What's In a Name?

"Names have power."  
Rick Riordan, The Lightning Thief

The future Mrs. Patterson

In less than a week, I will say vows binding me to The Fiancé as his wife.  I was so surprised when he asked me to marry him that I asked, aghast and surprised, "What are you DOING?" I gasped, even as he was down on bended knee with a beautiful ring held up.  We have had a long road, the two of us.  He's seen me at my very, very worst and still apparently thinks he should spend his life with me so I guess we're all good on that score.

When we are married next Saturday, I will take his name as my own.  I am thrilled to become Kelly Patterson but I'm finding myself practicing saying it:  "Kelly PATTERSON.  Kelly PAT-ter-son. Kelly Patterson."  It's kind of a nice Scotch-Irish name and I'm completely honored to take it on as my own.

It's a strange thing to change one's name at mid-life.  I've had a few names in my life.  My birth certificate had one.  Then it changed to another in childhood.  Then, I married The Ex-Husband and I took his name in my early twenties.  I kept it when we divorced because, well, I'd gotten accustomed to it and because I liked sharing a name with Things 1 and 2.  And I've built a career on the name Kelly Tilyard.   And if you Google it, well, I'm  the only one that shows up.  Not so with Kelly Patterson.  Will I get lost in the sea of Kelly Pattersons that have had the name so much longer than I?  Will I be compared?  Are THOSE Kelly Pattersons SO MUCH COOLER than me? 

It wasn't incredibly difficult to become Kelly Tilyard.  I didn't have many things to change.  My social security number and my driver's license were the biggies.  Now, I find that I am overwhelmed with the VAST list of things I will have to convert to my new name.  I imagine I'll get around to all of it within the next, say, five years.  I'm really on top of things like that.  (No, no I'm not.)

I never liked being called Mrs. Tilyard back in the day, but I find that I am looking forward to being called Mrs. Patterson.  As a young woman, I was highly irritated that someone would identify me only as my husband's wife.  "I have my OWN IDENTITY," I scoffed.  I didn't like to open mail addressed formally to Mr. and Mrs. Tilyard.  It didn't help that, as a newly married couple, I was a Navy Wife.  You can't do ANYTHING as a military wife without your husband's permission and/or social security number.  I couldn't get a military ID without him signing for it.  It chafed and I balked.  I had my OWN life, thankyouverymuch.  I've softened in the last ten years and I think I know what it means to become a wife a bit better than I did when I was much younger. 

I am not chattel but I am a partner.  And I am honored to take on my new husband's name.

I'm looking forward to being a life partner with Mr. Patterson.  I like building dreams with him and I'm excited about the Great Adventures we're already planning.  He's the yang to my yin.  The black to my white.  The pepper to my salt.  The Mr. to my Mrs. 

And I'll begin to get used to being Kelly Patterson.  (Do you hear how that just rolls off the tongue?  Kelly Patterson.  Dreamy.)

What a Great Adventure this marriage will be all on its own.  I do.  And I will.  Always. #PathtoPatterson

The Courage to Begin Again

“And suddenly you know: It's time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”
― Meister Eckhart

If you've read this blog at all, you must know how passionate I am about the reality that we get this ONE chance.  We get this ONE life. That's all we have. 

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime

                                   -Eminem, Lose Yourself

When I got married a long time ago, I was young.  I was 24, fresh out of college and completely unprepared for any kind of real life.  I hadn't even thought at all about what I wanted from myself and my own life, let alone any idea about what a marriage was supposed to look and feel like.  My idea of marriage came from the twisted dysfunction I had seen growing up merged with the romantic comedies that I consumed ravenously, starry-eyed and rapt over the perfectly-worded confessions of the male lead's heart.

I was broken when I married so long ago.  I didn't even know how broken I was until I tried to blend my life with someone else.  I don't think that poor guy knew what he was in for.  I was a Good Time Girl.  I liked my drinks.  I liked my fun.  And I liked to run away from anything and everything that looked like it might be hard.  I steeped myself in my own pain.  And when I got sad?  I got really sad.  And I got all wrapped up in my own crap.  Then I wasn't so much fun.

The truth is this:  I was young.  I was selfish.  And I had no idea what it meant to be a partner.

Fast forward a decade plus a few years and I found myself divorced.  Still sad.  Still broken.  And I decided to go on a journey to figure out what was wrong with me.  And I did the hard work to fix it.  It sucked.  It was painful.  I was whiny and almost impossible to deal with and I made some poor decisions along the way.   Fortunately, I have some very patient friends who spent many long hours listening to me whine and cry (hey, thanks again for all that!).  I figured out how to be happy.  

I found love.  Again.  But different.  I was different.  I AM different.  A lot less young.  And a lot less selfish.  And I have a pretty good idea of what it takes to be a partner.  And I now know what I need in a partner.  It all sounds like Very Real Adult Grown-Up Stuff.

The Boyfriend became The Fiancé during our trip to Italy! 

What?

We're not perfect, This Guy and I.  We are complete opposites in almost every sense of the word right down to our Myers Briggs personality types.  I am ENFP.  He is...not.  We have to really hash some things out from time to time.  The hashing can be hard...and it can be painful.  And it makes me want to run away sometimes (old patterns die hard...really hard). But, slowly, I become less afraid of the hashing because I know, in the end, our understanding makes us stronger.  We have decided to begin again. Together.  That's a pretty scary undertaking for two scarred-up people.

It takes a lot of strength, humor and bravery to start over by blending two families into one.   But he has strong hands.  And a good heart.  And I have a big smile.  And we both have the ability to laugh at ourselves (mostly at me), a lot of faith, a ton of love, and a much better understanding of how to make this thing called marriage work.  

We'll do the work.  And we'll begin again.  Two as one.  Deep breath.

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

We Are Family: Lost and Found Sisters

“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.”

― George Bernard Shaw

I am a word person.  Always have been.   I've been in love with vocabulary for all of my conscious life.  And, for that reason, when I want to get to the heart of the matter, I always go first to the dictionary.  Merriam Webster dictionary defines family in this way:

As you can see, MOST people don't need to look this one up since its popularity is pretty darn low.  Only 1% of people who consult MW are looking for the word family.

"Family" is a deeply personal word and one that conjures up a lot of different images for people.   It can be a warm word that means love, laughter, Thanksgiving dinner, adventures and fun.  It can be a sad word conveying loss or shame.  Or, it can be painful and filled with scars, tears and silence.  It can even be hopeful, fat with the promises of marriage, babies and future domestic bliss.

For me, family is a complicated word.  My mother was never married to my biological father.  My stepfather told me when I was six that HE was not my father but didn't bother telling me who was and threatened my life if I told my mother I knew.  And I spent more than half of my life wondering about who the REST of my family was.  What was my father's name?  What did he look like?  Did he ever think about me?  Did he have a REAL family?

The truth is simple but often complicated when it comes to families.  In truth, my biological father held no legal or moral responsibility for me.  He walked away clean after signing away his parental rights at the request of my mother.  He was kind enough, along with his lovely wife, to meet me when I was 36 and came looking for him.  We have developed a nicely loose relationship over the last years and I am grateful that I now have answers that haunted me for so long.

