Inside my house there is a floor, some lights, windows, a bed, and a couch and table.

It has a bed right next to the front door because I'm an expert at designing houses.

It has a miniature floating chair because I have no idea what I'm doing. I cannot, for the life of me, even tell you how on earth I managed to create a tiny floating chair.

And then I played for 45 minutes in Survival Mode. This is what happened.

I died. Apparently you can't swim in lava.

And then I died again. Because apparently you can't swim underwater indefinitely without coming up for air.

I'm not sure what I did to make a chicken fall in love with me. I thought I was kicking it away, but apparently I threw some grass seed at it or something. This game is weird.

Here's a tree. You have to chop them down in order to get wood so you can build a house.

 At the end of 45 minutes of play, here's what I accomplished in Survival Mode. This is my house:

Here's another angle of my house. Some people (my kids) claim this is not actually a house, but just a wall. I say - whatever.

As you can see, it's a little hard to accomplish what you'd like when you're just trying to survive every day. I’ve been operating in Survival Mode for the past 10 years. Blinders on, focused on the moment, playing triage every day. Clay gets over the flu, but Lexi gets sick. I get my income tax refund, but my car breaks down. I make it to Clay’s lacrosse game, but miss Lexi’s water polo game. I get caught up on laundry, but realize there are dishes in the sink piled to the ceiling. I actually make it to work on time, but have to turn around and head home to pick up a sick kid who’s puking at school. I come up with the money to pay Brooklyn’s cheer competition fees, but get hit with NJHS fees. I worry about the kids, the kid who struggled with drugs, the kid who has struggled with depression, the kid who suffers with anxiety. I push down the guilt when I can't make it to a band concert. I shove away the guilt when I miss work. I deal and try to be there for everyone. I try to take care of everyone. I attempt to be mom and dad, breadwinner and homemaker, cheerleader, nurse, and teacher. I get sick and keep going because there’s no one to bring me orange juice or pick kids up for me or make dinner. I talk to myself because there’s no one else to run things by, no one  to commiserate with, no one to simply talk to. Survival Mode.

And it's hard being creative when you’re stuck in Survival Mode. It’s hard finding the funny twist on the mundane when you’re consumed with just surviving. There are many days when I’d like to tell a funny story, but I’m too busy fighting off Endermen and chopping down trees and throwing seeds at chickens to type it out. 

But God Told Me To

While writing my last post about my shoe malfunction, I searched my blog for old pictures of past shoe mishaps to include in the post. Searching the term "shoe", netted me the following little gem. I, being well on my way to dementia, didn't remember this story, but I laughed out loud reading it. And then I shared it with Clay's girlfriend because really, she should know what she's getting into with him, don't you think?

Here, for your reading pleasure is an oldie that's still good for a laugh!

God Told Me To (July 31, 2009)

Clay has a shoe problem - in that he can never find them. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that
A. He never puts them away where they belong, and
B. He's a boy and therefore cannot find anything unless it jumps out and bites him on the butt.

Yesterday was no exception. As I was scrambling to get everyone ready and in the car for vacation bible school, Clay was looking for his shoes. And by "looking for his shoes", I mean wandering around aimlessly, saying, I can't find my shoes. Do I have to wear shoes?"

He managed to find one shoe in the closet where it belongs. Jackson found the other one, after searching high and low for a good 10 minutes, in the garage. (I have no idea.)

Then this morning, I handed Clay a pair of socks as I was folding laundry and told him, "Get your socks and shoes on." (I used to say "get your shoes and socks on", but I have too many smart-aleck kids who would put their shoes on first and then try to pull their socks on over their shoes. "Well you said to put my shoes and socks on," they'd smirk.)

Anyway, Clay marched off with his socks, seemingly to put them on and find his shoes. About 10 minutes later, I saw him, still barefoot, watching TV. I gently reminded him, "TURN OFF THE TV AND PUT YOUR STINKIN' SHOES AND SOCKS ON!" He looked at me and said, "I don't have any socks."

