Is It Possible?

Do you believe in the possible?

No, not the impossible, like whirled peas or other such nonsense.

But the possible.

Is it possible to remember your fellow man and allow that other drive into your lane...even though the commute is long?

Would it be possible to let that young mother, the one with the screaming toddler, take cuts in front of you at the grocery store. Even though you've been standing in that line for a while now?

Could it possibly cross your mind to pay for a strangers coffee in line behind you?

Or maybe it would be possible to hold open the door...

Or simply smile at a stranger.

What would our world look like if we actually paid it forward?

Did you ever see that movie? It was dribble. Truly.

But the truth is, long before it became "cool" to pay it... others were already doing it. It's the whole do unto others... thing.

If it were possible to step, for just a moment, outside your comfort zone, would you?

Would I?

The New Year is upon us. Each year we consider the past and ponder the future. We decide to diet and exercise. We promise to be better people, to accomplish more, to work less, and spend time with the kiddies.

And it lasts for a month. Or a week. Or a day.

Then it's back to the ol' grind. But what if it were possible to truly change ourselves and our world?

It's an interesting thought.

A little over a year ago, my friend The Writer, announced that she was going to change the world. I chuckled at her, because really, change the world seemed a little outside the possible.

Funny thing is, she has.

Never say never and never think the possible is impossible.

For all things are possible if we actually get off our backsides and do it.

What's possible for you in 2011?

Facebook: A Rant and A Rumble

Yeah, I Facebook.

It all started because I am a nosy parent and I wanted to see what Boy was up to since he didn't live at home. I wanted to see the funny pictures. I wanted to know who his friends were. I was stalking him.

Stalker Mom!

Then, in the course of time, Girl requested a Facebook account as well. What's a mom to do? Sign her up and have every, single, last, blasted alert come to my email. That is what a Stalker Mom does.

Stalker!

She also lays down the rule that any guy who wants to friend Girl must friend her mother. Lame. I know. Stalker, remember?

Anyway, I've hooked up with a few friends from high school. That's been kinda fun. I've also denied linking up to those folks from school who didn't like me back then...so why should we be "friends" now? Yeah, I don't think so.

I've got friends from work. Friends from church. Friends of friends. I am friends with a couple of YOU over on FB too. Isn't that fun? Or is it weird cause we've never actually met? Hmmm.....Stalker?

Recently, a former co-worker re- friended me. She had left the gym rather suddenly in a cloud of drama. She's been gone for several months and I've only laid eyes on her a few times since then. I heard through the grapevine that she was sniffing around, trying to get her job at the gym back. Whatevah. She wasn't the most dependable employee, but at least she knew the job and she was a cleaning queen!

Former co-worker wrote me a little FB note apologizing for the "drama" and hoped that we could still be friends. I replied that she didn't owe me an apology and of course we could be friends.

All this last a smattering of days, because as soon as she learned that the clubs owner had hired two other people...former co-worker unfriended me.

Seriously.

So, I did what any crabby, middle aged woman would do. I sent her message calling her on the carpet and telling her that she was "lame".

Gee, I just showed her, didn't I?

Or did I?

Pathetic. Yes, I know. All these cyber relationships are hard to figure out. Whose friends with whom, for what purpose, and do we all really care about the mundane status updates? I know my updates are pretty darn lame. And who among you is all concerned about my boxed up house? My stressful job? My weekend plans?

I'm keeping my FB account. I have to keep an eye on Boy and Girl. Okay, I don't have to. They are both adults, but it's kinda nice to see what everyone is up to. But I'm not posting any more stupid status updates about going back to bed or cleaning my house.

I suppose I may be missing the point. Maybe this entire FB thing isn't all that bad or all that good. Maybe it's only a monster if I let it be a monster.

Thoughts?

Wait...Who Am I?

Good things happen to those who wait. On Wednesday I took FIL to the doctor who told him that he could WALK. Yes, walk. Walk here. Walk there. Walk everywhere!

Huzzah!

The birds sang! The sky opened up and the sun smiled upon us!

So, he can walk, but it's going to take time to get back on his feet, if you catch my drift.

I'm still cooking for him. Still doing his housework, his laundry, his errands. Still jumping up at a moments notice to rush up and see what he needs.

The birds aren't singing nearly as brightly as they were before.

Don't get me wrong, it's all good. There is a light. A light I say! But it still seems so far away and out of reach.

This week has been very difficult because Girl is gone too. I miss her. I miss her laughter and goofiness. I miss the piano. I miss...sigh...