But life is never neat and tidy.  I met B, one biological half-sister and connected immediately with her.  Nature vs. nurture was answered immediately for me when I met B.  We have so many similarities from the rhythm of our speech to the fact that we both named our youngest sons "Jackson." B had a full sister, L, who wasn't ready to meet me all those years ago.  Two other half-siblings were (and remain) lost to me.

My life, since meeting my father, has changed dramatically.  It was the impetus for change in me and in my choices.  It was almost as if I needed that missing piece to clink into place before I could get down to the business of living.  When you know where you come from, it seems to be easier to envision where you might go.

A few weeks ago,  I heard a ding announcing I had a new message.  I looked and the message was from Kelly L.  Kelly.  She told me that she was the biological daughter of JL and was looking for other siblings she might have.

Kelly L.  Kelly L.  Kelly L. 

My breath caught in my chest.  She HAD MY NAME.  I have always joked that Tilyard is the only legitimate name I've ever had.  I was Kelly S. on my birth certificate.  My mother started calling me Kelly N. after she married.  When I found out my biological father's name, I said I COULD be Kelly L.  And, finally, I took the name of my (now ex) husband, I legally became Kelly Tilyard.

But Kelly L.  Kelly L...

After I breathlessly read the message to The Boyfriend, I must have looked at him somewhat wild-eyed.  He gently said, "Well, are you going to answer?"

I did answer.  I told her that I was his biological daughter and that SHE was, indeed, my half-sister.  We connected quickly and I spoke to her the first time the next day and we pieced together the little we both knew.  I found out that she had met my biological grandmother also and had pictures of our biological father from when he was in her life as a young girl.  I won't share her story here because it isn't mine to tell, but I know that we were mutually thrilled to have found another long-lost half-sibling.

She wanted to meet.  After all, she was finding a sister whom she didn't know existed and...well, so was I.  And, after all, we share a name!  We arranged a meeting of a big group of our family,  our father, his wife and their two children...our two half-sisters.  I had already met B but was thrilled that L was ready to meet me, too.

We had a good day, the six of us plus Kelly's fiancé.  We found many, many commonalities among the four of us sisters as well as some marked differences, too.  (OK, I just don't like the VIOLENCE of football...)  But that's just the way it is with all sisters, isn't it?

We skipped all the years of petty jealousies, of fights over clothes and boys.  Of pecking order establishment.  But we also missed that bond...that "us against them" mentality.  We missed years of laughter and of tears.  We missed marriages, births, trials and triumphs.  Kelly and I both have brothers whom we are grateful for.  But neither of us has ever had a sister.

I don't know what causes a parent to walk away from a child.  I know that I have no animosity toward my biological father.  Life is complicated.  And it's messy.  I get that.  He did what he did.  And I am who I am because of...or perhaps in spite of...never knowing him growing up.  I know that I can love him for the now that we have.  And I have nothing to forgive...because he did nothing wrong by me. 

But sisters.  I have sisters.   And I have a promise for them...for B...and for L...and for K.  I will always love you.  My door is always open to you. I don't always say the right thing.  I am selfish and opinionated and often wrong...about everything.  I am not great about keeping in touch and birthday cards sometimes remain unmailed for years at a time. But, I will always be on the the other end of the phone or the road or the thought.  Sisters.  From now on.

We are family.  I've got all my sisters with me.  

Thank you, Kelly.  Thank you for being brave.  Thank you for finding me.

Author's Note:  This was a tough post to write.  It's taken me a week to sort out how I feel about meeting two new sisters last week and I feel like I have to be very careful because, again, these stories don't belong to me alone.  Like I said, it's complicated.  But I needed to write it out.  And to share it.  Because families, like life, are sometimes messy.  And it's good for all of us to understand that we are not alone in navigating the chaos.  I, personally, like to bring the chaos close to me.  When I see it up close, I can better understand it.

How do you handle your own complicated family?


If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

Age is a number with a life behind it

“It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

Today, I woke up with the realization that the woman in the mirror is 44 years old.  44.  Forty-four.  XLIV in Roman numerals.  She has been 44 for some time...but the number is clanging around in her head this morning, ricocheting off memories and dreams.

44 is old enough to know better and old enough not to care.  44 is too old to play dumb and far too experienced to waste time.  At this age, that woman I see in the mirror has finally stopped caring what people think of her but she still longs for them to like her. And she wants them to accept her exactly as she is. She has spent a lifetime pretending to be this for one and that for another and has become content...finally...with simply being herself. 

The woman in the mirror looks back at me with kind, vivid blue eyes.  I appraise her objectively and find her beautiful.  I rarely see her beauty but, instead, focus on her shortcomings.  Her short upper lip curves upward when she is at rest.  It is nothing more and nothing less than how she was made.  It's a part of her and it's only a lip.  It's nothing to hide.  It's nothing to disdain.  It's a lip.  And it belongs to her. 

I wonder why I have spent a lifetime being critical of that woman staring back at me. I realize that she has done nothing more than the best she can.  And, at some points, even her best really wasn't very good.  But every day, no matter what the day before had brought, she wakes up.  She puts one foot in front of the other.  And she keeps moving.  She goes forward...every day attempting to be a better person, a better friend, a better mother, a better employee, a better human being.  She fails.  And tries again.  And fails.  And, once more, she tries again.

She deserves my compassion.  She deserves my patience.  My forgiveness.  I must remember not to criticize her, apologize for her, belittle her or be angry with her for too long.  

She takes life to heart, this woman in the mirror.  She knows her role on the planet is small but that her behavior and her moods impact the environment in her home.  She willingly fosters a climate of acceptance, kindness and love.  She laughs a lot...sometimes too loud and too long for those around her. 

She lashes out at times...usually in fear.  Her fears are deeply personal and related to loss of self.  She fears not being heard, understood, or loved.   She is sometimes sarcastic and curt.  She is harsh and unyielding until she becomes aware of her own coldness.  And then she melts like butter in tearful apologies.

She believes that people are inherently good...even those people who do evil things.  She rails against stupidity and ignorance.  She aches for those who are hurting.  She assumes their pain and makes it her own until she can't bear it and pushes it away.

The woman in the mirror is 44.  She still has a lot left to learn.  She has places to explore, thoughts to examine, things to conquer, and tasks to master.  She is 44.  And she moves forward.

Who is in your mirror?

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

How Hope Springs Eternal in the Mind of a True Optimist

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
― Oscar Wilde

I don't write about my work in my blog.  Have you noticed?  I spew on and on about everything under the sun but I don't refer to my workplace at all.   I think it's unprofessional to write (a.k.a. "complain") about your work in a personal blog.  I am not going to write about it today (much) other than to say I am starting a NEW job on Monday...a job I am well-suited for and ridiculously excited about. 

But I have to tell you the story about how I GOT there.

I had been looking for other work for some time.  I had been interviewing here and there and came close to snagging a few positions but never quite got there.  It was befuddling to me because I have always been a person who could secure a new job in just a couple of months.  The economy has shifted, however, and I am at a different place in my career. Times are hard for a mid-level marketer.

I grew more and more frustrated in my work but just couldn't seem to move anywhere.  Finally, one day several weeks ago, I threw up my hands in disgust and said, "OK, God, obviously I am not getting anywhere on my own.  Put me where you want me. I am letting this go."  The phone rang the next day.  (I'm not kidding.)