"Yes you do! I just gave you a pair," I responded, frustrated.

"They're wet," he said simply.

"Why are they wet?" I demanded.

"Because I was trying to run on water."

Well duh. Makes perfect sense to me.

"What do you mean - you were trying to run on water? What water? Where?"

"In the sink."

"You were trying to run in the bathroom sink? For real?" I asked, incredulous. Not much Clay does surprises me anymore, but trying to run in the bathroom sink filled with water sounded pretty strange even for Clay.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Why, why, WHY???"

He thought for a moment and said, "God told me to."

Oh yeah, this is what has come out of vacation bible school. I can just see it now. That's going to be his excuse for everything for the next month.

Why aren't you eating your vegetables?
God told me not to.

Why did you hit your sister?
God told me to.

Why are you driving me to drink?
God told me to.

Fun times ahead.

If the Shoe Fits (Take it Off Before it Breaks!)

Upon the forcing urging of my boss, I applied to take part in this ELA (Emerging Leaders Program) with my school district. Several people from the pool of applicants who currently hold classified positions within the district were accepted into the program, and I was one of them. The program consists of monthly training from live seminars as well as webinars. On Tuesday, I attended the second seminar, this one on Dealing with Difficult People. It was actually useful training that I believe I can apply to my work life, home life, and in dealing with the entitled jerks who drive up and cut in front of those of us who have been waiting in line to exit for 2 miles. Every. Stinkin'. Morning. I truly do not understand why these individuals think they're so much better than everyone else that they don't have to wait in the same line as all the other commuters. If anyone can explain this to me, I'd love to hear it. And in related news, if anyone has a missile launcher that could be fitted onto a minivan, I'd love get the details on that also.

Anyway, I digress. So, this training was useful, the speaker was knowledgeable, effective, and had a sense of humor, the training was dynamic with hands-on components, and the hotel in which it was held, served coffee. All good.

 

When I attend these trainings, I like to dress professionally. You know, as a departure from the way I dress for work every other day. I think my usual style can be described as trendy classy sophisticated playful 'It's nearly April and Dawn has clearly given up.'

To that end, I tried on a few things, and by “a few things”, of course I mean, I tried on every piece of fabric in my closet. Twice. I decided on a filmy skirt paired with a shirt and denim jacket (because the AC was on full-blast at the last seminar and it was freezing!) I accessorized with a gold scarf and gold sandals. Reading this, it occurs to me that perhaps I should have someone else pick out my clothes. I’m thinking a trained monkey might do a better job. An untrained, sight-impaired monkey probably would too. Basically any monkey could do a better job dressing me than I do. But remember that I was wearing gold sandals. And a denim jacket.

During our first break, I jumped out of my seat because despite the ample padding on my derriere, I was sore from just sitting there for so long. They really ought to equip these training sessions with La-Z-Boys. I think I’m onto something here. So I jumped up and quickly headed toward the coffee shop so I could get to the front of the line in order to get some coffee and make it back to my seat before the break was over. As I walked, I felt something kind of flapping around my foot. Looking down, I noticed that the braiding on my sandal had come loose and was sticking out a couple inches, flapping around with every step I took. Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now considering I don’t have a hot glue gun with me. I contemplated running out to my car to grab the duct tape I keep in my glove compartment for shoe-related and other sundry emergencies, but opted to walk slowly back to my seat, hoping that if I didn’t jar it too much, my shoe wouldn’t unravel any further.

Apparently the exercise of walking a few yards in combination with the coffee brought on a hot flash. I grabbed my workbook and furiously fanned myself. I started to take off my jacket which was fusing to my arms with sweat, but remembered I was wearing a shirt with a big keyhole cut-out in back. I was sitting in the front of the room. That meant if I took off my jacket, rows upon rows of people would be subject to a clear view of my back fat. I kept the jacket on. Sweat dripped down my face. I hoped for a freak earthquake to swallow me.