All that and I miss the extra pair of hands who use to help me out. Now it's all Annie, all the time. Except when I'm at work.

I'm growing pretty bitter about the lack of help. I'm just sayin'.

The Sandwich Generation is what they call us now. You know, those of us who have young adult children and are caring for an elderly parent.

I've never really liked sandwiches. That and I'm having a bit of an identity crisis.

It all started when I didn't wear a "dress" to Girl's graduation.

Shocking I know.

But....in my defense...I'm not that person any more. Or maybe it's that I don't want to be that person. Maybe I want to be someone else.

I don't really know who...

I guess I'm up for an adventure but I don't know where to find it and I'm not that daring and Beloved is kinda tired out from his new job.

There has got to be more to life than cooking and cleaning and working.

Suggestions?

Until then I leave you with a couple of graduation shots.

Burning Down the House

Last night I met a lady who is in the middle of some trauma. Her adult son's home burnt down a couple of weeks ago. They are all devastated, and rightly so.

I pictured the harrowing scene of her son, lifting his three-year-old daughter out of bed and running for the door. A bathrobe hastily thrown on, bare feet, a blanket wrapped around the baby, and eyes watching from a safe distance as their lives went up in smoke and flame. It makes me shiver.

I remember the scene of another house fire from years ago. I recall seeing fire trucks and police cars lining the road, the nosy neighbors, blackened siding, shattered glass, and the realization that nothing would ever be the same again. I found my mother, always a rock during any emergency, sitting in her Firebird which was parked away from the crowd. I burst into tears as I climbed into the passenger seat and asked aloud where my brothers were.

Fire is a destroyer and its cousins, smoke and water; ravage anything that the flames leave undigested.

I’ve been a bit odd about “stuff” ever since.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my material possessions, but it’s just stuff. This is why I use my good china every time I can, why I don’t truly own anything of real value, and why I am baffled at other peoples obsession with bits and pieces.

Yet I look around this house and see SO MUCH STUFF! Why do we have so much stuff! It boggles the mind. It truly does.

A house fire is a terrible, devastating thing. It changes you. I am more afraid of fire than perhaps anything else. The smell of burnt, wet, timber dredges up old fears and memories I’d rather forget. Yet, having lost so much I have come to value the things that truly matter more.

Relationships
Laughter
Friendships
Time well spent

Everyone gets caught up in materialism. It’s simply a part of the American dream, but you can’t take it with you.

And really, in the end, it’s all just gonna burn anyway.

Details!

Believe it or not I've been rather silent about some medical issues that are taking place in my home. I know you are shocked, because let's face it, if it happens in my home, it's on this blog.

(my children sadly shake their heads)

I've already run the gambit when it comes to nearly losing a loved one. It wasn't much fun and I assure you I'd rather cut off my right arm than do it again.

Get the saw ready...

The problem this time is that I cannot simply drop everything and run to every doctor's appointment. In fact, I've already missed more than I care to mention. I hate that.

I need details people!

I've shared that I'm a worrier. You know, the whole mountains out of mole hills thing. I'm good at it, you know? But how can I truly work up a good worry, when I'm getting all my information second hand?

Ugggh!

It's driving me nuts! Tomorrow, while I'm at work, I'll miss yet another appointment. And let me just say that I didn't find out about this appointment until 5:20 this evening.

Someone needs to be smacked...


I need all the gory details. I need to know exactly what I'm dealing with. I need to know if I need to really worry or not.

How much babying do I need to do?

Does this require any nagging?

What about compassion? Will I need extra?

Will there be a hospital stay?

How much are these meds going to cost and will it take care of the problem?

How much weight will I gain because I'm pretending not to worry?

Drat!

Someone told me that if a couple makes it through their forties without one of them biting the bullet, than they have a pretty good chance at retirement.

Gee, thanks for that.

And one more thing. The last time we had a major medical issue it was right after my Beloved decided we needed to look into life insurance.

Guess who had an appointment at our house on Sunday...

I think insurance agents should be shot on sight.

So, I'm a little anxious. A little stressed. I can't really worry because, well, I don't have enough DETAILS to worry.

Guess I'll just keep on keepin' on until something interesting happens.

Always Make Friends with the Dog

I may have mentioned that I am a people person. It’s true, I really am. I’m a friendly girl and I’ll be happy to sit and make conversation with just about anyone. I hold to the adage that if you ask people about themselves, they’ll talk and there will be very few of those awkward silences. I’m good in a crowd because I can usually spot the wall flower and sprinkle her with drops of friendliness until she blossoms and opens up with a beautiful smile.