I began interviewing in earnest.  People were e-mailing me for interviews and calling me for interviews.  I've not seen anything like it in the two years I've been dabbling with finding a new position.  It was like God was saying, "See, kid?  All you had to do was ask for help...and trust Me."

One day, I received an e-mail from someone who had an editor job open at a local magazine.  WHAT?  That was a WRITING JOB!  I had sent in my resume on the off-chance that someone might make a mistake and call me because I didn't have ANY experience for the position other than my own desire to write and my years of toiling away in the business world.  We set up a phone interview.

The interview was brief and I hung up, discouraged.  She reiterated several times that they were looking for a "seasoned editor."  Well, obviously I had zero experience so they'd have to look elsewhere for a little salt-and-pepper.

A couple of days later,  I received an e-mail inviting me in to interview with the editor-in-chief.  WHAT??  That guy is a REAL WRITER.  He's a REAL GOOD WRITER.  I read everything he'd written in the past...oh...three years and I put on a jacket and I went to talk with him.

He questioned me about my ability to be a journalist.  We talked back and forth for a while and I told him earnestly that I could DO IT.  I could be a writer.  I AM a writer.  I have the business card, for goodness sake.

I asked him to give me a chance to show him that I could write.  He let me interview him for a "real" story, coaching me a little along the way about what questions to ask.  After a bit, he told me that NOW it was time for the REAL interview.  He was SUPER NICE.  And he was a REAL WRITER.  I was in awe, honestly.

I walked into the president's office and took a seat.  The conversation as follows is not verbatim, but it's pretty darn close.

President:  "I haven't really had a chance to look over your resume, but I'm wondering how on EARTH you got through two levels of interviews to be sitting here.  You have NO EXPERIENCE."

Me:  "But I DO have experience.  I just don't have experience in this PARTICULAR area.  I am a non-traditional candidate, see?  In my heart, I am a writer."

President: "You seem like a SALESPERSON.  Why aren't you in sales? Salespeople make money.  Writers don't make money."

Me:  "I could be a salesperson.  Do you have a job in sales?"

President:  "Are you going through some sort of mid-life CRISIS?  Why are you sitting here?"

Me:  "Because I CAN WRITE.  I can do it.  I can be a GOOD writer.  In my heart, I am a writer."

President: "In your heart...if I told you that I had a job washing cars, would you want to do that, too?"

Me:  "No.  I don't want to wash cars.  But sales I could do.  Writing I could REALLY do."

It went back and forth for quite some time.  It was the toughest interview I ever sat through.  He asked me questions designed to dig out pieces of my character.  It was fascinating.  And exhilarating.  And I loved it.  I didn't know what to think about it when it was over but I loved that I was able to have the experience of interviewing for a REAL WRITING JOB. 


The next Monday, I received my first job offer from a small company looking for a marketing director.

I emailed the magazine and told them I had an offer.  I needed to know if they were at ALL interested in moving me through the next phase before I accepted any other offer.  

And I kept interviewing.

I received an email from the magazine.  I WAS STILL IN THE RUNNING.  I was scheduled for the final leg:  a writing test. (Holy crap.  Did they KNOW that I had no experience?  Yes, they told me that they KNEW I had no experience.  Why on earth was I still in the running?  I was BEYOND thrilled.)

I kept interviewing.

I went into the writing test, nervous but beyond excited.  I sat down and "interviewed" a senior editor playing a role.  I then wrote my very first article in my very first newsroom and handed it in.  I was thrilled.

I received another job offer...and, much like Godfather lore, it was something I simply couldn't refuse.  I will be able to write in my new position...not like the REAL WRITER job, but enough to make me grow.  I emailed the folks at the magazine and told them I was taking the other job.

It was a great ride.  For just a moment in time, I was there in a newsroom, tapping away on the keys like a Real Writer.  I sat there through those interviews believing enough in myself and my abilities to convince other people that MAYBE, just MAYBE, I could do something I had never done before.  It was glorious.  I will never, ever forget it. 

And along the way, I learned a valuable lesson:  sometimes it's a good thing to let go of the reins in life.  I hope it's a lesson that stays with me.

Time to get ready for my last few days of my old job. 

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

Forever Young

“I am convinced that most people do not grow up...We marry and dare to have children and call that growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulation of years in our bodies, and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are innocent and shy as magnolias.”
― Maya Angelou

This morning, I puttered around my kitchen pretending, as I often do, to be a grown-up.  I fed my animals and I started a pot of strong coffee in the coffee machine that is barely limping along due to both overuse and neglect.  As the coffee brewed, MOST of me wanted to go ahead and sit down with a book while eating cereal but, sighing inwardly and embracing my pretend maturity, I unloaded the dishwasher instead.

I LOOK like a grown-up.  Those are READERS.And wrinkles.

I often act as a grown-up would.  I go to work most days.  I do my job to the best of my ability (most days).  I even sometimes create tangible things that go into magazines or that fly through the internet into e-mail inboxes. I write words that last. I pay my bills (usually on-time and SOMETIMES even ahead of time).  I behave responsibly as a parent, monitoring my kids' activity on the internet and (yes, still) even determining what movies are appropriate for their age and maturity level.  I even, within the past year or so, have started to go to bed in time to get a solid seven or even EIGHT hours of sleep every single night. 

I certainly do SOUND like a grown-up, don't I?  But the reality is that I FIGHT maturity every step of the way.

• When it rains, I STILL want to put on red rain boots and splash through the puddles.  Sometimes I still do.
• I don't WANT to go to bed at night and get a good night's sleep (so I will be able to THINK the next day and not react emotionally when the check-out clerk at the grocery store asks me if I can take my change in ones).  What I WANT to do is stay up and look up at the stars or read my books into the wee hours of the morning.
• I forget my vitamins ALMOST every single day.
• I still get a surge of exhilaration when I get an answer right or when I win a game.  I swear here and now that if I EVER beat Thing 1 at chess I will do a happy dance IN HIS FACE (I am grown-up enough to realize that I will probably never beat him at chess even though I TAUGHT HIM THE DAMN GAME).
• I laugh like crazy over puns and corny jokes.  And I tell them over and over and over and over. I still laugh. 
• I sometimes have dessert for dinner.  And I let my kids do the same.  
• I whine when I don't get my way.  Intentionally.
• I cry a lot and over things that don't matter even a little bit.  
• Sometimes I want to run away.  Sometimes, I get a strong urge to get into my grown-up car Stella and ride with her into the night and then abandon her at some airport while I buy my one-way ticket to somewhere warm where I don't have to think so much and where I can go to bed late and wake up late and NOT have a dishwasher to unload.

I keep thinking that someone is going to "out" me and I will get my grown-up card taken away.  Perhaps if I continue to BEHAVE like a grown-up on the outside then I can still eat my dessert for dinner and go to bed whenever I want to without anyone in authority being the wiser.

Or maybe, as I continue to mature, I'll decide that it's not so bad being a kid in a grown-up body.  And I'll make a permanent hopscotch game on my driveway.  

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.
  

Living through my AT hike (part 2)

"Always pack your sense of humor!" (Appalachian Trail quotation. Anonymous.  Probably because someone knifed him.)

McAfee Knob.  We were on our way.  Full packs.  High spirits.  And hiking poles (thank goodness for hiking poles).