When we broke for lunch, again I jumped up and headed toward the little snack shop in the lobby of the hotel. About halfway there, I felt something dangling around my foot. I looked down and saw that my shoe had unraveled so much that it was trailing a good 2 feet behind me. This was an example of karma, my friend because I had been inwardly grumbling at the people walking slowly in front of me. And you know that old saying – when you complain about slow walkers, your shoe unravels. Anyway, I had to stop and figure out some way to fix my shoe or I surely would’ve tripped. Not to mention that fact that I looked like an utter idiot. So I took the braid and wound it around my foot a couple times, tucking the end under the buckle. Voila! Fixed. Sort of. Although I was regretting my shoe choice, I was very happy that my skirt was long enough to mostly cover my stupid shoe. 

As I straightened up, I saw this cute guy walk by. I tried to act all nonchalant like I’d simply been bending over to pick up something I’d dropped. No big deal. I wasn’t just wrapping a couple feet of cord around my ankle, no siree. He smiled a little. I’m not sure if it was just a friendly smile, or an “I feel sorry for the uh, special girl playing with her shoe in the middle of the hotel lobby’ kind of smile.

exhibit A

exhibit B

How can one person have so many shoe problems? How is it possible??? Remember my shoe that broke at school 5 years ago?

exhibit C

I tried to fix it with staples. Surprisingly enough, it didn't work.

exhibit D

And then there was the shoe that broke at my friend's wedding. 

exhibit E

I walked barefoot into a Dollar General to buy a roll of duct tape to fix it on the way to the reception. (Thus the duct tape in my car for shoe emergencies.)

exhibit F

It didn't work either. 

exhibit G

So I gave up, took my shoes off, and danced barefoot all night.

Oh and let's not forget about the unfortunate shoe incident from my last date a couple years ago - Why I Can't Date

Anyway . . .

I grabbed lunch, invited myself to join a couple people at their table because apparently that’s the kind of person I am - one who encroaches on others because why wouldn't they simply delight in my company. I refrained from jumping in the hotel pool or joining the tourists drinking piña coladas at the bar (and let me tell ya, that took quite a feat of willpower,) and went back to the seminar. 

We broke into small groups based on the results of our DISC personality assessments. I scoped out the room, searching for the cute guy from earlier and lo and behold, he was sitting with the "I"s. I'm an "I"! Obviously it's kismet. 

I walked toward the back of the room where the other "I"s were gathering. Wait, let me rephrase that. I started walking toward the back of the room. After a couple steps however, my ambulation turned to aviation as I tripped over my shoe's tail and took flight. Let's just say, I got the cute guy to notice me.

Oh but it gets better.

After the training (you know, the training to help us better deal with different types of people), we were shuffling like cattle toward the exit of the conference room. People were filing out a single door for some reason when there were two doors there. I, apparently having learned nothing from the day's seminar, let loose a snarky comment, "There are two doors there. We could actually use both of them." I picked up my certificate and once again saw everyone exiting via a single door to the parking lot. I gave an exasperated sigh because clearly "these people" will never learn to use both doors. I then walked right into the window. Yes, the window that was not actually a door. Karma wins again.

Misty Water Colored Memories

Recently on my Timehop (If you're unfamiliar, Timehop is an app that curates all the photos and posts you've put on social media over the years.) there was a post about Lexi breaking her arm. Two days later, there was a post that said I was on my way to the hospital with Lexi, followed by a post saying that she was out of surgery and everything had gone well. This happened ten years ago. I could not, for the life of me, remember her having surgery on her broken arm. Then again, I can't remember what I had for lunch today so that's not really saying much.