Unless it’s a women’s church event…but this post isn’t about that.

No, this post is about the supposed BBQ that Beloved dragged me kicking and screaming invited me to. It was hosted by one of his co-workers to celebrate co-workers new abode. All the guys were going to be there plus all the guy’s honeys. I think the main reason yours truly was invited is because not one of them has met me.

In the three years that my beloved has been employed in this position, not one of those young men (and yes, they are young men) have laid eyes on Beloved’s little wifey. Sure, they’d heard tales of my existence and they had seen some proof (who, but a loving wife would slice up fresh veggies for her man at 5:30 in the morning and loving pack them in his lunch with a piece of fresh fruit, sliced cheese and the perfect balance of carbs vs. protein?), but nary a one had seen the whites o’ me eyes.

Until today…

I admit to being a little nervous, after all I think I’m old enough to be at least one of their mothers and it’s been a long time since I’ve walked stone cold into a situation where I didn’t know a soul. I straightened my hair, painted my toe nails, and held Beloved’s hand as we entered the front door. We were greeted by Shiloh, the little hound dog. She was to become my very best friend before that long afternoon was over.

Advice: Always make friends with the dog

The drinking had already started (holy cow, its 1:30 folks!) and the few women folk were busy in the kitchen. The woman not in the kitchen was busy chasing her two children about and I never did really catch her name. I do know that she’s shacked up with the little guy who was sitting across the patio table from me. Tattoo guy was really nice, as was the tall man. The guy who looked as if he was my son’s best friend did his best to engage me in conversation. I think he felt sorry for me.

It seemed like every time we entered a room, it emptied. I looked at Beloved and asked, “Is it me?” and offered to leave and come pick him up later. He said it wasn’t but I did a quick body odor check anyway. The entire afternoon preceded in much the same fashion. I spent a lot of it texting the Singer and talking to Shiloh the wonder hound, because I didn’t know what else to do.

Advice: Just keep smiling

The last time I felt like this I was trapped at a women’s retreat and seriously thinking about hitch-hiking home…

We left before the actual BBQ started. Thankfully Sadly, we had to drive Boy back to camp today, thus our early departure. During the drive home, Beloved and I discussed the afternoon and we both wondered why it was sooooo weird.

Maybe they felt funny having Ma and Pa Kettle around as chaperones? All I know is that next time; I’m going to take the first beer (I despise beer) that’s offered me and not stop until we leave.

The Truth Is...

1. The truth is I think my brother, The Golden Child, is an idiot about 89.9% of the time. I love him but come on!

2. The truth is I drink non-fat milk in my coffee and tell people it's pretty good. That is a lie. I know that's a lie because I mistakenly ended up with a coffee with REAL milk in and let me tell you, it's good. It's so much better than that fakey non-fat milk. However, I will continue to use non-fat milk. Sigh.

3. The truth is I'm cold most of the time. Which is part of the reason I will never get a tat. Where would I put it? No one will ever see it and would thus render it pointless.

4. The truth is I really want to be a rebel and shock people. However, I lack the confidence to actually do it. My children would have to deal with the fall out and since they still hang out with me from time to time, I better play it cool.

5. The truth is I like motorcycles.

6. The truth is, hold on to your hat Virginia, I like some music by Ozzy, Van Halen, CCR, and Jack Johnson.

7. The truth is I'm a book snob and few modern books impress me. Inkheart, by Cornelia Funke, impresses me. A children's book no less! I'm captured by the weave of the story, the language, and the mystery. Well done Cornelia, well done!

8. The truth is I say too much. I should never leave the house without duct tape.

9. The truth is I don't miss my mother. Not. One. Bit.

10. The truth is I hate vintage stereo equipment (and the vinyl that goes with it) and yet my house if chock full of it.

Now it's your turn.

Tell me the truth (I promise I'll still love you).

Don't Go There

There are many conversations I can laugh off or ignore. When politics are referenced I can usually smile and move on. I know when a can is too big to open. The voice in my head may scream a little over some not so polite words that fall from other people’s mouths, but I’ve learned to let them go. After all, how many people have you really won over with your opinion or facts? None, I know. I’m in the same boat. So, I let it go. I move on.

Unless…

It began during a quiet time when it was just she and I. We’ve known each other for awhile and have worked on some of the same projects. I wouldn’t say I know her well, but she did invite me to join her churches sports team (I turned her down explaining that I’m not a “group sports” kinda girl). The times that we’ve been together have been pretty good and I felt pretty comfortable with her.