The trail was beautiful and, far more than other trails I've hiked, heavily traveled.  I think every student from Virginia Tech goes to McAfee Knob on the weekends.  Every. Single. One.  I was thrilled to see the iconic AT mark on the trees as we moved up.  About 1/4 mile up, we found a kiosk with a trail log next to it.  Thru-hikers will leave messages for one another in these logs or a simple "We're still on the trail" message.  We eagerly looked through it but found mostly entries from dayhikers like us. 

I was still feeling terrific.  We continued on to search for the John's Spring Shelter, which looks like this:

Photo Courtesy http://blog.twoknobbytires.com/2010/11/22/mcafee-knob/

On the AT, wooden shelters are scattered along the way to give thru-hikers and some overnight hikers a place to sleep, especially in case of bad weather.  There are always firepits and they often have picnic tables and (the real luxury) outhouses.

As we hiked, small groups of college students giggled past us, some of them hand-in-hand as they scooted along the path toward the Knob.  Apparently, watching the sunset from McAfee Knob is a dating rite of passage at Virginia Tech.  My sense of humor still intact, I joked with them as they passed and explained that Sparky is a labradoodle and Mr. McDougal is a Scottie to each cooing twentysomething.

We hiked.  And hiked some more.  Our packs were heavy but manageable and we were looking forward to spending the evening outside.

About an hour or so into the hike, we came to John's Spring Shelter where a fairly large group was setting up tents for the evening.  I stayed at the top of the trail with Sparky while my guy and Mr. McDougal ambled down to the shelter to assess if there was room.  He spoke with them for a few minutes while the women oohed and aahed over Mr. McDougal and then he came back to the top of the trail.  The next shelter was about 1.4 miles away and did have a water source so we could get some more water.

OK.  I was game.  We moved on.

The light dimmed and we moved as quickly as we could.  My knees were started to ache a bit but I was still in pretty good spirits.  We were down to a bottle and a half of water but figured we'd be OK since the spring was about an hour's hike away.

We rounded a corner and found the spring...bone dry.  No water.  We assessed the map.  No water available until PAST McAfee Knob which was still about 2 miles away.  Night was falling.  We figured we could make do with the water we had until morning but it would mean no coffee.  (WHAT?) We came to a junction a few minutes later which pointed to a shelter in one direction (which sounded pretty noisy already) and uphill to some campsites.  We chose the latter option and hiked up to the campsites which were....full. 

OK.

We had not much water.  The sky was darkening quickly.  And we were all getting pretty tired.  But, hey, what's another couple of miles?

In a gym on a treadmill, I can walk 2 miles in 30 minutes.  Out on the Trail with a full pack after having hiked four miles already (mostly uphill), 2 miles sounded like a trip to the moon.  At that point, I was moving at maybe 1.5 miles per hour when the trail flattened out.  During the steep uphills, I was lucky to get 0.5 miles per hour.   My companion was super supportive and, even though he can move about twice as fast as I can (if not faster), he paused to wait for me and to offer up a joke or two to keep my sense of humor from deflating.

We moved on.  Up, up, up.  My thighs were burning, my glutes were on fire.  We finally came to a junction of the fire road and the McAfee Knob final trail.  The sign indicated 1.3 miles to the Knob.  Which meant we were over 2 miles away from the next campsites.  We faced a decision at that point that neither of us considered:  we could take the fire road OUT of the area and just give up for the evening OR we could continue on and find the campsites and do what we came to do.

We moved on.  Up, up, up.  I found this chart to show the final ascent to the McAfee Knob.  This is what we were doing from 7:30 to about 8:30 p.m. on Saturday night:

Courtesy http://blog.twoknobbytires.com/2010/11/22/mcafee-knob/

See all that up?  That's the last 1.3 miles to McAfee Knob.  HOLY mother of pearl.

Up, up, up.  At one point, I felt like I'd been afflicted with some sort of palsy.  My legs would simply wobble when I tried to move them.  I shuffled upward, using my hiking poles to support much of my weight as I swung my legs up, up, up.  I began giggling.  "Yeah, it's a good thing we didn't stay at that campsite at Apple Orchard Falls earlier today.  That would have SUCKED to have set up camp, taken a NAP, had some wine...this is WAY more fun that THAT."  He apologized much of the way up, taking all of the blame for our predicament.  I protested that I am an adult, too, and that we made the decision together but, honestly, all of us KNOW that I'm no grown-up.  :)

My muscles no longer cooperating, I WILLED myself to keep going, marveling at the very IDEA that AT thru-hikers (the successful ones, anyway) often hike 20 miles EVERY DAY.  Those people must be made of solid steel.

We came to a crest.  A CREST.  FINALLY.  He said, "THIS IS IT.  This is McAfee Knob!"  We leashed the dogs (because it was pitch black by this time and we didn't want one of them to accidentally step over the edge into oblivion) and we saw this:

OK.  NO, this is not my pic.  But this is the view.  And it WAS a full moon.  And we DID NOT sit on the edge.  Photo courtesy jon_beard.

 I forgot about my quivering muscles.  I didn't think about my thirst.  I looked at that view and thanked God for everything I could think of but, most especially, that view in that moment and the fact that I was still alive...mostly.  It was worth it.

Our spirits rejuvenated, we still had to find a campsite.  It was late.  We were tired.  (OK, my hiking companion was tired...I was EXHAUSTED.) We started going down.  Down, down, down.  My knees were screaming with every step.  Down, down, down, down.

At one point, Mr. McDougal walked over the edge of a long downhill slope.  We coaxed and called.  He was so tired we were worried one of us was going to have to go down the steep slope to retrieve him.   We called and begged.  He moved up. Up, up, up.  My hiking companion extended a hiking pole when Mr. McDougal was almost to the top, "Just grab on, Dougal!"  That tiny trail dog propelled himself up and he finally made it back to the trail.  We gave him some of our precious water as a reward.  We still don't know HOW or why he went over that edge but we were so relieved to have our little guy back in action...and without one of us having to break our necks to retrieve him.

After about another hour of downhill in the dark, after over FOUR HOURS on the trail, he called out "This is it!  We're here!"  Water.  And a campsite.  Totally open.  With a picnic table.  I wanted to sob with relief but I was too tired.  We set up the tent quickly and then he hiked out to gather some water.  He came back with three full bottles of water.  The dogs lapped up about half a bottle quickly.  We both drank greedily. 

And then he cooked ribeyes over an open fire, steamed okra and boiled rice.  It was incredible.  Delicious.  And worthy of any four-star restaurant.

And we woke up to this:

And the campsite we set up in the dark turned out OK after all: 

And in the morning, we took the fire road out with its gentle slopes and fairly even terrain.  We hiked out in less than two hours. 

It was beautiful.  But that guy in the guide who said you could do it all in four hours?  No.  No, I don't think so.  At least not with a full pack and one knee-hobbled hiker.  And when I find the guy who wrote it I will....say not very nice things.

I am sore.  I am still bone weary.  But I'm already planning my next Great Hiking Adventure.  Who's with me?

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

  

Why, yes, I DID hike the AT

"Getting to the top of the mountain is optional. Getting down is mandatory." - Ed Viesturs (Appalachian Trail Thru-Hiker famous quotes)

On Saturday, I hit the road with a trusted companion, my two faithful canines, a pack full of equipment, food and wine, and high spirits.  We were on our way out of town for an overnight hiking adventure and I was terribly optimistic and not all concerned that I'm a slightly overweight, still somewhat out-of-shape (in spite of various halfhearted efforts), forty-something with badly arthritic knees.