How could I have forgotten something like my kid having surgery? I asked the group chat that my family has if any of them remembered. The only response I got was something about the government implanting false memories to brainwash us. That was from Jackson's girlfriend, Summer. (Clearly, it didn't take her long fall in with my crew.) But I couldn't let it go. It was bugging me to no end until I realized that I had likely blogged about it. I quickly searched my blog for the date in question and lo and behold, I found it! Lexi broke two bones in her arm and the orthopedist put her under general anesthesia in order to set it properly. After reading the post about her broken arm, I continued reading, laughing at post after post of my kids' antics. Like Lexi's surgery, I hadn't remembered a lot of the things I'd written about. (I warn my kids often that they'll be taking care of me when I completely lose my mind.) Although it's disconcerting when I can't recall something I ought to remember, I'm so appreciative of my blog now! I mean, back in the day, this blog generated an income, a book deal, and more trips, freebies, and perks than I can count. It gave laughs and comfort to other moms in the trenches. And it provided an outlet for me to vent when my kids did stuff like make a "skating rink" from water and bubble soap on my kitchen floor, color the walls with yogurt, the TV with Sharpie, and each other with paint, or when one shoved a Tic-Tac up his nose, or gouged her name into the side of my van with a nail, . But now, it's this amazing scrap book of memories. I have 1570 posts written over the past 11 years that I can reread whenever I want!

You know how people always tell you to slow down and enjoy your time with your kids when they're little because it goes by so fast? That isn't entirely accurate. Really, you should slow down and enjoy your time with your kids when they're little because when they're grown, you won't remember a darn thing from their younger days! 

I tell my daughter a story and she gives me an exasperated sigh accompanied by, "Mom, you already told me this yesterday."
My son will ask me, "Remember the time we dismantled the playground and propped the slide against the house, then jumped out our bedroom window and slid to the ground?" and I gaze at him vacantly, as I try desperately to recall the incident in question. It seems vaguely familiar but I can't recall if it really happened, if I saw it on some sitcom, or if it was just a bad dream. I'm sure my kids look at me and think - there's a tree stump in a Louisiana swamp with a higher IQ than you.

I can't even tell you how many times I've uttered the phrase, "I"m going to pick Savannah up from water polo" this month. And every time, one of my kids will respond with, "Savannah? Really, Mom? Savannah hasn't played water polo for 5 years. She doesn't live with us." Then they'll throw in a, "Remember?" for good measure because I'm pretty sure they truly believe I don't remember that Savannah moved out years ago.


So, my advice to you is - enjoy those crazy days when your kids are young. Appreciate every sticky, messy, crazy, embarrassing moment. Because those days go by so fast one day, you won't remember your kids' names or the fact they tried to leave their brother at the store, or that they painted the dog blue, or that they accidentally knocked an egg out of a robin's nest and replaced it with a chicken egg and a marshmallow peep.

50 By 50

I turned 49 on Sunday. For the first time. Honestly. 

It came and went with all the pomp and circumstance a single mom would expect - errands, laundry, cooking, cleaning . . . 

Anyway, I figure since I'll be 50 Forty-Nine Part 2: Electric Boogaloo next year, I should probably have an idea of what I want to do when I grow up. I mean, I've always been a procrastinator, but even I have to admit that it's a bit ridiculous to be nearly 50 years old and unhappy with yourself. To that end, I came up with a bucket list of sorts. Or well, notsomuch a bucket per se. It's really more of a small measuring cup. Still . . .

I will lose 50 pounds by the time I'm 50. That's a pound a week. Completely achievable, if not challenging. Note I wrote that "I will lose 50 pounds", not "I want to lose 50 pounds." Because I have wanted to for pretty much all of my adult life. Clearly, wanting and doing are two entirely different things.

I'm extraordinarily unhappy with my appearance. I would go so far as to say I hate the way I look. I saw a picture of myself taken at the Support Person of the Year banquet and I cried. I legitimately cried. I mean, I know I'm fat, but seeing it right there on paper absolutely disgusted me. I have lost the same 10 pounds a hundred times in my life. I'm done.

I will write 50 blog posts by the time I'm 50. It's a far cry from the 324 posts I wrote in 2008, but it's more than the 5 I wrote in 2016.

I like the school and the kids where I work. I like my job. I'm not passionate about it though. And I detest the commute. Like many of us, I don't get up and think - I can't wait to get to work! I miss writing. Nothing makes me happier than getting comments from people saying that something I wrote made them think, or made them laugh, or let them know they aren't alone. I want to write. So, I'll start with a few blog posts.

