Rough day at the Cohen house this morning. Without warning or notice, Hurricane Brooklyn tore through on a rampage, upset over not being allowed to take markers to school and then compounding her troubles by trying to sneak them back into her back pack. For some strange reason, I could not get myself moving this morning and after the storm had passed, found myself scrambling around the house to pull things together and get to the office. In the midst of my scrambling, I came across one of those slogan bracelets, sitting on a counter, long forgotten. I don't remember where I got it, but I think I picked it up for B, hoping that she might get a kick out of it. Obviously forgotten and left behind by her (or maybe it was an extra one?) I found it while searching for something else. After reading it, I decided to wear it and decided it was going to be an ass-kicking day. The slogan? By Nike (of course):
"Pass the Ball to the Girl"
I'm not sure why, but it just struck me as appropriate today. Maybe it's because I'm getting back to the gym and starting to work out again; maybe it's because I'm getting back into playing basketball; or maybe it's just because I feel like kicking a little ass. There is a lot on my to-do list today and I'm hoping to breeze through most of it. (Sitting here writing to you isn't helping, though.) I just feel motivated and I'm not sure why. (Not that it is a bad thing.)
But to reflect just a bit on the slogan, it struck me as funny. Even in today's "enlightened" age, we find ourselves struggling with the glass ceiling and the idea held by some, that not everyone is equal, and not everyone can achieve at the same level. Hard to believe that in the 21st Century, there are some men out there that still feel that woman should not make as much money and that the place is in the home, chained to the stove with baby on the hip. It is possible that I've just done too much laundry in the past few days and the smell of detergent and bleach has finally sent me over the edge, but I'm just feeling a little under-appreciated in this male-dominated world.
And no, ladies, I did not and do not wash his clothes. There are some out there who would lambaste me for not being a good little wifey-poo and washing his scivies, but trust me - the man can sort colors from whites and push a few buttons just as easy as I can. Given the fact that I pushed two children out of a very uncomfortable place for him, it's the least he can do. So no, I do not wash my husband's clothes.
Where was I? Oh yes, equality for women. No, I'm not really the bra-burning type (my chest is about average and I prefer the help that Victoria and Frederick can offer me in that regard,) but I do believe that the time is well past due to give us the credit we deserve. That is not to say that some of us out there do not already get that credit, but I just thought we could remind the men in our lives, in case they missed it.
To my ladies out there, just remember that you are strong enough, you are good enough, and yes, you can be stylish and look beautiful while conquering the world! If a man tries to get in your way, give him to options - well, maybe three options - he can help lift you up, he can get out of way, or he can get kicked in the nuts. Sounds good, right?
All violence and kidding aside, I am going to try and get some work done today and maybe even go to the gym. While I'm there, maybe I'll step onto the court and show the boys how its done. We'll see.
Disneyland Family 5K -2014
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Glory Days, yeah they'll pass you by...
“No jewelry. Take off all watches, necklaces, earrings and rings.”
“We do not wear black sneakers. They mess up the floor and it is easier for the refs to see your feet move in black shoes.”
“Why dribble the ball once and pick it up? All you’ve accomplished is ‘one dribble nowhere.’” (This might have been Coach Root in 8th grade)
“Follow your shot.”
“Turn around and box out! Find the person with your butt and back into them!”
“No cross-court passes.”
“When you get the rebound, tuck the ball into your chest and stick your elbows out. Don’t stand still or the ‘little ones’ will come in and try to grab it. Better yet, hold it up above your head, elbows out and pivot, looking for your outlet. The minute you bring it down, that’s when they are going to jump you.”
When I graduated from high school and went off to college, I was sure that these words would be stuck in my head forever. Twenty years later and I guess I was right. I have not picked up a basketball in over two years and yet for some reason I signed up for a local tournament.
The last basketball I played was the “street” variety pick-up games at my local L.A. Fitness. You know, the kind of game where the guys begrudgingly ask the woman shooting on the side to play because they need a 5th; the game where they don’t actually pass to the woman until she’s the only option left and even then only half-heartedly; the game where the guys on the other team start rooting for the woman to get the ball, because even they can see that she’s wide open – and they’ve already gotten a taste of her elbows on a few rebounds and were surprised to get boxed out. Yes, those kind of games. I would wander onto the basketball court after running on the treadmill and lifting weights to get a few sprints in. There is something about the smell of hardwood, polished and waiting, and the sound of a basketball bouncing on the floor and clanking off the rim. Sometimes I would just stand at the line and shoot foul shots, if there was no game going on. Just the simple act of setting my right toe, dribbling three times, spinning the ball in my hands and letting it fly . . . swish. Took me back to the good ol’ days.
I have not even really worked out in a few months. The last time I remember going to the gym was when Kensi was about a year old and I left her in the Kids Club. She screamed so much I haven’t been back. So what was I doing this past Sunday, standing in the Student Activities Gym at UCLA, with a lot of younger, more athletic ladies shooting around? Was I really thinking that I could pick up where I left off so many years ago and play? Just like riding a bike, right? Pick up and get right back to it, right? Maybe not so much.
The ladies that I was teamed up with were a lively bunch. Six of them play regularly on a league team in Burbank. Although Sunday’s tournament was put on by the Lady Lawyers League, the players were from all walks of LA life – a police dispatcher, someone in the music industry, someone from Child Services, a lawyer, a nanny, the list goes on. The six teammates welcomed the three of us that latched on and somehow I ended up on the court for the tip-off. I stepped back and let the league player take the jump ball, worried that I’d end up on my ass if I tried a jump ball at this point. (She laughed when I told her that.)
The first few minutes went o.k. and then the wheels fell off. You know that pain you get in the center of your chest, when you push yourself beyond your physical limits? I got that after a minute and a half. I fought it and soon got past it enough to at least run down the court. I could feel my face turning red, but finally got my breathing under control. Then I took a shot. And missed. Airball. My arms felt like lead and I laughed as I struggled to even get the ball over my head. With just 6 minutes gone (we played 14 minute halves,) I gladly subbed myself out and found a seat on the bench. It went without saying that those “glory days” were long gone.
The first game ended in a heartbreaking 1 point loss. The second game ended with a three point loss and more than a few gripes about the officiating. Even allowing for the “volunteer” referee’s youth and inexperience, there were just some things that he should have not missed. When the opposing player has to leave footprints up my back to get the rebound over my head, I think it is time to blow the whistle. Oh yeah, she was about 5'3'.
The important thing is that I had fun, I think. I probably would have done a little better had there been an oxygen tank on standby at center court, but I held my own. I even managed to rack up some decent statistics (although there were no official scorekeepers,) I scored a few points here and there, made some foul shots (and fouls) and blocked a shot.