Until…

She shared with me that she’s also a published author. Small world, so am I. She shared one of her clips with me (it was good). The conversation continued; laughter here, commiserating there and then it happened. She said, “I usually don’t write stuff like this. I prefer to write about Bush and his crime family or about the Palestinian holocaust”.

Pause…

Inhale…

Exhale…

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6…

האם אתה טמבל? (Are you an idiot?)

The silence settled between us as I looked into her eyes. My face hardened and I pressed my lips together. A sudden understanding flashed across her features as she nervously chuckled.

“Guess that’s not really your style, huh?” she chuckled

I continued counting in my head. Words that shouldn’t be uttered screamed aloud in my brain and I blinked.

“Would you like me to speak to you in Hebrew?” I asked quietly.

It was her turn to blink.

“No,” she answered.

“Do you really want to go here,” I asked, my eyes staring into hers.

My hand cramped and I realized that I had made a fist. I did not look away as I waited for her response. She didn’t know me well enough to know about Chabad. She doesn’t know about Dov Bar or Rabbi C. We haven’t known each other well enough for her to know about Wen.

“Uh… No, I don’t want to go there,” she said as she looked away.

We finished the project in silence; my heart beating in my ears. I left without saying goodbye. The rage I feel over the so called Palestinian Holocaust is immense. The words alone are an oxymoron and I find it hard to believe that thinking people honestly buy into that tripe.

She didn’t know .

This is my blog and my opinion. All I ask is that you keep your anti-Semitic opinions to yourself.

Don’t go there with me.

Socks, Rocks, and Goodies Galore!

As promised, here is a pic of the pair of socks that will be given away on Friday, December 12th. Remember to comment on my blog this week to be entered into the drawing. I know it's just socks, but come on, everyone needs socks and who doesn't love Christmas socks? I'll have you know these were picked out by Girl who liked these ones better than the black, red, and white stockings that were designed to look like a red brick chimney with snow topping it.

Now, about those rocks...

Sometimes I just feel like pelting people with rocks. A conversation took place this weekend that left me worried and sad. I want to fix the problem, but I can't. It's one of life's little lessons that must be learned, but I want to fix it anyway. I would even stoop so low as to put a band aid on it and pretend like it didn't happen. Pathetic, I know.

Or, maybe it is because I consumed too much junk food this weekend. Egad! Whenever Soldier Mommy and the boys are here, they always bring junk food. Lots and lots of junk and I happily eat it because my mind is on auto pilot and don't even think before I take.

Okay, not true. I do think. I think things like, "Oh! Is that chocolate cake? Did you buy it for me?" and "I bet that would taste great with a cup of tea?". I've even been known to say things like, "I know I shouldn't..."

Take Saturday for instance; it was a work day for me and instead of grabbing my usual protein drink, I grabbed a cinnamon roll. Beloved looked at me and said between bites, "Tastes better than a protein shake huh?"

Yes, yes it did.

But now I have to detox all the sugar out of my body. I was hoping to lose some more weight (still hanging at a loss of 25lbs) before Christmas. This may have been a bad idea. It is, after all, Christmas, and while I can pass on the mashed potatoes and gravy, rolls with butter, and stuffing, sweets are truly hard to pass up.

Maybe I should go find a big rock and bash myself in the head. I understand when you're in a coma they feed you a liquid diet. That should help take the pounds off!

Idiot Girl Rides Again

I am amazed at my own stupidity. Really. Sometimes I can’t even believe I managed to get myself dressed in the morning.

I made a mistake or I misunderstood something pretty major. It doesn’t affect anyone else, but I feel like the village idiot. How I could have been soooooo wrong is beyond me. I’ve thought it over (and over and over) and the best thing I can come up with is that I read what I wanted to read.

Plain and simple.

Well, except I showed the evidence to two other people, Beloved being one of them. When I confessed to him that I’d made a mistake, he was confused too. The problem is I can’t find the proof. The email has disappeared into cyberspace so I’m left with a vague recollection of facts and zero grounds to base them on.

”Why don’t you contact that folks who sent the original email?”