I will do 12 random acts of kindness. Because - why not?

I will go on 12 dates. Unless the first one turns out to be with a psycho who tries to make a suit of my skin. Or he chews with his mouth open. Or he doesn't laugh. Hmmm, maybe I need to rethink this one. Maybe I should adopt 12 cats instead . . .

Sicking, Vampires, And Auspicious Write-Ups

I recently attended a mind-numbing training. The whole time I was sitting there listening to the presenter drone on, the only thought that filled my head was - What am I doing with my life? Why am I not at home writing? I should be writing, not sitting here critiquing this presenter's inability to speak and use any semblance of proper grammar in her power point.

When I got home, I picked up my laptop and pulled up my blog. The blog that used to have 100,000 readers daily. The blog that I used to update almost daily. The blog that sits there, mostly untouched these days. That blog. And I remembered how fulfilling it was to receive comments from my readers saying that my writing had made them think, or had helped them to realize they aren't alone, or had simply made them laugh. So I read through some recent comments. Here, because I want to share the pure unadulterated pleasure and joy with you, are those comments.


Are you tired of being human, having talented brain turning to a vampire in a good posture in ten minutes, Do you want to have power and influence over others, To be charming and desirable, To have wealth, health, without delaying in a good human posture and becoming an immortal? If yes, these your chance. Its a world of vampire where life get easier,We have made so many persons vampires and have turned them rich, You will assured long life and prosperity, You shall be made to be very sensitive to mental alertness, Stronger and also very fast, You will not be restricted to walking at night only even at the very middle of broad day light you will be made to walk, This is an opportunity to have the human vampire virus to perform in a good posture. If you are interested contact us

Oh boy, do I ever! I want to have power and influence over others and be made to walk in broad daylight! Where do I sign up? (Shhh, don't tell Sam and Dean Winchester.)


WHAT A GREAT MIRACLE THAT I HAVE EVER SEE IN MY LIFE. My names are Robert Mary I’m a citizen of United Kingdom, My younger sister was Sicking of breast cancer and her name is Robert Jane, I and my family have taking her to all kind of hospital in UK still yet no good result. I decided to go to the internet and search for cancer cure so that was how I find a lady called Sarah peter she was testifies to the world about the goodness of a herbal man who has the root and half to cure all kind of disease and the herbal email was there. So I decided to contact the herbal man for my younger sister help to cure her breast cancer. I contacted him and told him my problem he told me that I should not worry that my sister cancer will be cure, he told me that there is a medicine that he is going to give me that I will cook it and give it to my sister to drink for one week, so I ask how can I receive the cure that I am in UK, he told me That I will pay for the delivery service. 


Yes, yes, I just read an article in the New England Journal of Medicine how a random Internet herbal man had discovered the cure to help people who are sicking of cancer.


This blog was... how do I say it? Relevant!! This paragraph is really a nice one it helps new net people, who are wishing for blogging. 

Your comment is . . . how do I say it? Inane!


Its not my first time to pay a visit this web site, i am visiting this site dailly and take nice data from here all the time. 

Well that is my goal after all - giving nice data to all the people!


you are truly a just right webmaster. The website loading pace is incredible. It seems that you're doing any unique trick. In addition, The contents are masterpiece. you've done a excellent task on this subject! 

Do you hear that, world? I'm a just right webmaster. I don't think there's anywhere to go from there. My dreams are fulfilled.

What i do not understood is if truth be told how you are now not really much more well-preferred than you may be now. You're so intelligent. You understand therefore considerably relating to this topic, produced me in my view consider it from so many various angles. Its like men and women aren't fascinated unless it is something to accomplish with Lady gaga! Your personal stuffs outstanding. All the time take care of it up! 

What I do not understand, if truth be told, is pretty much anything you just wrote. Not a stinkin' word.