The funny thing for me was how quickly it all came back. Not the act of dribbling the ball or shooting or even moving to the open spot, although those things were certainly there as well, but the little things that I had forgotten had been drilled into my head all those years ago, things that I found myself doing automatically, and then wondering if people thought I was strange. For example, on defense I found myself calling out screens and yelling “shot!” when someone threw up a shot and putting my hands up (although they did start to weigh more as the day went on.) I moved my feet and turned to follow the ball, forming a triangle between my man and the ball, with the basket behind me. On a shot, I would turn and find my man and try to box out. On offense I would call for the ball and put my hands where I wanted to get the ball. I tried to dribble with my head up and see the court and my teammates and I tried to follow my shots. On offensive rebounds, I came down with the ball and then fought my way right back up without dribbling first. At least, that’s how I saw it all in my head.
I also heard Coach Holmes in the things I did. At one point a teammate grabbed a pass on the fly and shot the ball while still in mid-air. The first thought that popped into my head was that “Coach Holmes would have benched us for that!” I caught myself looking for jewelry before we started and then in defiance, told myself that I was an adult and this wasn’t the high school gym anymore and left my earrings in. In high school, we would have run sprints for that.
Physically, the day got the best of me. My back and shoulders hurt in ways they haven’t in years. The old knee and ankle injuries have flared up and I find myself hobbling a bit from place to place, getting stiff when I sit too long. Emotionally it was a step back in time, something I would never have realized that I needed without actually doing it. It was also a look into the future, watching my six year old pick up a ball and shoot around with her Daddy, and watching my baby, just a year and a half, trying to dribble the ball before it rolled away.
Yes, I walked away from that afternoon with a lot of aches and pains. But I also walked away with some new friends and my little girl begging me to put up a hoop at home and teach her how to play and I remembered why I love the game. I would call that a pretty successful outing. Now can someone please get me some ice?! Where's the trainer? I need my ankle taped!
“We do not wear black sneakers. They mess up the floor and it is easier for the refs to see your feet move in black shoes.”
“Why dribble the ball once and pick it up? All you’ve accomplished is ‘one dribble nowhere.’” (This might have been Coach Root in 8th grade)
“Follow your shot.”
“Turn around and box out! Find the person with your butt and back into them!”
“No cross-court passes.”
“When you get the rebound, tuck the ball into your chest and stick your elbows out. Don’t stand still or the ‘little ones’ will come in and try to grab it. Better yet, hold it up above your head, elbows out and pivot, looking for your outlet. The minute you bring it down, that’s when they are going to jump you.”
When I graduated from high school and went off to college, I was sure that these words would be stuck in my head forever. Twenty years later and I guess I was right. I have not picked up a basketball in over two years and yet for some reason I signed up for a local tournament.
The last basketball I played was the “street” variety pick-up games at my local L.A. Fitness. You know, the kind of game where the guys begrudgingly ask the woman shooting on the side to play because they need a 5th; the game where they don’t actually pass to the woman until she’s the only option left and even then only half-heartedly; the game where the guys on the other team start rooting for the woman to get the ball, because even they can see that she’s wide open – and they’ve already gotten a taste of her elbows on a few rebounds and were surprised to get boxed out. Yes, those kind of games. I would wander onto the basketball court after running on the treadmill and lifting weights to get a few sprints in. There is something about the smell of hardwood, polished and waiting, and the sound of a basketball bouncing on the floor and clanking off the rim. Sometimes I would just stand at the line and shoot foul shots, if there was no game going on. Just the simple act of setting my right toe, dribbling three times, spinning the ball in my hands and letting it fly . . . swish. Took me back to the good ol’ days.
I have not even really worked out in a few months. The last time I remember going to the gym was when Kensi was about a year old and I left her in the Kids Club. She screamed so much I haven’t been back. So what was I doing this past Sunday, standing in the Student Activities Gym at UCLA, with a lot of younger, more athletic ladies shooting around? Was I really thinking that I could pick up where I left off so many years ago and play? Just like riding a bike, right? Pick up and get right back to it, right? Maybe not so much.
The ladies that I was teamed up with were a lively bunch. Six of them play regularly on a league team in Burbank. Although Sunday’s tournament was put on by the Lady Lawyers League, the players were from all walks of LA life – a police dispatcher, someone in the music industry, someone from Child Services, a lawyer, a nanny, the list goes on. The six teammates welcomed the three of us that latched on and somehow I ended up on the court for the tip-off. I stepped back and let the league player take the jump ball, worried that I’d end up on my ass if I tried a jump ball at this point. (She laughed when I told her that.)
The first few minutes went o.k. and then the wheels fell off. You know that pain you get in the center of your chest, when you push yourself beyond your physical limits? I got that after a minute and a half. I fought it and soon got past it enough to at least run down the court. I could feel my face turning red, but finally got my breathing under control. Then I took a shot. And missed. Airball. My arms felt like lead and I laughed as I struggled to even get the ball over my head. With just 6 minutes gone (we played 14 minute halves,) I gladly subbed myself out and found a seat on the bench. It went without saying that those “glory days” were long gone.
The first game ended in a heartbreaking 1 point loss. The second game ended with a three point loss and more than a few gripes about the officiating. Even allowing for the “volunteer” referee’s youth and inexperience, there were just some things that he should have not missed. When the opposing player has to leave footprints up my back to get the rebound over my head, I think it is time to blow the whistle. Oh yeah, she was about 5'3'.
The important thing is that I had fun, I think. I probably would have done a little better had there been an oxygen tank on standby at center court, but I held my own. I even managed to rack up some decent statistics (although there were no official scorekeepers,) I scored a few points here and there, made some foul shots (and fouls) and blocked a shot.
The funny thing for me was how quickly it all came back. Not the act of dribbling the ball or shooting or even moving to the open spot, although those things were certainly there as well, but the little things that I had forgotten had been drilled into my head all those years ago, things that I found myself doing automatically, and then wondering if people thought I was strange. For example, on defense I found myself calling out screens and yelling “shot!” when someone threw up a shot and putting my hands up (although they did start to weigh more as the day went on.) I moved my feet and turned to follow the ball, forming a triangle between my man and the ball, with the basket behind me. On a shot, I would turn and find my man and try to box out. On offense I would call for the ball and put my hands where I wanted to get the ball. I tried to dribble with my head up and see the court and my teammates and I tried to follow my shots. On offensive rebounds, I came down with the ball and then fought my way right back up without dribbling first. At least, that’s how I saw it all in my head.
I also heard Coach Holmes in the things I did. At one point a teammate grabbed a pass on the fly and shot the ball while still in mid-air. The first thought that popped into my head was that “Coach Holmes would have benched us for that!” I caught myself looking for jewelry before we started and then in defiance, told myself that I was an adult and this wasn’t the high school gym anymore and left my earrings in. In high school, we would have run sprints for that.
Physically, the day got the best of me. My back and shoulders hurt in ways they haven’t in years. The old knee and ankle injuries have flared up and I find myself hobbling a bit from place to place, getting stiff when I sit too long. Emotionally it was a step back in time, something I would never have realized that I needed without actually doing it. It was also a look into the future, watching my six year old pick up a ball and shoot around with her Daddy, and watching my baby, just a year and a half, trying to dribble the ball before it rolled away.