I figured all of that would work out on the trail.

We headed first off to Apple Orchard Falls just north of Roanoke, VA.  Our (initial) plan was to hike the trail and camp there overnight before heading out in the morning to a day hike of the McAfee Knob, the most photographed spot on the Appalachian Trail (AT).  We ended up doing a quick-and-back 1.4 mile hike UP to the mostly overrated Apple Orchard Falls and then a brief maybe half mile down the trail to check out potential campsites.  Because we could STILL SEE our vehicle from the campsites, my companion thought maybe we should go ahead and drive to the McAfee Knob trail, hike a 1.3 mile hike to the first AT shelter and camp there.

I was totally game.  I'm always up for adventure.  And we'd done less that 2 miles (without packs) at that point so I was feelin' fresh and froggy.  And Sparky and Mr. McDougal were ready for anything we wanted to do.  They are dogs, after all, and don't have a say.

If you don't know about the AT, then you probably either a) don't live in one of the 14 states it crosses or b) don't give a flying flip about hiking.  The Appalachian Trail is kind of a not-to-be-realized dream of mine (see first paragraph of this blog for the reasons why).  I have read books about it and follow the tails of thru-hikers with absolute fascination.  To lose oneself somewhere on the AT only to find an improved version of you at the end is probably only one of the myriad of reasons people attempt the journey each year. I SO WANT to be one of those people.

The total length of the trail is approximately 2,200 miles.  The majority of the trail is wilderness and begins in Spring Mountain, Georgia and meanders through North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont and ends at Mt. Katahdin in Maine.  The trail is marked along the way with white marks on trees like this:

Storied heroes attempt to hike the entire length of the trail in one season.   They are known as thru-hikers.  Thru-hikers typically spend about five to seven months hiking the trail in its entirety, often risking life and limb to do so. 

I am ALL ABOUT IT.

So, we landed at the parking area for McAfee Knob parking lot at around 3:30 p.m. on Saturday.  I was SUPER excited because I've never hiked even a small piece of the AT and I was eager to say "Yes, I DID hike the AT" just like I can tell people in TRUTH that I "went to Harvard" because I did, in fact, walk on that campus one day.

Let me set the scene a little bit more:

• We had already hiked a little more than 2 miles that day, with no packs but with dogs.
• My pack weighs approximately 35-40 pounds with all gear, food, and wine needed.  My guy's pack weighed probably 10 pounds more than mine because he is, first and foremost, a true Southern gentleman and carries ALL of the heavy stuff like the tent and all the cooking equipment.
• We had two and half bottles of water with a water filter ready to filter more water at our campsite.  Our bottles were each 32 ounces.  So we had about 70 ounces of water for the two of us and the two dogs to make it the 1.3 miles to the first AT shelter (because you can ONLY camp at designated campsites on the AT). 
• We needed to hike 1.3 miles to the first shelter.  If that didn't work out, there was another shelter another 1.4 miles away.  So, at WORST, we were looking at 2.7 miles with full packs.  Uphill.
• We had about four hours of daylight to go.  Our guidebook told us that the ENTIRE hike to McAfee Knob was approximately four miles and estimated that you can hike to the Knob and BACK in four hours.  For a bit of foreshadowing here, I am going to FIND the author of that guidebook.  I will find him.  

And tomorrow, I will tell you why. For now, I've got to rest.  Damn.

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

Hello World

“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”
― John Steinbeck

I woke up this morning at 2:48 a.m.  It felt like one of those nights where I wouldn't be returning easily to the Land of Nod, so I came downstairs and let the dogs out.  I opened my back door and saw this floating over the trees:

OK, I am NOT a photographer.  And this is from my iPhone...but you get the gist, right?  It's a full moon.

When I saw it....that bright light reflected off that big cold spinning rock in the sky...my breath caught and I exclaimed (into the dark, to no one at all except maybe Sparky and Mr. McDougal), "Oh!"

And life, for me, began again.

I've been absent for the last half of a month from my own little Blog World because I've been...sad.

There are a myriad of reasons for my sadness and I won't go into them here and now because, quite frankly, I've already WRITTEN about them...I'm just not going to share them.  I WILL say that I have really struggled with the idea that people, as a group and sometimes individually, are often just...CRAPPY.  And I won't claim that I'm "depressed" because I KNOW people who have been/are clinically depressed and they really have a hard time getting out of bed.  I respect them too much to equate my little pity party with their true suffering.  So I won't over-dramatize it (I KNOW...so unlike me) but I will say that life has been bringing me down.  And I've been a Debbie Downer.  I've been a bitter old lady.

When I'm sad, I become introverted.  I retreat far into myself...only truly communicating with a few select people and pretty much ignoring everyone else because I simply cannot give time to anyone else while I'm muddling through my sadness.  It's like having the flu...I don't want to INFECT anyone else by spreading my sad mucky-muck germs.

Until I saw that moon this morning.

And, like an engine that's been sitting too long with bad gas, I felt a little hiccup and a sputter and then I felt the smile come back into my heart.  That, my friends, is a very good feeling.

I'm going back to the land this weekend.  Back to the earth.  I'm putting on my backpack and hitting the trail for some hardcore primitive camping (I mean, OK, I will include wine but it will be in a box and, therefore, primitive).  That will only make my smile broader...to breathe in mountain air in the fall and to sleep on the earth for a night or so with someone I love.  And piece by piece, things will fall back into place and I'll forget about how crappy people are and my rose-colored glasses will once again rest firmly on the bridge of my nose. 

But for now, I'm going to sit here and write a little more and drink my coffee.  And ponder what the chances are of me getting back to sleep tonight.

Welcome back, me.  :)


If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

Getting Old Sucks

“Women may be the one group that grows more radical with age.”
― Gloria Steinem 

 There was a time when I could have intravenously injected straight caffeine into my bloodstream and I STILL would have been able to get a good 10 hours of uninterrupted, dream-infused sleep.  Today, I believe I had a SIP of coffee at about 4pm yesterday afternoon and I've been wide awake since 3am.

42.  Magic for Jackie Robinson.  Me? Not so much.

My "girl doctor" (which is just a polite way of saying "gynecologist"...I can't call her my OB/GYN because the OB part of me doesn't even exist in dreams anymore) told me on my last visit a couple of years ago that I just can't take the caffeine anymore with my aging system.

My aging system.  My aging system.  (It echoes, doesn't it?)

I don't like to think of myself as getting old.  In my HEAD, I'm easily 12.  My favorite ALL-TIME joke (if I used names in this blog, I would totally give a shout out to DT who provides a public service every June with her own personal Corny Joke Month) is:

Q.  What does a nosy pepper do?
A.  (PLEASE include finger wagging and head shaking)  It gets JALAPEÑO business! 

Is it really appropriate for women over the age of 40 to guffaw hysterically EVERY TIME they hear a joke they've told for about two years?  No.  No, it isn't.  But I do it.

I realized not long ago while purchasing adult beverages at my handy local liquor store that I am EXACTLY TWICE the legal drinking age.  I have lived two lifetimes of legal drinking.  Somehow, I did not celebrate 42 with nearly the same enthusiasm as I put into 21.  If I'd THOUGHT about it earlier, I would have thrown an amazing party for 42.  "Woo hoo!  I'm legal TWICE OVER!"
 