Thank you for the auspicious writeup. It in fact was a amusement account it. Look advanced to far added agreeable from you! By the way, how can we communicate?  

I'm sorry, but I don't think we actually can communicate. You know, seeing as how I don't speak whatever language that is.

At this moment I am going to do my breakfast, afterward having my breakfast coming yet again to read more news. 

At this moment I am going to rethink my entire life. Afterward, I will pour a large glass of wine and watch some Netflix.

Hell is a Group Chat

Image by JESHOOTS-com on Pixabay

Remember back in the 70s when you had cheer practice? No? That's right! Because there was none of this putting your kids in sports and other activities that take all your time and money! We were thrown out of the house after school and we ran around the neighborhood playing until mom rang the dinner bell, signaling us to come running home. 

Then in the 90s and early 2000s when my oldest kids were young, we put them in some sports. You know how I knew what time their practices were? The coach told us at the beginning of the season. Practices are Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays from 6:00 - 7:30. I didn't get reminders every day. I knew when practice was and I brought my kids at the appointed time. Like magic.

Then came the smart phone and people turned into idiots.

Case in point -  I, along with about 25 other parents, was added to a group text for Brooklyn's cheer team. Now this could be a handy tool for communicating. It could be if the other people involved employed any sort of texting etiquette, or you know, common sense. It could go like this:

COACH:  Remember practice tonight 630 to 8

The end. That's it. Everyone in the text group would receive ONE text reminder just in case one went stupid and forgot that practice is Tuesday and Thursday from 6:30 - 8:00 just like it has been for the past 2 months.

But that's not how it works. That is literally never how it works. Instead, our phones (namely MY phone!) get a dozen pings with very, very important messages that everyone needs to know like this:

COACH:  Remember practice tonight 630 to 8

CRIP (Clueless Rude Inconsiderate Parent):  Jada will not be able to make it she pulled her groin muscle and can barely walk straight. See you Tuesday

CRIP:  Ok we'll be there

CRIP:  Kayla won't be there she has strep throat

CRIP:  Thanks

CRIP:  Kayla won't be there tonight.

CRIP: I'll have to try and get Kay a ride cause Kayla was Kayleigh's ride today. Husband is working nights now and I have 3 of the 4 needing to be placed

CRIP:  places

CRIP: Ok

CRIP:  Hailee won't be there tonight

CRIP:  Hailee will be back next week

CRIP:  Bella will be there at 6:30

[sic]


And here's me . . .

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There is NO NEED to respond to a text that simply provides information, especially when there are 25 other people whose phones will ping with that text. If a coach reminds you there's practice, you don't not need to replay "Okay" or "Thanks" or anything else. Just show up to practice.

There is also NO NEED to tell everyone in the group chat that your husband is working, or your kid can't make it to practice, or that your kid has a groin injury. Tell the coach. She's the ONLY one who needs to know this.

Technology has just made people stupid. Twenty years ago, you would not have picked up the phone and gone down the roster to call 25 people and tell them, "Hi Anne, my daughter pulled her groin. She won't be at practice. I just thought you'd like to know." "Hi Meg, my daughter pulled her groin. She won't be at practice. I just thought you'd like to know." "Hi Mary, my daughter pulled her groin. She won't be at practice. I just thought you'd like to know." And on and on and on . . . So why do people do it now with texts? Why? Truly, I'm asking because I really don't understand this phenomenon. I cannot possibly be the only one who doesn't like her phone going off every few seconds with everyone's nonsense while she's at work.

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I'm convinced that hell is a group chat. A group chat that you. can. NEVER. EVER. leave.

  

The Bird That's Mocking Me

photo: Creative Commons

For the last couple weeks, there has been a completely demented confused bird outside my window who apparently thinks nighttime is for singing. At 3:00 in the morning, this bird wakes me up with his incessant chirping. As one might imagine, being awoken in the middle of the night puts me in a foul mood. I lie awake concocting sleep-deprived, and slightly maniacal, scenarios of death and destruction to this bird.