Yes, I walked away from that afternoon with a lot of aches and pains. But I also walked away with some new friends and my little girl begging me to put up a hoop at home and teach her how to play and I remembered why I love the game. I would call that a pretty successful outing. Now can someone please get me some ice?! Where's the trainer? I need my ankle taped!
Look at that form! Of course it went straight in!
Next season's rising star.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Through the eyes of "Mom."
I used to cry during sad movies. I'm big enough to admit it. Movies still make me cry. I think the first movie I cried through was The Velveteen Rabbit and I fully blame Mrs. Church for showing it to our class in First Grade. I sat there at my desk, watching heartbroken, because the boy had to give up his favorite stuffed rabbit after he got sick. I cried, hiding behind a folder so that my classmates wouldn't see and make fun of me, scared to death at the thought of going anywhere without my favorite stuffed animal. I think I was scarred for life.
It was all downhill from there. Brian's Song in 7th grade reading class - hey, even if you're not a sports fan, that movie will make you cry. Titanic years later. Bawling, sobbing, gasping my way through hours of films, shredding tissues and enduring the snickers and laughing of my friends (and sometimes of significant others.) When Rob and I started dating, I got so tired of hearing the words "you're not crying, are you?" that I would pick an opportune moment in the movie to escape to the restroom to cry in quiet and then wipe my nose and compose myself. (But I did not cry at the end of Field of Dreams and to this day, cannot understand why anyone does. Really, guys?)
But for some reason, my emotional attachment to all things schmaltzy in Hollywood rarely extended to real life. I had a hard time crying when it really meant something to me, personally. If you've seen the movie The Holiday with Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet (yes, it is o.k. that you have seen and even liked that movie,) there is a part where Cameron's character can't cry. She even tries to force herself to cry when she breaks up with her boyfriend (Ed Burns.) It doesn't work. Sometimes, I felt that way. A few years ago, I was telling this to a therapist (yes, I saw a shrink - there is only so much shit in a person's life that they can handle alone and without professional assistance!) and she asked questions and commented on various things relating to my inability to cry at "real" life, rather than just at movies. At this point, I don't even remember what she told me or why she thought I reacted to things that way. I do know that I started to let the emotions of "real" life in a bit more and started to cry a little more at things in my own life, that really mattered. I still cry at movies (and the Cotton commercials still do me in. Oh and there's that Pampers commercial at the holidays where they show all of the sleeping babies and the song, Silent Night is playing in the background... where was I?) Ah, yes... I still cry at movies, but now I cry at real life too.
These days, it goes a bit beyond that. I used to read stories in the news about kids and think "oh, that's sad," or "I hope I never have to worry about that." Then I had kids. Now I can't read about something happening to a little baby girl without internalizing it and thinking about what I would do if that happened to my child. Where I could once read stories with merely a passing interest, I now read sad stories and cry, hoping that as a Mom, I will never have to experience such heartache. I started reading an account from Auschwitz about the sorting that took place when the trains were emptied and felt such unimaginable sorrow at the thought of being separated from either of my girls, just because they are still babies.
You may have heard the line "this hurts me more than it will ever hurt you," that parents sometimes say to their kids when they are grounding them or swatting their behinds for misbehaving. I never truly understood it until I had kids. Now I know what it feels like to discipline and have to face Brooklyn, tears streaming down her face and "deprive" her of something she might have had her heart set on, because she was misbehaving. The act of going through with my punishment is so much harder when faced with those tears. Ten minutes later, she will have moved on to something else, and I will still be haunted by those eyes, welling up with tears and the sounds of her crying. Yes, it does hurt me more than it hurts you.
Sometimes, I just sit back and chuckle at myself. (yes, a good, old fashioned "chuckle.") I am sitting right where I never thought I would be - married (10 years in August!) with two kids, living in a sub-divided neighborhood. Hey, this is what they write country songs about (except we don't have a dog or a pick-up truck.) I must say though that I like the view from here, and things are good. I chuckle about how I ended up here, but also about how my emotions finally caught up to me, thanks to my girls. Some people say that they never truly understood "love" until they had a child. I wonder if I truly ever felt real emotion until they came along. Sure, I cried when a guy would break up with me (sometimes) and I think I cried when we lost at District finals my senior year of high school in basketball, but these days, I cry (when appropriate - and sometimes when it is inappropriate) at life. I cry at friends' weddings and when babies are born. I cry when I get frustrated or when Brooklyn is just too much for me, or when Kensi smacks me in the head with a toy. I cry, hoping that my girls will never have their little hearts broken (although I know that they will) and I cry hoping that I can always be there to help them pick up the pieces. These days, I cry the "mommy tears" - of pain and of joy and sometimes, sheer frustration. I just keep more tissues handy. And yes, I still cry at the movies too.
It was all downhill from there. Brian's Song in 7th grade reading class - hey, even if you're not a sports fan, that movie will make you cry. Titanic years later. Bawling, sobbing, gasping my way through hours of films, shredding tissues and enduring the snickers and laughing of my friends (and sometimes of significant others.) When Rob and I started dating, I got so tired of hearing the words "you're not crying, are you?" that I would pick an opportune moment in the movie to escape to the restroom to cry in quiet and then wipe my nose and compose myself. (But I did not cry at the end of Field of Dreams and to this day, cannot understand why anyone does. Really, guys?)
But for some reason, my emotional attachment to all things schmaltzy in Hollywood rarely extended to real life. I had a hard time crying when it really meant something to me, personally. If you've seen the movie The Holiday with Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet (yes, it is o.k. that you have seen and even liked that movie,) there is a part where Cameron's character can't cry. She even tries to force herself to cry when she breaks up with her boyfriend (Ed Burns.) It doesn't work. Sometimes, I felt that way. A few years ago, I was telling this to a therapist (yes, I saw a shrink - there is only so much shit in a person's life that they can handle alone and without professional assistance!) and she asked questions and commented on various things relating to my inability to cry at "real" life, rather than just at movies. At this point, I don't even remember what she told me or why she thought I reacted to things that way. I do know that I started to let the emotions of "real" life in a bit more and started to cry a little more at things in my own life, that really mattered. I still cry at movies (and the Cotton commercials still do me in. Oh and there's that Pampers commercial at the holidays where they show all of the sleeping babies and the song, Silent Night is playing in the background... where was I?) Ah, yes... I still cry at movies, but now I cry at real life too.
These days, it goes a bit beyond that. I used to read stories in the news about kids and think "oh, that's sad," or "I hope I never have to worry about that." Then I had kids. Now I can't read about something happening to a little baby girl without internalizing it and thinking about what I would do if that happened to my child. Where I could once read stories with merely a passing interest, I now read sad stories and cry, hoping that as a Mom, I will never have to experience such heartache. I started reading an account from Auschwitz about the sorting that took place when the trains were emptied and felt such unimaginable sorrow at the thought of being separated from either of my girls, just because they are still babies.
