My Private Tunnel

It is dark and lonely and the wind is strong. The sunshine is beautiful on the other side, though.  I know it’s warm there.  The sky there will be a beautiful blue with only a few cottony white clouds floating high above me, just enough to make the blue all the bluer. 

Some tunnels are so dark and so windingly long that they rob you of the sunshine peeking in from the other side.  Not mine.  My tunnel is mostly straight with an easy, gentle curve or two, but none so sharp and tangling as to blind my eyes to the relief that lies ahead of me.

Going into this tunnel, the face of the mountain was rocky, barren, jagged and threatening.  But when I emerge, the peak above me will slope more smoothly.  And it will be green and fertile and filled with signs of spring – rabbits, deer and fat little chipmunks will be busy around me as I squint in the glare.

When at first I feel that familiar warmth on my face again, I will pause in my tracks, my hand at my brow, filtering the stark rays from stinging my dark-weary eyes.  Footsore and lonesome, I will rest for a moment and suck in the calm deeply.  The relief.  The gratitude.  I will let the sounds of life, long muffled beneath this mountain I’ve been working through, fill my ears again.  They will sound brand new and beautiful to me.  Even the rustling of leaves as the wind tangles them against one another will feel like taffeta to my ears.

Across the way, just beyond the shoulder of the road, I will find a soft patch of fresh clover and wildflowers.  There I’ll lie outstretched on my back, napping beneath the blanket of light.  Time will stop as I close my eyes and breathe.  And feel.  And be.

Until that day, I will continue.  I will hold tight to that feeling of peace and warmth and safety as a promise, stoking the fire in my engine.  I will dig deeply and scrape the courage from the tips of my pinkie toes and elbows and wear it around my neck in a locket.  When I feel myself growing tired, I’ll rub the small silver charm between my fingers and will my energy to renew, my fire to refuel, and I will start again.

Until that day, I will press on.

 

 

Photo credits:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/docman/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

…deep breaths…deeeeeep breaths…

Today got the best of me.  Not even a good pair of boots, a gray pencil skirt, or a happy, springy coral beaded necklace could lift me out of my funk.  I hate days like today.  Days when you feel sticky.  Days that feel like trying to open up Duck Tape that has folded closed on itself.  Days when you just want to sit down and watch a bird nonchalantly pick at something on the ground near your feet, while the world speeds on and on around you in a blur, the people leaving colored trails in their wake.  Days when you’d like nothing more than to draw your curtains, crawl back into bed, and let the cool, smooth softness of your favorite sheets envelope your toes, feet, legs.  Let the gentle weight of the quilt cradle your bruised heart as you drift off to the place in your mind you can control, where you can feel smiles beneath your belly button and see love and happiness like an aura around you.

Your happy place.

As I was driving home tonight, feeling that awful ball of negativity welling up inside my chest, I decided I would play a game of reverse psychology with myself.  This evening, rather than write all about how sad or miserable I can feel…I’ll write about what makes me happy.  I’ll go to my happy place and bask in it for a moment…or two…or maybe more.

 

I’ll think about driving in a red car with all the windows rolled down.  The music is loud and I sing with my companion at the top of our lungs.  We feel the wind whip our hair around our faces and necks and we extend our hands out into the strong currents of wind pushing past the car.  We smile and look towards the open road ahead.  We feel free and young and alive and amazing.

 

I’ll think about sitting on the beach.  I can feel the sand between my toes and in the cuticles next to my Marilyn Monroe Red toenails.  The water washes up beneath my chair and laps up over my calves.  I raise my book so it doesn’t get wet, and squeal with a start as the salt water chills my warm body.  As the water recedes, I watch the wet sand run away into the surf with the last traces of water.  My feet and heels sink deeper into the sandy earth, and I wiggle my toes like a little girl. 