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Last night, determined to figure out what kind of devil bird has been waking me up, I spent a ridiculous amount of time on the National Audubon Society site, listening to bird songs and comparing them to the cacophony that interrupts my dreams every night. I listened to, and quickly discarded dozens of bird calls until I happened upon a mockingbird.
"Ah ha!" I shouted to my computer! "I found the culprit! It's a Northern Mockingbird!" 

The Northern Mockingbird's scientific name is mimus polyglottos which means Bird That Sounds Like a Car Alarm. Don't believe me? I found this recording. To get the full effect, I recommend you wait until you're so tired you can't keep your eyes open, then pop in your ear buds, lie down, and enjoy the sound that could only come from a concert featuring car alarms, chainsaws, and Nickelback nature's goodness in the Mockingbird's gentle lullaby as you drift off in peaceful slumber.




Go ahead and listen to it. Then imagine hearing it every. single. night. FOR HOURS! I completely understand why Zooey Deschanel (Failure to Launch) was disappointed that the book To Kill a Mockingbird wasn't a how-to manual!

Apparently, the Northern Mockingbird is the state bird of Florida. (Maybe if more people knew this, fewer people would move here and it wouldn't take me 45 minutes to get to work in traffic! But that's a rant for another day.) And it's protected under the Federal Migratory Bird Treaty Act so you can't just shoot the thing. Not that I would. But well, I wouldn't judge anyone who wanted to.

All this research on Mockingbirds made me start thinking about that song. Hush little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a Mockingbird. (Why? WHY? Why would anyone ever do anything so cruel to a defenseless little baby?) And if that Mockingbird won't sing (Be VERY thankful!), Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring. (How 'bout we just skip right ahead to the diamonds, huh?) This song makes NO sense.

Anyway, there are a myriad of ideas on how to deal with these birds that have just surpassed seagulls in my personal list of annoying animals. Get a fake owl, get a fake snake, spray them with water, light off firecrackers . . . Here's the thing though - we have real owls and real snakes around here. No need for fake ones. And I really can't see myself doing anything mean to a bird. Oh, who am I kidding? The real reason I wouldn't grab the Super-Soaker or bottle rockets is because that would mean I'd have to get out of bed in the middle of the night and that's just not happening. Laziness always wins out over annoyance. So for now, I guess I'll just set my phone on my nightstand and have it play rain or ocean sounds all night to help drown out the squawking. But if you hear of someone in central Florida arrested for trying to cut down a tree in her apartment complex at 4:00AM, there's a chance it might be me. Stand by with bail money.

The Hand Wavers, The Doughnuts, And The Amens: My Search For A Church

When I lived in Illinois, I attended the same church for nearly 40 years. As a kid, I remember getting smiley face stickers in my Bible for memorizing scripture. I went to confirmation classes and youth group. I have fond memories of going on several mission trips to Missouri, Michigan, and even Canada with the youth group. (Well, I have fond memories of most of those trips, but I had mono when we went to Canada so I mostly have memories of sleeping and feeling like crap there) and I remember staying up all night at lock-ins as a teenager. I taught Sunday school to the grandkids of the people who taught me Sunday school. I was a big part of the drama group at my church, acting in and directing several worship dramas.I enjoyed helping with Vacation Bible School every summer. I joined several Bible study groups (between you and me, it was mostly because they provided free babysitting and that meant I didn't have to deal with my kids for a whole hour once a week.) I think I entertained the retired people in my group by likening every bit of scripture we studied to a recent Veggie Tales episode I'd seen with my kids. "This is just like the time Junior Asparagus was scared of the Frankenstein celery . . ." I painted crafts to be sold at our holiday bazaar and I joined the ladies who knit and crocheted prayer shawls although I think I only completed one shawl ever, and it quite possibly fell apart the first time it was washed. But I tried. I knew everyone at my church, and they knew me. Even if they didn't really know me, they at least knew of me as that lady with all the kids who sometimes shows up to church without realizing one of her kids isn't wearing shoes. In my defense, at least I never forgot any of my ki . . . Oh wait. Nevermind. Umm, in my defense, I had a whole litter of kids! Cut me some slack!