You may have heard the line "this hurts me more than it will ever hurt you," that parents sometimes say to their kids when they are grounding them or swatting their behinds for misbehaving. I never truly understood it until I had kids. Now I know what it feels like to discipline and have to face Brooklyn, tears streaming down her face and "deprive" her of something she might have had her heart set on, because she was misbehaving. The act of going through with my punishment is so much harder when faced with those tears. Ten minutes later, she will have moved on to something else, and I will still be haunted by those eyes, welling up with tears and the sounds of her crying. Yes, it does hurt me more than it hurts you.
Sometimes, I just sit back and chuckle at myself. (yes, a good, old fashioned "chuckle.") I am sitting right where I never thought I would be - married (10 years in August!) with two kids, living in a sub-divided neighborhood. Hey, this is what they write country songs about (except we don't have a dog or a pick-up truck.) I must say though that I like the view from here, and things are good. I chuckle about how I ended up here, but also about how my emotions finally caught up to me, thanks to my girls. Some people say that they never truly understood "love" until they had a child. I wonder if I truly ever felt real emotion until they came along. Sure, I cried when a guy would break up with me (sometimes) and I think I cried when we lost at District finals my senior year of high school in basketball, but these days, I cry (when appropriate - and sometimes when it is inappropriate) at life. I cry at friends' weddings and when babies are born. I cry when I get frustrated or when Brooklyn is just too much for me, or when Kensi smacks me in the head with a toy. I cry, hoping that my girls will never have their little hearts broken (although I know that they will) and I cry hoping that I can always be there to help them pick up the pieces. These days, I cry the "mommy tears" - of pain and of joy and sometimes, sheer frustration. I just keep more tissues handy. And yes, I still cry at the movies too.
Monday, February 6, 2012
40 Before I'm 40
My sister is turning 40 this week (wait, was I not supposed to tell anyone about that?) If my 20th high school reunion wasn't enough to put me into a tailspin, the impending doom of my sister's birthday will surely put me over the edge. Why my sister's birthday, you ask? Because that means that mine is looming on the horizon, just waiting to sneak up and attack me when I least expect it. Ah, the fun of the passing of years, the marking of our lives.
As some of you already know, I try to document my life through scrapbooking. My latest projects, over the past few years, have been something called "Project Life." More on that in other posts, but I mention it because I follow the creator of Project Life on her blog and on Facebook. From time to time, she posts links to other blogs that she finds interesting or inspiring. Last week she posted a link to a woman's blog about 39 things that she is working on before she turns 39. The post in itself was not about anything particularly special, just her progress on one particular thing on her list. But it was enough to get me thinking. What do I want to accomplish? Of course, it begs the question of why 40, why should a random number be a watermark for my life and the accounting of my success in life. Why not 50 or 60? Then again, this list isn't really about success, but instead, it is about things that I have longed to do, but never got around to doing, or things that I have wanted to do but can't seem to get the spark going to finish. 40 is just a random number, but it seems doable, enough to get me going, but not so far away that my motivation would stall out and I would stop working on these things.
Strange as it may sound, though, I'm having trouble putting the list together. That's right, I'm having trouble figuring out what to put on my list of 40. I think I'm up to about 15 or 16. My birthday is in September, so I figure I have about 30 or 31 months to get the things on my list completed. But what's on that list? Of course I have some of the obvious ones, like sky diving (I have a cousin that has done this already!) and to finish writing my novel. I have other slightly more personal ones (like learning how to swim properly and skiing a blue or black diamond run); there are the quirky ones (learning to pilot a plane and running the LA marathon - I am so NOT a marathon runner!) and the next-to-impossible one (I would love to go to the Oscars!) And there is even one that is not really about or for me (I've made it my goal to raise at least $50,000 for breast cancer research.)
I guess if I want to get moving on completing the things on the list, I should get moving on the list itself, right? How about you? What would be on your list? Maybe my number 1 should be to finish the list of 40?
As some of you already know, I try to document my life through scrapbooking. My latest projects, over the past few years, have been something called "Project Life." More on that in other posts, but I mention it because I follow the creator of Project Life on her blog and on Facebook. From time to time, she posts links to other blogs that she finds interesting or inspiring. Last week she posted a link to a woman's blog about 39 things that she is working on before she turns 39. The post in itself was not about anything particularly special, just her progress on one particular thing on her list. But it was enough to get me thinking. What do I want to accomplish? Of course, it begs the question of why 40, why should a random number be a watermark for my life and the accounting of my success in life. Why not 50 or 60? Then again, this list isn't really about success, but instead, it is about things that I have longed to do, but never got around to doing, or things that I have wanted to do but can't seem to get the spark going to finish. 40 is just a random number, but it seems doable, enough to get me going, but not so far away that my motivation would stall out and I would stop working on these things.
Strange as it may sound, though, I'm having trouble putting the list together. That's right, I'm having trouble figuring out what to put on my list of 40. I think I'm up to about 15 or 16. My birthday is in September, so I figure I have about 30 or 31 months to get the things on my list completed. But what's on that list? Of course I have some of the obvious ones, like sky diving (I have a cousin that has done this already!) and to finish writing my novel. I have other slightly more personal ones (like learning how to swim properly and skiing a blue or black diamond run); there are the quirky ones (learning to pilot a plane and running the LA marathon - I am so NOT a marathon runner!) and the next-to-impossible one (I would love to go to the Oscars!) And there is even one that is not really about or for me (I've made it my goal to raise at least $50,000 for breast cancer research.)
I guess if I want to get moving on completing the things on the list, I should get moving on the list itself, right? How about you? What would be on your list? Maybe my number 1 should be to finish the list of 40?
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Return of the Band Geek
Can you keep a secret? No really, you can't tell anyone!... I... was in band. Phew! That was a load off. Seriously though, I was a tried and true, died in the wool geek in high school. I played trumpet in the high school band and sang Soprano in the high school choir, when I wasn't hanging out with the French Club, Future Teachers of America or Model United Nations team. Yup, that's me, geek to the core.
Somewhere, hidden in the midst of all of that geekdom, was an athlete too. Strange to think it possible, but I was a three sport Varsity athlete as well and even went on to play basketball and volleyball in college. I did not consider myself popular although I certainly had friends and even had friends that were popular. But I don't think that I was. I was not voted to be a member of the Homecoming Court, which was surely a measuring stick of popularity in those days. I had a boyfriend my Junior and Senior years, but even boyfriends weren't measures of popularity or a lack thereof, unless the boyfriend in question was himself popular. (In my case, not so much.)
I bet you're wondering why I'm revealing my hidden side to you now. Why after all these years, do I suddenly open the floodgates of teenage angst and cringing embarrassment? Because of "all those years." That's right, sports fans, it's my 20th high school reunion. And if we all needed more of a reminder of that person we wanted to forget (ourselves at 17 or 18,) let's cue up the D.J., pour some watered down drinks and pull out those yearbooks!