No, I don't FEEL 42 in my head.  My body, however, begs to differ.

• When I roll out of bed in the morning, it's now less of an actual roll and more of a grunt, groan, shove.  NOTHING I do is graceful.  In my defense, I have never been graceful but I had hoped that maybe grace would come to me on the back nine.  So far, it's eluded me.
• I actually wince when I step onto the floor in the morning.  This morning my right foot had this weird shooting pain right in the arch.  Every morning it feels like my feet are actually NEW...as if they've been screwed on by some twisted cobbler who visits in the night like an old person's Tooth Fairy.
• My breasts actually point down.  Sure, they sustained not one but TWO human lives and their usefulness has passed but STILL...I am somewhat concerned that those jokes of tying them together and tripping over them and tucking them into the waistband of my pants may actually come true.  
•  I am seriously concerned that I will suffer from female pattern baldness.  My hair is SUPER thin.  And it comes out in clumps.  I'm going to have to look into that comb-over thing, I just KNOW IT.  
• My knees creak and moan with every step now because the cartilage I DID have there apparently packed its bags and left for warmer climates.  I have seriously considered shooting Jell-O straight into my knee joints because I just feel like Jell-O has the consistency I need.  And there would be a pleasant fruity odor wafting up every time I moved.
• My eyes (which underwent some very expensive Lasik surgery years ago) can no longer read the newspaper without the assistance of reading glasses.  Fortunately, they make reading glasses in fun colors so I'm not totally upset about that.
• I have some SERIOUSLY WEIRD stuff cropping up on my skin.  Have you ever looked at baby skin?  It's so beautifully SMOOTH and NEW.  My skin gets these strange bumps and lumps and dry patches.  It's all different colors now.  I now resemble some kind of an odd skin quilt that some blind person patched together.
• My friends and I now discuss our various maladies on the phone. Classic.  Where is my rocking chair and WHAT DID I DO with those knitting needles?

I realize that (God willing) I have a long way to go on the Back Nine.  But I truly do not want to grind to a slow halt.  I would much prefer to go with all my bodily functions in (mostly) working order.  I keep promising myself that I will eat healthier (I do, for a week or two) and work out consistently (I do, for a week or two) to build strong muscles that will carry me through the next twenty, thirty years (God willing).

But, for now, I'm going to drink my coffee, turn on the morning news,  and yell at the weather man.  I'll save the twerking for another day. 

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

Facing the Current Me During Reunion Time

“Oh, how I regret not having worn a bikini for the entire year I was twenty-six. If anyone young is reading this, go, right this minute, put on a bikini, and don't take it off until you're thirty-four.”
                                                ― Nora Ephron

Next Saturday, I will be attending my 24th high school reunion along with the class of 1988 (their 25th).  I have spent the morning uploading high school pictures from various alumni to Flickr for use in the video to flash on the screen throughout the evening.  And I have been focusing on how small my waist was.  How thin my arms were.  Other than the big GIANT 80's hair and the bushy caterpillar eyebrows...I was SMOKIN' HOT.

Circa 1988 vs. Circa 2012.  Sigh.  The old me.  And the new.

Well, my BODY was smokin' hot.  And I certainly do wish I had flaunted it more.  And I know that so many of us look back and wish for the return of those carefree kids in those photos with the thin physiques and the wide-open futures.  But as I look back at these photos LONGING for the return of that effortlessly skinny girl (I ate COOKIES for lunch, for goodness sake..which may be how I came to be so much...thicker), I realized something:  that girl no longer exists.  Sure, I've added (a lot) of pounds since those days.  But that's not the ONLY thing that's different.

I am (almost) a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PERSON.

• I am more confident.  That girl was a mouse.  She thought she was ugly, too skinny, not smart enough, never funny.  
• I am wiser.  That girl made poor decisions...ALL THE TIME.  She leaped without looking (OK, I still do that a lot) and she sacrificed herself continually.
• I am less alone.  That girl walled people off.  She kept them at arm's length for fear of being hurt even more than she already had been.
• I speak my mind.  That girl was argumentative, sure.  But she didn't speak the truth.  She debated but she did not share.
• I am more aware.  That girl had blinders on about most things. She had a streak of idealism but she never really paid attention.
• I seek a higher power.  That girl was convinced that God did not exist.  She knew better.

I know people often don't attend reunions because they fear people will look at them and wonder what happened.  They might have bigger, softer bodies.  They may not have the career they thought they should have.  They may be markedly different from those days in high school.

But isn't that the POINT of growth?  

I don't WANT to remain stagnant.  Sure, I'd like to make healthier choices to get back to my thinner self but, you know what?  I am not defined by how I LOOK.

I. Am. Not. Defined.  By. How. I. Look.

None of us are.  We TRY to define people in any way we can.  We label:  fat, skinny, white, black, Asian, gay, straight, blue-collar, white-collar, short, tall, athletic, dumpy, disabled, and on, and on, and on...

When will we be judged by the content of our character?  Martin Luther King's speech echoed once again in every house in our country with a television just a few weeks ago.  When will we start living his dream?  I am going to my reunion next week.  I am proud of who I have become (even though, MAN, I still have a long way to go...) and I look forward to the event.  I don't look the same.  I don't act the same.  I am not the same.  And I hope that I never, ever STAY the same.

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.




 

We Should All Make Bucket Lists. Today.

“The only wishes that will ever change you are the kind that may, at any moment, eat you whole.”
                                                ― Janette Rallison

I woke with a start this morning at 3:18 a.m. trying to make sense of whatever garbled dream I had been having.  It isn't unusual for me to be wide awake in the pre-dawn hours but this morning's early rousing was accompanied by a slight panic state:

I still have SO MUCH LEFT TO DO.

People who are close to me know that I have no true fear of death.  It's why I can jump out of a plane without a second thought or walk alone in dark cities at 2 a.m.  It's why I'm OK with leaving doors unlocked (Attention potential burglars:  I no longer DO THIS.  Thing 1 gets annoyed when I don't lock the doors).  It's how I can make middle-of-the-night trips to that sketchy WalMart when I can't sleep.  It's not even that I'm not scared, though;  I relish the thought of dying.  I LOOK FORWARD to it because I think THEN...FINALLY...I will have all the answers.  I am NOTHING if not a Little-Miss-Wanna-Know-It-All.  The advent of the Google age has given me tremendous abilities to find answers to all of life's questions.

BUT...I'm not ready yet, according to this morning's brief panic attack. I still have a LOT left to do!  I'm not talking about places I need to go...those may number in the thousands; my travel bucket list is only limited by the fact that the world itself isn't infinite.  I'm talking about the STUFF I need to do.

Now, I HAVE been skydiving (once...and I WILL be going again...soon!), Rocky Mountain climbing (yes, I've been to the peak of Colorado's highest mountain) and I certainly went more than 2.7 seconds on that mechanical bull at Arizona Pete's.  But I have SO MUCH MORE to go! 