When I moved to Florida over 7 years ago, one of the tasks at the very top of my list was to find a new church home. But that's hard to do when you compare every church you visit to the one you left back home. I still haven't found a church home down here in Florida, but admittedly, I haven't gotten involved and I've never given any of them enough time to grow on me. I've also been caught up in whether I personally liked the worship service, if the people seemed friendly and welcoming, if the church was close to home, if there was adequate parking, if the church had some funky smell to it, if they sang songs I liked, if the sanctuary was pretty and had stained glass windows depicting scenes of Jesus's life, and of course, if they served good coffee or just that nasty powdered creamer stuff. What I failed to ask myself is if I could serve and grow at that particular church. I know if I had just stuck with one church and kept returning, joining a small group, making an effort, I would have a church home today. 

Still, I visit different churches now and then, thinking I'll get serious about finding a new church home. But it's awkward! And I've gone to church my whole life! I can't imagine how uncomfortable it could be for someone new to the whole church-going experience. Trying out new churches is just plain awkward. And it's especially strange if you try new denominations and/or new areas. This is what I've gathered from attending a variety of churches here in the south.

1.     Ya'll are hand wavers. Every church I've gone to down here, especially the Baptist churches, like to raise their hands in worship and every single time I see it, it reminds me of this Tim Hawkins video and cracks me up. 



The congregation sways, eyes closed, so moved by the experience that they must stretch their arms heavenward. I stand there, blundering my way through the lyrics quietly to myself lest another human hear me. If it's an especially rousing song, I may sway a bit. (Actually I just shift my weight from foot to foot a time or two, but it might be construed as swaying by some.) Try as I might, I cannot bring myself to lift my arms in praise. I tried it once. I felt like I was anticipating a volleyball to come my way. #Awkward

2.     Another big difference is that the worship service where I grew up was an hour long. One hour. Sixty minutes. And heaven forbid they ever ran over time by even a few seconds because someone would be on the receiving end of some hefty complaints! Sunday school was for kids and it ran simultaneously with the worship service for adults. Down here, on-the-other-hand, the worship service alone is at least an hour and then Sunday school/Bible study is for everyone and it's another hour or more. At some churches, it's an all-day extravaganza.

3.     People (again, I've noticed it predominately with those Southern Baptists, but the first time I visited a particular United Methodist Church here, I heard a sermon against the evils of divorce also) think I'm the devil because I'm divorced. At church today, there was a card to fill out if you'd like more information about the church, would like to submit a prayer request, or wanted to get more information about volunteer opportunities. The card had the following options: single, married, widowed. Divorced was not an option. Although I wanted information about volunteering for a program, I didn't know what box to check because I don't think I count as "single." I thought about writing in divorced, but decided that might be antagonistic. Also, I wasn't entirely sure they'd let me back in if they knew I was gasp divorced. I ended up shoving the blank card in my purse and leaving.

4.     Down here, as far as I can tell, churches are rated based on the quality of coffee and doughnuts provided after worship service.

5.     I don't think this is specific to any geographic location or any particular denomination, but some churches are just friendlier than others. However, there's a fine line between being friendly and welcoming, and just plain freaking the snot out of newcomers by hugging them, following them to their seats, and talking their ears off about people they don't know and things taking place in church that they've never heard of.

6.     A lot of the churches I've visited down here are big on random Amens! throughout the worship service. Now, I'm no stranger to the rote repetition of phrases in worship. If I hear, "Peace be with you," the words, "and also with you," will leave my lips of their own accord without fail. If I see an offering, I will sing the doxology whether it's actually being played or not. But I do not understand the seemingly random chorus of amens that reverberate off the walls of the church at various times throughout the service.

7.     Finally, I've noticed that it's a universal truth of any church, in any denomination, in any part of the country that people get ticked when you, a newcomer, sit in "their pew."