Seriously though, all of this talk of reunions has me revisiting myself at 17. I took out my Senior Memory book and my yearbook and sat there in a daze, turning page after musty page of memories, remembering faces and times. What struck me most was that feeling in the pit of my stomach, that feeling that no matter what I did or how hard I tried, I just wasn't good enough. It might come as a shock to some of you, but I never felt quite right in my own skin in high school, I never felt like I quite fit in the right way. Square peg in a round hole, maybe, but something never quite felt right.
Sure, I had friends and I had sports and I had those after-school clubs and activities (and I quit band my senior year, much to Amy S. and Micah P.'s sadness) but at the end of the day, I never felt like I belonged. Even today, I'm not sure what it was or why it was, but I always felt like I was searching for a piece to make everything fit. It always seemed like something was missing or not quite as it should have been. Like I said, I was never comfortable in my own skin, so it is possible that it was all on the inside.
To this day, I have trouble walking into a room alone. I still carry bad memories of the Homecoming dance my freshman year - no date and no group of friends to travel with. Candy had opted not to go and Trix was going with friends. So Mom and Dad dropped me off on their way to dinner. It was the worst possible situation for me, arriving alone, unsure of where to go or who was there. Where was I going to sit? Would anyone ask me to dance? Did I put on enough deodorant? Will anyone be able to tell that I'm not wearing a bra? (Not that I probably really needed one, but there is some sense of security in that. Since the dress was one shoulder, and Mom pretty much dropped the ball that day, I had to brave the world sans brassiere.) The results of that evenings endeavor are stamped on my brain - no one asked me to dance and I only danced once, after asking a friend's boyfriend. I worried the whole time that he would be able to tell I was sweating like a pig and embarrassed. Oy.
The thought of my reunion brings mixed feelings. I'm excited to see friends that I have not seen in 10 years. I'm curious about classmates that we didn't see at 10 years and that no one can seem to find. I feel like I have certainly grown up and made a life for myself. But at the same time, I'm scared. Hiding inside of me, trembling in fear, is that geek from high school, that girl who was never really quite sure of herself and who never really felt comfortable. She doesn't want to go back there, because the thought of having to talk to those people just makes her want to melt into the floorboards.
I'm in negotiations with "her," trying to work out a deal so that I can go. Right now, I've got her down to a new outfit and snazzy pair of shoes, but only if I spring for the airfare. Of course any trip back to Ohio would not be complete without Jen, my best friend and fellow band geek for so many years (who I sadly left behind to fend for herself that senior year.) And hopefully Tawnya will be there to cause trouble with, just like we did in the old days.
If it is like most things in life, the anticipation and build-up will be worse than the event. I'm pretty sure I will have a good time and I know I will love being able to see and reconnect with so many friends. Who knows, maybe someone will admit that they, too, felt like a geek all those years ago and didn't think that they fit in so well either. Maybe I'll find out that the "popular" girls didn't feel so popular after all. (Well, o.k., realistically that probably won't happen, but we can hope, right?)
Somewhere, hidden in the midst of all of that geekdom, was an athlete too. Strange to think it possible, but I was a three sport Varsity athlete as well and even went on to play basketball and volleyball in college. I did not consider myself popular although I certainly had friends and even had friends that were popular. But I don't think that I was. I was not voted to be a member of the Homecoming Court, which was surely a measuring stick of popularity in those days. I had a boyfriend my Junior and Senior years, but even boyfriends weren't measures of popularity or a lack thereof, unless the boyfriend in question was himself popular. (In my case, not so much.)
I bet you're wondering why I'm revealing my hidden side to you now. Why after all these years, do I suddenly open the floodgates of teenage angst and cringing embarrassment? Because of "all those years." That's right, sports fans, it's my 20th high school reunion. And if we all needed more of a reminder of that person we wanted to forget (ourselves at 17 or 18,) let's cue up the D.J., pour some watered down drinks and pull out those yearbooks!
Seriously though, all of this talk of reunions has me revisiting myself at 17. I took out my Senior Memory book and my yearbook and sat there in a daze, turning page after musty page of memories, remembering faces and times. What struck me most was that feeling in the pit of my stomach, that feeling that no matter what I did or how hard I tried, I just wasn't good enough. It might come as a shock to some of you, but I never felt quite right in my own skin in high school, I never felt like I quite fit in the right way. Square peg in a round hole, maybe, but something never quite felt right.
Sure, I had friends and I had sports and I had those after-school clubs and activities (and I quit band my senior year, much to Amy S. and Micah P.'s sadness) but at the end of the day, I never felt like I belonged. Even today, I'm not sure what it was or why it was, but I always felt like I was searching for a piece to make everything fit. It always seemed like something was missing or not quite as it should have been. Like I said, I was never comfortable in my own skin, so it is possible that it was all on the inside.
To this day, I have trouble walking into a room alone. I still carry bad memories of the Homecoming dance my freshman year - no date and no group of friends to travel with. Candy had opted not to go and Trix was going with friends. So Mom and Dad dropped me off on their way to dinner. It was the worst possible situation for me, arriving alone, unsure of where to go or who was there. Where was I going to sit? Would anyone ask me to dance? Did I put on enough deodorant? Will anyone be able to tell that I'm not wearing a bra? (Not that I probably really needed one, but there is some sense of security in that. Since the dress was one shoulder, and Mom pretty much dropped the ball that day, I had to brave the world sans brassiere.) The results of that evenings endeavor are stamped on my brain - no one asked me to dance and I only danced once, after asking a friend's boyfriend. I worried the whole time that he would be able to tell I was sweating like a pig and embarrassed. Oy.
The thought of my reunion brings mixed feelings. I'm excited to see friends that I have not seen in 10 years. I'm curious about classmates that we didn't see at 10 years and that no one can seem to find. I feel like I have certainly grown up and made a life for myself. But at the same time, I'm scared. Hiding inside of me, trembling in fear, is that geek from high school, that girl who was never really quite sure of herself and who never really felt comfortable. She doesn't want to go back there, because the thought of having to talk to those people just makes her want to melt into the floorboards.
I'm in negotiations with "her," trying to work out a deal so that I can go. Right now, I've got her down to a new outfit and snazzy pair of shoes, but only if I spring for the airfare. Of course any trip back to Ohio would not be complete without Jen, my best friend and fellow band geek for so many years (who I sadly left behind to fend for herself that senior year.) And hopefully Tawnya will be there to cause trouble with, just like we did in the old days.
If it is like most things in life, the anticipation and build-up will be worse than the event. I'm pretty sure I will have a good time and I know I will love being able to see and reconnect with so many friends. Who knows, maybe someone will admit that they, too, felt like a geek all those years ago and didn't think that they fit in so well either. Maybe I'll find out that the "popular" girls didn't feel so popular after all. (Well, o.k., realistically that probably won't happen, but we can hope, right?)
Monday, January 23, 2012
Have you considered the Peanut Butter?
We sometimes have trouble with Brooklyn. She is a very energetic girl, always running from one thing to another, lots to do and not enough time to do it. Try to stop the tornado long enough to eat dinner, go to bed, or even for something as simple as requesting a "please" or "thank you," and her whole world tilts... And not in a good way. We struggle with temper tantrums, taking baths or showers and bed times. One might think she was 2 or 3, but our girl is 6, a "big girl" by society's standards. Don't get me wrong, I can allow a certain amount of childhood to shine through and I know better than to expect her to remember all of the rules all of the time. But we struggle.