I know you’re thinking that. I know it. But somehow I think you’ve missed my point. If I contact these fine folks, these same folks who just might want me to do a little free-lance work for them, they’ll know. They’ll shake their heads in that sad, empathic sort of way and say, “Oh…We had no idea you were the village idiot…”

So, I sit here in my idiocy, wondering. It isn’t as if I’ve never been here before. I mean, who can forget when I was in full idiot girl mode and couldn’t figure out how to blow up my exercise ball? Remember the time I walked 2 miles in the rain just for the exercise? And let’s not forget the idiot girl mouth running amok by saying things like, “Nose tampon” and “Geez someone smells like pot”.

I’m on familiar ground only this time I’m disappointed and an idiot.

Hand Me My Cane, Will Ya?

The weekend came and went. The downside of Saturday was that I got really sad about something and I’m still having trouble shaking it. I know it’s not a BIG deal, but it feels big.

Yesterday was doctor day, finally! So, for all of you who have been waiting breathlessly for news of the ol’ hip we, not-so-happily, announce the arrival of Bursitis. For all those young uns out there Bursitis by definition means: inflammation of a fluid-filled sac bursa of the body, particularly at the elbow, knee, or shoulder joint. Lucky me, I’ve got it in my left hip joint.

So, while I’m not doing any damage by walking two miles, it’s not getting any better. The hip is a very difficult spot to stretch. High ho, high ho off to physical therapy I go.

The workout at Curves is actually pretty good. I didn’t know what to expect but I have found that if you do it the way you are supposed that you get a lot of bang for your buck.

Speaking of Curves, the homework is going to kill me. This week alone I have to memorize the machines names, which muscles they work, and where those muscles are located. I have pages and pages to read, a video to watch, and work pages to complete.

You know I hated PE in high school and I was never all that crazy about homework. Add into the mix that I’m trying to plan a huge event for 200 people, write for the other site, and I have company in the form of Master W. There’s a lot going on. If I can pull all this off, well, I may indeed be Wonder Woman!

I leave you with some pics of Soldier Girl and her boys. The coming year is going to bring some big changes to all our lives. I hope we’re all up to the challenge!

Frankly Scarlett...

I just finished reading Mrs. Perfect by Jane Porter. It’s the sequel to her book, Odd Mom Out. I love Jane Porter’s writing. I love how she captures a woman’s insecurities and desires. Reading her work causes me to think about my life and why I do what I do. I’m not alone. I’ve noted this same reaction in my friends too.

A couple days ago I posted about a comment that was made to me at the BBQ. I shared how I couldn’t shake the words out of my head; that they felt like a festering wound. I shared what was said with two friends, just to get their reaction, because that’s what I do. I wanted to see if the air rushing from my lungs would be their reaction. And. It. Was.

They both gasped, just like I did.

But now, after I finished this book, I’m starting to look at it in a different light. Even though the comment was made in jest and even if the one who spouted such a hurtful sentence meant it, it can only hurt me if I let it. That’s right. I have the power to accept or deny a slam.

And so do you.

We women give too much power to other people. We allow our self worth to be molded by what others say or do. Why? Why do we do that? We allow our mothers, sisters, neighbors, bosses to set the standard for how we feel about ourselves. It boggles the mind. It really, really does.

So let me set the record straight, right here, and right now.

The only who is allowed to judge me is God. That’s it. Not my mother, not my neighbor, not my friends, not my enemies. No one has the right to steal another persons worth. From here on out I am really going to try to not let the ideals or thoughts of others steal my fire. Not another single soul.

The only way to make it stop is to stop listening to the smack. Put your fingers in your ears and sing, but don’t listen. Ignore the jive, the dig, and the half sugar coated remark. Just let it go.

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent - Eleanor Roosevelt

The Monday Skinny

The Dude and brood will be here in a few hours. Miss C abandoned me to work at camp, attend play practice, hang with her buddy, and go to Bible study. I dropped her off at 7:30 this morning and won’t see her until after 9:00 tonight. Who told her she could have a life?

Master W. spread his cuteness all around, impressing and amazing a vast collection of admirers. He’s a doll, cute as a button and stubborn as a mule. Soldier Girl did what soldiers girls do. That and she was first to respond to a nasty car accident on her way home. We also learned that she may be deployed to parts hot and sandy earlier than we had anticipated. Hmm...

I also learned that I am old and falling apart. It was bound to happen, I know, I know (sadly shaking head) but I wasn’t ready. I’m NOT ready!

It’s my hip. It hates me. It hates jogging. It hates runners stretches. It’s not very fond of Pilates. Anyone have a walker they can loan me? I only want it if it has one of these:



I’ve been putting off going to the doctor. I had a goal I wanted to meet first, but now, sigh, I have to go. Will you visit me when I have hip replacement surgery?