1. Go on a cattle drive.  (What a fun thing to start the list with! I mean a REAL one...camping out under the stars on a roll of blankets and eating beans out of a tin can warmed on an open fire.)
2. Speak at a commencement ceremony.  Even if it's only at the local old folks home for those people who graduated from basket weaving class.
3. Speak more than just English.  My limited "necessito dos cervezas, por favor" doesn't count.
4. Learn to fly fish.  In Alaska.  While high. (On LIFE.  Sheesh.)
5. Take my kids on a cross-country adventure.  We've done the Northeast.  I need to be hardcore and take them all the way to the west coast.  In a car.
6. Get my pilot's license. Tell everyone I have it.  Everyone.  Arby's drive-thru:  "Will that be all today?"  "Yeah, hey...did you know I have my PILOT'S LICENSE?"
7. Talk to my kids about sex.  Again.  Ad nauseum.  Not because I haven't done it before but because they HATE IT SO MUCH it warrants doing over and over.
8. Watch the stars out of one of those REALLY BIG telescopes.  Like the professional kind.
9. Train to be an astronaut.
10. Talk about running for president.  Develop a following.  Drop out before they discover that I wear ladies underwear.  (Oh, wait...that's OK, isn't it?)
11. Live in a house that stays clean for longer than two days.  Once.
12. Plan my funeral.  Include a disco ball and a recording of Whitney Houston singing "I Will Always Love You."  Ensure that fresh popcorn will be served...by clowns.
13. Hire a marching band to make some grand announcement.  (My life has never included an actual grand announcement.  Maybe I should make that next...)
14. Figure out something grand to announce.
15. Sleep the entire night for more than three days in a row.
16. Get married in Vegas.  When I'm 70. 
17. Tell CEO of Starbucks he has changed my life.  For good.  
18. Take over loudspeaker at big box retailer.  Sing "Sweet Caroline."  Ask everyone to sing along.
19. Get healthy.  Make it stick for more than a week. 
20. Become a person who says, "I think I'd like that" instead of "OMG, that is the BEST IDEA EVER!" when someone asks if I'd like butter/sugar/to go to a movie.  I think the former type of person must be more stable in general.  Not that I would know.

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

Move Over, Miley: Why I Can Never Be a Role Model

“If your kid needs a role model and you ain't it, you're both f****d.”
― George Carlin

Immediately after lunch on Friday, I did this:

In a fit of conscience immediately after popping that delectable sugary caramel-y goodness into my mouth, I pieced together the shreds of hastily torn wrapper and found that the tasty treat has 200 calories (OK, I've seen WORSE) but 29 GRAMS OF SUGAR!!!  Holy mother of pearl.  That is REALLY a lot of sugar packed into one delicious treat.  I begrudgingly wrapped it back up and stuck it into a desk drawer for the ants to find later.  Let them die of a sugar coma.

I would be horrified if my children ever put a 29-grams-of-sugar treat into their mouths.  I can put this sugar-laden grenade into my system without a second thought (until, granted, I read the nutrition information..."nutrition" being a VERY loose term for this item).  I KNOW that children emulate what their parents do...but, MAN, I sometimes suck as a role model.  Sometimes, I need to go sit in a corner and think about what I've done.

• Driving.  Sometimes, I have to admit, I drive too fast.  And I have texted while driving (although not when my kids are in the car...they TAKE my PHONE away if I try!).  I practice rolling stops at certain intersections.  Very often, I am rifling through my purse for that tube of lipstick or a pen or that coupon I tucked away while I'm hurtling down the highway.  I do all of this because I believe myself to be a FABULOUS and terribly competent driver.  I'm sure that will be etched on my gravestone someday. "Here lies Kelly T.  She was a fabulous and terribly competent driver.  Until she crashed."  
• Emotions.  I cry at the drop of a hat.  I do.  I admit it.  I get teary over EVERYTHING.  Sad, happy, you name it.  On the other end of the spectrum, sometimes, my anger flashes up quickly and I snap at people.  I also have days where I just can't seem to get out of my pajamas.  Instead of being rational and reasonable, I FEEL my way through life.  I do recognize myself in most of the Lifetime: Television for Women movies.  
• Procrastination.  There is nothing I can't put off.  I TELL myself that I operate best under a tight deadline, but really I am just delaying the work stuff so I can do the fun stuff FIRST.  Sometimes, I also eat dessert before dinner...because I could DIE before dessert if dinner always comes first.  I almost NEVER choose work before fun.  It's why I can often be found cleaning my house at midnight because all the fun people have gone to bed.
• Denial.  Pffft.  OK.  SOMETIMES I pretend to myself that everything is OK.  SOMETIMES I am very Scarlett O'Hara-ish in my approach to life:  "I'll think about it tomorrow."  Today, everything is sunny if I simply don't focus on those cobwebs in the corner then I can look at the SUNSHINE STREAMING THROUGH THE WINDOWS.  For a moment...for TODAY...the cobwebs don't exist. This is not exactly healthy.  I'm just sayin'.
• Addictions.  So, I don't really know if "having an addictive personality" is a really REAL thing defined by psychologists or if it's JUST another excuse we addictive-type people have to avoid taking responsibility for our actions.  I WILL tell you this:   I avoid drugs like the PLAGUE because I KNOW I would be an AWESOME drug addict.  I would forego everything in my life to have ONE MORE HIT.  I know myself.  So I don't touch drugs.  I've been a borderline alcoholic (perhaps even crossed over THAT particular red-flag zone a time or two...when you desire a beer while DRIVING TO WORK in the morning it MIGHT be a bad sign).  I've smoked.  I've eaten myself into oblivion.  I've indulged in countless other self-destructive behaviors over the years that I would never, ever want my kids to see or to emulate.

 Thing 1 and Thing 2 are blessed to have MANY adults in their lives who serve as FABULOUS role models.  In many ways, their dad is a terrific role model in the places where I fall short and I manage to fill in the gaps where he might have an issue or two.  They have their grandparents and some friends of the family and they've had many wonderful teachers, coaches and Scout leaders to look up to.  Those Things are blessed in ways they can't imagine.

And I just thank God that it's NOT all up to me.  It truly does take a village, doesn't it?

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

Happy Accidents (or, How I Came to Know I'm Not Crazy Through Blogging)

Because my theory is, there's no such thing as life,
it's just catastrophe.
                                                  ― Anne Carson

Six months ago, I began to blog.

Oh crap, I know you're thinking.  Here we go with some other load of self-important mumbo jumbo.  Why can't this chick ever just post funny cat pictures?  Why do we always have to go inside her freakin' HEAD? 

The answer?  You have to go inside my head because IT'S MY FREAKIN' BLOG. 

My blogging was born out of this fervent need to get a bunch of hogwash out of my head.  I walk around much of the time with my brain so full of...well...ME....that I sometimes can't make heads or tails out of anything.  For most of my life, I've just let the stuff sit there, like hair clogging up a drain.  There was no real "flow" in my life because everything kept getting stuck on this massive glob of JUNK I had in my head.  I have spent a huge portion of life just trying to get around myself.  (And I do realize that this is all gobbledygook...but I'm a ridiculous mess of a person who's trying to make sense out of the chaos.  Bear with me for a moment.)  

One day, I sat down to write.  And, instead of jotting down the twaddle in a personal journal or starting yet ANOTHER angst-ridden or self-ridiculing short story, I decided to share.

And share I did.

I have spewed in the last six months more ridiculous crap than I thought possible.  The words just kept coming.  And coming.  They spilled out of me like water.  All of it has been free-form.  Almost none has been edited (other than by some very kind friends who know how much I abhor misspellings and poor grammar choices).  All of it has come from whatever odd place in my head I am in on any given day. Trust me when I say that there are many, many odd places in my head.