During a particularly bad week during preschool, one of her teachers suggested that we take a look at what she had been eating, and Se if anything had changed. We noticed that she had been eating a lot of peanut butter lately and so we cut it back and she settled down. We have recently noticed her behavior to be a bit manic again and have to wonder, what is she eating. A friend posted on Facebook that food allergies can sometimes manifest themselves to look like ADHD or ADD. Interesting thought. Given our trouble with B, she suggested that we look at the top 4 ingredients in what she eats. If there is something that shows up a lot, cut it out of her diet for a week and see how she responds.
I finally got around to checking the labels on the peanut butter. Our house is a house divided. Rob prefers Skippy, claiming that if Annette Funicello sold it, it has to be good. I prefer Jif, because of course, "choosy moms choose Jif.". So we have a lot of peanut butter to check. Imagine my surprise when I saw that all four jars (two Skippy and two Jif) had two main ingredients.... Roasted peanuts and SUGAR. Seriously!?!? Yup, sugar. I'm pretty sure I've nailed our problem right there. Or, at least found a good part of the problem.
Somewhere along the line, Rob introduced B to peanut butter on her pancakes and eggs (a big "yuck!" for me). Already enjoying peanut butter and jelly for lunch, it would seems that B gets a lot of extra sugar in a day. So, needless to say, we will be switching things up a bit. A little less peanut butter, I think, and maybe a little more turkey and cheese or something. Now I just need to convince B that it is o.k. If you hear screaming, it is probably her throwing a tantrum. Wish me luck.
During a particularly bad week during preschool, one of her teachers suggested that we take a look at what she had been eating, and Se if anything had changed. We noticed that she had been eating a lot of peanut butter lately and so we cut it back and she settled down. We have recently noticed her behavior to be a bit manic again and have to wonder, what is she eating. A friend posted on Facebook that food allergies can sometimes manifest themselves to look like ADHD or ADD. Interesting thought. Given our trouble with B, she suggested that we look at the top 4 ingredients in what she eats. If there is something that shows up a lot, cut it out of her diet for a week and see how she responds.
I finally got around to checking the labels on the peanut butter. Our house is a house divided. Rob prefers Skippy, claiming that if Annette Funicello sold it, it has to be good. I prefer Jif, because of course, "choosy moms choose Jif.". So we have a lot of peanut butter to check. Imagine my surprise when I saw that all four jars (two Skippy and two Jif) had two main ingredients.... Roasted peanuts and SUGAR. Seriously!?!? Yup, sugar. I'm pretty sure I've nailed our problem right there. Or, at least found a good part of the problem.
Somewhere along the line, Rob introduced B to peanut butter on her pancakes and eggs (a big "yuck!" for me). Already enjoying peanut butter and jelly for lunch, it would seems that B gets a lot of extra sugar in a day. So, needless to say, we will be switching things up a bit. A little less peanut butter, I think, and maybe a little more turkey and cheese or something. Now I just need to convince B that it is o.k. If you hear screaming, it is probably her throwing a tantrum. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Happy New Year!
Here we are, three whole days into the New Year and I am finally getting around to blogging about it. Maybe this is a sign of things to come? I'll just be a few days late with things this whole year, instead of weeks late? One can hope. So, away we go, with just a few random comments to start the ball rolling.
How to say "Thank you." It was a rough holiday season for Brooklyn. We are still working on the appropriate way to say "thank you" for her gifts, especially when the giver is sitting right in front of her. Last year on her birthday, she opened a gift from someone in the family and responded "Oh, this wasn't what I thought it was," or something equally odd. We worked with her on just saying "thank you," but seriously, this kid has no filter! For this Hanukkah, we got her a game for her Leapster, something called "I Spy." The age recommendation on the game is 5 to 8 or something like that, a little higher than the ages 4 to 7 games that she already has. I thought it might be challenging. She opened the gift and said something about it not being what she wanted because it was too easy (or too hard or too boring) and then set it aside. I was floored and for a few moments I waffled between screaming at her and throwing the game in the trash, or just taking the gift away. I opted to let the whole thing go, with Daddy telling her at the same time that it was very mean to say things like that. She did a little bit better at Nana and Papa's house, but probably only because we verbally beat her up in the car on the way there, explaining to her (over and over) that she needed to just say "Thank you," maybe give a hug or two and move on. She did tell me that "I've been wanting these my whole life!" when she opened her Twinkle Toes shoes (made by Sketchers, if you don't have a 4 to 8 year old girl, never mind) so I guess that was a good thing.
The Keys are Where ?!?! Over the past few years, I've had a few babysitters lock themselves out of our house. Our back door (which leads to the garage) locks automatically if you don't twist the lock on the door handle. We don't typically leave a key in the garage, mostly because we haven't found a good spot to hide one and then always forget where it is anyway. Luckily, the few times it has happened to the sitters, they've had the baby (once it was Brooklyn and once it was Kensi) with them. They just then had to wait until I came home to let them back in. Well, I guess it is only fair that I got a taste of my own garage-door medicine. Rob took Brooklyn to a movie on Sunday and Kensi and I were left to our own devices. I gathered our usual armload of stuff up to head out to the mall (to pay a bill and maybe spend a few more dollars) and grabbed what I thought were my keys. It was only after I had set the alarm and was out the door, with the door shutting behind me, that I realized I had grabbed the wrong set. (I have a similar key ring on 2 sets of keys.) What to do, what to do? I put down most of what I had in my hands (except for Kensi) and then wandered around in a circle for a few minutes while my brain caught up. There was no way to get back into the house, outside of breaking a window, which I didn't really feel like I needed to do, since it was about 75 degrees and I did have a cell phone, purse, wallet, etc. and a garage to hang out in. The lights on the outside of the house and various holiday decorations did need to be taken down, so I put Kensi on a blanket in the yard and took those things down. Just as she got bored and started to crawl away, I finished up. Then I decided that since I had my purse and her diaper bag (unfortunately, minus her sippy cup of milk) and the car was unlocked, so I could get the stroller, why not just walk to the mall. So we did. About 3 miles. In about 45 minutes. Before you all tell me that a 15 minute mile while walking is pretty slow, let me remind you that I was pushing a stroller the whole way. I'm still having trouble lifting my arms up to the desk to reach the keyboard. But we did o.k. Kensi laughed pretty much the whole time and even "talked" on my cell phone part of the way. (Did you see the picture I posted on Facebook yesterday- same idea.) It took me almost 8 years, but I can finally say that I once locked myself out of my house.