And, lo and behold, transformation has occurred.

Writing a blog is a lot like skydiving...sometimes, you just have to let go and jump.  And, yes, this IS me.  On the bottom.

Because I let go of fear and I let go of judgment (against myself and my words), I have become free.  I realize (sometimes in an extreme fit of chagrin) that I tend to go WAY overboard on the sharing.  (I cringe to think how much passing acquaintances now know about me...but I will tell you HONESTLY that I never quite expected very many people to READ this blog.)  But, man, I will tell you this:  the truth will set you free. I know the terminology is overused and has lost its meaning.  But I have grown tremendously because I've done something I never imagined I could do:  I have taken my skeletons...my secrets...my shame...and I've shed LIGHT on them.  Darkness cannot thrive in light.  And that, my friends, is freedom.  Cleaning out the cobwebby ickiness of life through telling the truth is transforming. 

I've done some tough work on myself over the last 20 years.  I've faced some terrible demons.  But I don't think anything has freed me the way this very public revealing has.  It has caused some problems in relationships...problems that I'm still figuring out and trying to avoid.  This is a fledgling effort and eventually I hope to find my voice and maybe stop making people mad (but I kinda doubt it). 

So...thank you.   Thanks for reading and for not being TOO terribly hard on this self-absorbed nerd.  Thanks to all of you who have written to me saying that you recognize a little bit of yourselves in what I write.  Thanks for being patient when the great majority of what I write is absolute garbage.  Thanks for laughing when it's funny and for politely looking away when it's just embarrassing.  

Thank you for viewing my 123 posts (so far...and counting!) many, many thousands of times over.  Thank you to the people who read this blog regularly in the U.S., the United Kingdom, Germany, Canada, Ukraine, Poland, France, Japan and Malaysia.

Most of all, thank you for helping to set me free.

I can't promise it's going to get any better as far as reading material goes.  But, here are the top six blog posts of the last six months.  I look forward to the next six months!  (I try not to make any commitments longer than THAT...I'm terribly fickle.)

My Ex-Husband Is So Lucky to Have Me

Waxing Nostalgic:  Why I Think Reunions are Fun

Who Am I?

Worst Parenting Fail EVER: The Target Story

You Just Can't Take Me Anywhere

Forgiving on Father's Day



If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or subscribe to the e-mail list.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.








  

Meet Stella: How Panic Led Me Through a 24-Hour Car Buying Period

“Only 8% of our worry will come to pass. 92% of our worry is wasted. DON'T PANIC”
                                                                 ― Mark Gorman

Thursday, around 5:10 p.m.
Car dies on the way home.  Kind gentleman stops and helps me get it started again.  Sputter, clunk and hesitate all the way home.  It had died a couple weeks earlier with the kids in the car while exiting onto the highway.  Not a good trend.

Thursday, 5:10 p.m. to 10:00 p.m.
Ponder buying new car.  Do extensive research into new cars vs. used.  Come up with a price I can live with (well, at least one that doesn't actually make my heart stop in my chest). 

Friday, 7:50 a.m.
Car starts and runs fine.  Question sanity.

Friday, around 8:00 a.m.
Email two local dealers to begin the "let's buy a car" dance.

Friday, 8:30-5:00 p.m.
Work to forget about the pain of buying new car.  At various intervals, decide NOT to buy car.  Change mind.  Change mind again.  Curse womanhood.

Friday, 5:30 p.m.
Make appointments at dealers for Saturday.

Friday, 6:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.
Clean current car for the first time in approximately two years.  Find loads of things that were "missing," including an iPod Touch ("I thought you KNEW it was missing!").  Throw away bags of receipts, straws, old gum, papers, the matches to earrings long ago discarded, Hot Tamales, broken CDs, and cracked reading glasses.  Enlist the aid of Thing 1 and Thing 2 who are truly astounded by the volume removed from the vehicle.

Friday, 9:00 p.m. to midnight
Research tactics on car buying negotiation.  Return a couple of dealer emails.  Rock back and forth, wondering if I know what in the hell I'm doing.

Saturday, 6:00 a.m.
Wide awake.  Rock back and forth, wondering if I know what the hell I'm doing.

Saturday, 6:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m.
Pace back and forth through the kitchen, drinking coffee.  Create list of pros and cons in my head.  Talk to myself.  Argue with myself.  Counter-argue.

Saturday, 9:00 a.m.
Phone call with dealer B to discuss financing options, etc.  Sweating begins.

Saturday, 10:30 a.m.
Present myself to dealer A armed with an entire folder of information, including what NOT to do.  Loaded with negotiation tactics and a list of things that I am not to pay for under any circumstances.

Saturday, 10:45 a.m. until 12:15 p.m.
Examine. Discuss.  Ride.  Try not to be nauseated...not from motion sickness but from the idea of spending ridiculous amounts of money on what amounts to a TOOL.

Saturday, 12:20 p.m.
Make a decision.  Talk myself into more features than I had initially settled on before arriving.  Of course.  Because I'm a sucker.  Negotiations begin.  At one point, the finance guy (a.k.a. "the Bad Guy" 'cause the salesperson was playing the role of "the Good Guy") gives me a bottom line figure on the car I've upgraded myself to.  He asks me what it will take to make me happy.  I telll him if he gives it to me for free I wouldn't complain at ALL.  He laughs (without much humor).  He gives me his bottom line price.  I say "no."  He looks at me, aghast.  "No?"  "Well," I say, "I just don't want to pay that. It doesn't make me HAPPY."  He laughs.  Hard this time.

Saturday, 1:15 p.m.
It becomes evident that we are at an impasse with the car I've settled on.  I pick up my things to leave.  "Wait!" says my salesperson, somewhat in a panic having spent ALL DAY with me at this point.  "What about...THIS option?"  I am presented with a (slightly) used Nissan Pathfinder with almost no miles.  They both look at me expectantly.  We sat back down.  We whittle, cajole and hammer away once again.

Saturday, 1:35 p.m.
The salesperson looks a little rough around the edges and the finance guy smiles.  We shake.  The deal is done.  After they leave the table, panic begins in earnest.

Saturday, 2:30 p.m.
I turn down all the added protections, the gap insurance, the extended warranties, etc. etc. etc.  just as my research advised.  Feeling nauseated, I accept my completed paperwork with trembling hands and climb into my new mammoth (comparatively) vehicle.

Saturday, 4:00 p.m.
My breath comes back a little.  I realize I haven't eaten ALL DAY.

Saturday, 5:00 - 7:00 p.m.
I pace. I wring my hands.  I down a shot of tequila and the feeling comes back into my legs and arms.  I name the vehicle "Stella" in honor of my very good friend who, when she heard that the mileage on the vehicle was so low said, "Who's been driving that car?  Grandma Stella?"  Stella it is.  Stella is a good name for a car her age.

Present time
Things 1 and 2 are happy.  Thing 1 has banished Thing 2 to the outer realm of row 3 so they can have as much personal space as necessary. They've figured out where Sparky and Mr. McDougal will rest.  It's all good.  Really.  It's all just a part of life.  :)  And life is good.  And we are blessed....every one.

Drive on.

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or subscribe to the e-mail list.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.