Cleaning up the holidays. There is something just a bit depressing about cleaning up from Christmas. In Ohio, I think it was worse, because after all of the decorations were put away and the tree was down, you were still left with the cold, the snow and the gray sky. At least here, the sun is shining and we can pretend that the pool is warm enough to jump into. But there is still something lonely and sad about putting away the wreaths and cleaning up the house. We do it, because to not do it would cause our relatives to question our sanity and our kids to hide in shame. I guess it is one of those things that we must as "adults" deal with. It doesn't mean that we have to like it. I did read an article somewhere that said to make it a festive time, putting on the holiday music one last time and having the whole family help out. While I might put on the holiday music, I doubt I'd bring the kids in to help.... there's not telling what Kensi would look like if I let Brooklyn loose with the garland and lights.
Cleaning up in General - I got tired of kicking things around on the closet floor and took about a 1/2 an hour on Sunday night to clean things up. I now have another bag of shoes and some clothes ready for the Good Will and I can actually open the closet door all the way. Amazing how a few extra feet of space will open things up and make the space look bigger (and cleaner.)
Glitter in the bath tub - there was a reason that the bath bomb has been sitting on the side of the tub for at least 2 years. Now I remember why. After my harrowing ordeal on Sunday, (being locked out of the house and walking to the mall - weren't you reading!) I decided that I needed a nice soak in the tub. We were inexplicably out of bubbles, so I used the last "bomb" sitting by my tub. Like I said, there was a reason I had avoided it thus far. There is now a nice layer of glitter all over the bottom of our tub, complete with stars. I even had to shower after my bath just to get the glitter off of me. Now I have to clean the tub. The cycle never ends.
New years resolutions - Have you made yours? I have resolved not to be so stressed out about Project Life. I did it in 2010 and missed chunks of days here and there, either not having pictures or not remembering to journal. I was vigilant in 2011, journaling all but a few days and taking pictures on almost every day (we'll say about 360 out of 365.) But I was also just a little stressed out sometimes, worried about how to get that picture in before midnight, looking for something that I didn't already have a picture of in the book. I'm sure in 20 years it will be a wonderful reminder of our day-to-day life. I'm sure even in 5 or 10 years it will be great fun to look back on our crazy year. I won't remember the stress of taking the pictures or the torture of writing each day's mundane activities down. And the project did keep me a little more up to date on my scrapping and even helped to organize me a bit (I think.) That all being said, I think I'm going to relax a little this year. I did already buy my kits and they are waiting for me to decide what to do with them. I like one designer's idea of putting her album in the kitchen and letting everyone in the family participate in what it is to become. I do like that idea, but I would need to find space on the counter for that. So I'm in the thinking process, trying to decide what I want this year's Project Life to become. I'll keep you posted.
And on that note, I just realized that Project Life hijacked my discussion of new year's resolutions. I don't really make them. My weight wanders up and down by 5 pounds from month to month. As long as my favorite (becoming a little too shredded to wear in public) jeans still fit, I don't obsess too much about it. My hair will grow back out eventually and there's not much for me to do about that. Keep a cleaner house? I have 2 kids under 6, there's not much to do there. Yell less and laugh more? We work on that all of the time. Cook at home more and eat out less? As soon as I strike it rich and hire an in-home chef, I'm all over that. Until then, what was the number for Pizza Hut?
I read a blog on Christmas Eve that put me over the edge and had me in tears. The blogger commented on how alot of us have memories of the holidays with family and friends, things that take us back. She wrote that many of us are haunted (not always in a bad way) by holidays past. Sitting on my couch, in my living room without a Christmas tree, waiting for the Hanukkah candles to burn down, it touched a part of me that I try to keep hidden most of the time. I felt such an incredible loss and longing for the holidays of my childhood that I started to cry. Rob, as usual, sat on the couch looking at me as though I'd gone completely off my rocker. Maybe for a minute, I did. My memories of the holidays are not particularly religious in nature. But they are of houses filled to bursting with people, cousins running all over the place and trees piled high underneath with presents. The smells of certain foods still can take me back in an instant (which might explain why I bake so many cookies.) Many of the people from those memories are gone or scattered to the four winds. The houses have changed hands or been torn down and all that is left is what is in my head. So, as the New Year rolls on, I sat down and watched the Rose Parade (much to Brooklyn's dismay, because she was SURE that there was a Phineas and Ferb episode on somewhere.) It seemed a fitting end to the holiday season with so many ghosts and memories floating around. I'll put them away with the decorations until next year and then do it all over again.
And finally, because how could I possibly go another day without telling you about another one of my crazy dreams.... this one dealt with futility. I'm not sure if it's the stress of those Words with Friends games that I keep losing, or maybe because the house just doesn't seem to clean itself, but I had another dream where I can't seem to do something completely normal that I do every day. Something like... walking. In this one, I was trying to walk from one place (work, a friend's house, something) to my apartment. The walk took me past a chain link fence and I passed several "seedy" areas. There was an urgency to my walk, a feeling that I had to get there quickly, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get my feet to walk any faster. I ended up having to pull myself along the fence, not able to walk normally. I woke up before my walk was completed and before I could figure out why my legs weren't properly working. I'll leave that for you all to ponder and maybe get back to me with some suggestions.
On that note, strange as it is, I must leave you to get some "real" work done. The kind that pays the bills. The kind that allows me to blog once in awhile about strange things like holiday decorations and dreams. Yup, back to the real world. Even if just for a few minutes until it's my turn to make up another word and score points for it. Happy New Year everyone!
How to say "Thank you." It was a rough holiday season for Brooklyn. We are still working on the appropriate way to say "thank you" for her gifts, especially when the giver is sitting right in front of her. Last year on her birthday, she opened a gift from someone in the family and responded "Oh, this wasn't what I thought it was," or something equally odd. We worked with her on just saying "thank you," but seriously, this kid has no filter! For this Hanukkah, we got her a game for her Leapster, something called "I Spy." The age recommendation on the game is 5 to 8 or something like that, a little higher than the ages 4 to 7 games that she already has. I thought it might be challenging. She opened the gift and said something about it not being what she wanted because it was too easy (or too hard or too boring) and then set it aside. I was floored and for a few moments I waffled between screaming at her and throwing the game in the trash, or just taking the gift away. I opted to let the whole thing go, with Daddy telling her at the same time that it was very mean to say things like that. She did a little bit better at Nana and Papa's house, but probably only because we verbally beat her up in the car on the way there, explaining to her (over and over) that she needed to just say "Thank you," maybe give a hug or two and move on. She did tell me that "I've been wanting these my whole life!" when she opened her Twinkle Toes shoes (made by Sketchers, if you don't have a 4 to 8 year old girl, never mind) so I guess that was a good thing.
The Keys are Where ?!?! Over the past few years, I've had a few babysitters lock themselves out of our house. Our back door (which leads to the garage) locks automatically if you don't twist the lock on the door handle. We don't typically leave a key in the garage, mostly because we haven't found a good spot to hide one and then always forget where it is anyway. Luckily, the few times it has happened to the sitters, they've had the baby (once it was Brooklyn and once it was Kensi) with them. They just then had to wait until I came home to let them back in. Well, I guess it is only fair that I got a taste of my own garage-door medicine. Rob took Brooklyn to a movie on Sunday and Kensi and I were left to our own devices. I gathered our usual armload of stuff up to head out to the mall (to pay a bill and maybe spend a few more dollars) and grabbed what I thought were my keys. It was only after I had set the alarm and was out the door, with the door shutting behind me, that I realized I had grabbed the wrong set. (I have a similar key ring on 2 sets of keys.) What to do, what to do? I put down most of what I had in my hands (except for Kensi) and then wandered around in a circle for a few minutes while my brain caught up. There was no way to get back into the house, outside of breaking a window, which I didn't really feel like I needed to do, since it was about 75 degrees and I did have a cell phone, purse, wallet, etc. and a garage to hang out in. The lights on the outside of the house and various holiday decorations did need to be taken down, so I put Kensi on a blanket in the yard and took those things down. Just as she got bored and started to crawl away, I finished up. Then I decided that since I had my purse and her diaper bag (unfortunately, minus her sippy cup of milk) and the car was unlocked, so I could get the stroller, why not just walk to the mall. So we did. About 3 miles. In about 45 minutes. Before you all tell me that a 15 minute mile while walking is pretty slow, let me remind you that I was pushing a stroller the whole way. I'm still having trouble lifting my arms up to the desk to reach the keyboard. But we did o.k. Kensi laughed pretty much the whole time and even "talked" on my cell phone part of the way. (Did you see the picture I posted on Facebook yesterday- same idea.) It took me almost 8 years, but I can finally say that I once locked myself out of my house.
Cleaning up the holidays. There is something just a bit depressing about cleaning up from Christmas. In Ohio, I think it was worse, because after all of the decorations were put away and the tree was down, you were still left with the cold, the snow and the gray sky. At least here, the sun is shining and we can pretend that the pool is warm enough to jump into. But there is still something lonely and sad about putting away the wreaths and cleaning up the house. We do it, because to not do it would cause our relatives to question our sanity and our kids to hide in shame. I guess it is one of those things that we must as "adults" deal with. It doesn't mean that we have to like it. I did read an article somewhere that said to make it a festive time, putting on the holiday music one last time and having the whole family help out. While I might put on the holiday music, I doubt I'd bring the kids in to help.... there's not telling what Kensi would look like if I let Brooklyn loose with the garland and lights.
Cleaning up in General - I got tired of kicking things around on the closet floor and took about a 1/2 an hour on Sunday night to clean things up. I now have another bag of shoes and some clothes ready for the Good Will and I can actually open the closet door all the way. Amazing how a few extra feet of space will open things up and make the space look bigger (and cleaner.)
Glitter in the bath tub - there was a reason that the bath bomb has been sitting on the side of the tub for at least 2 years. Now I remember why. After my harrowing ordeal on Sunday, (being locked out of the house and walking to the mall - weren't you reading!) I decided that I needed a nice soak in the tub. We were inexplicably out of bubbles, so I used the last "bomb" sitting by my tub. Like I said, there was a reason I had avoided it thus far. There is now a nice layer of glitter all over the bottom of our tub, complete with stars. I even had to shower after my bath just to get the glitter off of me. Now I have to clean the tub. The cycle never ends.
New years resolutions - Have you made yours? I have resolved not to be so stressed out about Project Life. I did it in 2010 and missed chunks of days here and there, either not having pictures or not remembering to journal. I was vigilant in 2011, journaling all but a few days and taking pictures on almost every day (we'll say about 360 out of 365.) But I was also just a little stressed out sometimes, worried about how to get that picture in before midnight, looking for something that I didn't already have a picture of in the book. I'm sure in 20 years it will be a wonderful reminder of our day-to-day life. I'm sure even in 5 or 10 years it will be great fun to look back on our crazy year. I won't remember the stress of taking the pictures or the torture of writing each day's mundane activities down. And the project did keep me a little more up to date on my scrapping and even helped to organize me a bit (I think.) That all being said, I think I'm going to relax a little this year. I did already buy my kits and they are waiting for me to decide what to do with them. I like one designer's idea of putting her album in the kitchen and letting everyone in the family participate in what it is to become. I do like that idea, but I would need to find space on the counter for that. So I'm in the thinking process, trying to decide what I want this year's Project Life to become. I'll keep you posted.
And on that note, I just realized that Project Life hijacked my discussion of new year's resolutions. I don't really make them. My weight wanders up and down by 5 pounds from month to month. As long as my favorite (becoming a little too shredded to wear in public) jeans still fit, I don't obsess too much about it. My hair will grow back out eventually and there's not much for me to do about that. Keep a cleaner house? I have 2 kids under 6, there's not much to do there. Yell less and laugh more? We work on that all of the time. Cook at home more and eat out less? As soon as I strike it rich and hire an in-home chef, I'm all over that. Until then, what was the number for Pizza Hut?
I read a blog on Christmas Eve that put me over the edge and had me in tears. The blogger commented on how alot of us have memories of the holidays with family and friends, things that take us back. She wrote that many of us are haunted (not always in a bad way) by holidays past. Sitting on my couch, in my living room without a Christmas tree, waiting for the Hanukkah candles to burn down, it touched a part of me that I try to keep hidden most of the time. I felt such an incredible loss and longing for the holidays of my childhood that I started to cry. Rob, as usual, sat on the couch looking at me as though I'd gone completely off my rocker. Maybe for a minute, I did. My memories of the holidays are not particularly religious in nature. But they are of houses filled to bursting with people, cousins running all over the place and trees piled high underneath with presents. The smells of certain foods still can take me back in an instant (which might explain why I bake so many cookies.) Many of the people from those memories are gone or scattered to the four winds. The houses have changed hands or been torn down and all that is left is what is in my head. So, as the New Year rolls on, I sat down and watched the Rose Parade (much to Brooklyn's dismay, because she was SURE that there was a Phineas and Ferb episode on somewhere.) It seemed a fitting end to the holiday season with so many ghosts and memories floating around. I'll put them away with the decorations until next year and then do it all over again.
And finally, because how could I possibly go another day without telling you about another one of my crazy dreams.... this one dealt with futility. I'm not sure if it's the stress of those Words with Friends games that I keep losing, or maybe because the house just doesn't seem to clean itself, but I had another dream where I can't seem to do something completely normal that I do every day. Something like... walking. In this one, I was trying to walk from one place (work, a friend's house, something) to my apartment. The walk took me past a chain link fence and I passed several "seedy" areas. There was an urgency to my walk, a feeling that I had to get there quickly, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get my feet to walk any faster. I ended up having to pull myself along the fence, not able to walk normally. I woke up before my walk was completed and before I could figure out why my legs weren't properly working. I'll leave that for you all to ponder and maybe get back to me with some suggestions.
On that note, strange as it is, I must leave you to get some "real" work done. The kind that pays the bills. The kind that allows me to blog once in awhile about strange things like holiday decorations and dreams. Yup, back to the real world. Even if just for a few minutes until it's my turn to make up another word and score points for it. Happy New Year everyone!
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