 

I’ll think about swinging at a park with my girls.  We pump our legs high and hard, trying to touch the sky with the points of our toes.  We giggle and shriek as our tummies flip flop and try to escape our bodies.  We are sure our bottoms will lift from our seats at any moment, sending us sailing through the air.  If only we had wings, we would take off and join the birds in the sky above us. 

 

I’ll think about walking on a city street, alone.  Smiling at people as they pass,  slowing to look in windows whenever something pretty or shiny catches my eye.  I have time to take, and I am calm and quiet amidst the chatty, busy herd of pedestrians.  My skin is smooth and cool to the touch as I brush stray hairs from my face.  I turn away from the display that caught my eye, towards the smiling face that called my name.  My heart warms at the sight of an old friend as we hug, thankful for this unexpected treat.

 

I’ll think about laughing.  A good, loud, down to my toes laugh.  The kind that makes you throw your head back and laugh with your mouth wide open, almost as though trying to catch rain or snow on your tongue.  The kind that makes your sides hurt and your cheeks cramp.  A laugh that brings tears to your eyes and steals your breath.  The kind of laugh that makes you want to touch someone – lean into them, share a hug, a smiling kiss.

 

These are my happy places. I’ll run away there and breath deeply.

 

 

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/alternatewords/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

It’s simple.

My dear friend, Cher, wrote a New Year’s post yesterday.  She was inspired by this post to choose One Little Word as a theme, if you will, for her 2010.  I think that’s a fabulous way to avoid the dissolution of resolutions while still setting a goal.

So, here I go. 

I want to focus on what is important: family, friends, health, and home. 

I want to target my work as a mother, a wife, and a teacher.

I want to make choices that bring peace into my home.  I want to give myself, my children, and my husband the gift of time, and I want to spend it, not money, to make us happy.  I want to sit by the fire with cocoa and cookies more often.  I want to dig in the dirt together.  I want to party in our PJs.  I want to take walks and ride bikes and blow bubbles and color.  I want to smile at the sun and enjoy a cool, ocean breeze.

For the past week, ever since we’ve returned from our Hillbilly Holiday, my girlies and I have been a bit reclusive…and we’ve loved every minute of it.  I’ve cooked and crafted and sewn.  We’ve read and colored and played games.  I’ve worn yoga pants, a bare face, and a ponytail for days at a time.  It’s been marvelous.

In 2010, I’m not going to try to keep up with the Joneses – or, for that matter, the Millers, the Popes or the even the Nguyens.  I will search for contentment with where I am in life. 

I also want to CLEAN OUT.  How much stuff does a person REALLY need?? I’m a sentimental kind of gal, so this can be hard for me…but I’d like to try traveling light for a while. 

I will surround myself with things and people that make me happy. 

I want to simplify my life. 

My word for 2010 is SIMPLIFY.

What is your word?

What In the Name of Hee-Haw Junction Was I Thinking???

FireDaddy and I have planned a Hillbilly Holiday trip.

What was I thinking?

The current plan is to shove off from Point A immediately after school on Tuesday of next week. We will drive to Atlanta and crash with some friends for the night before it’s on the road again in the morning to complete the long journey to the back hills of Kentucky.

And when I say “back hills”, I mean it.

No internet. No mall. The nearest Walmart is more than 30 minutes away – and you practically need a compass to find your way. Cracker Barrel is known as a “Big City Store”.

The last time I visited Kentucky (which was also my first) I realized near the end of the trip that I had not eaten fruit the entire time we were in Kentucky.

It is like travelling back in time.

Now, I need to clarify – these people are the sweetest, kindest, most loving people on the face of God’s great planet. They love, love, love you all like family – even before you’re family. On that trip, my girlies and I met for the first time FireDaddy’s eldest aunt (who still lives in the same house in which she was born – the home that did not have indoor plumbing until FireDaddy’s Daddy was grown, in the Army, and PAID for the plumbing to be installed in his Mammaw’s home), and she sent them both home with two 15-inch collectible dolls from her den just because. They just do that kind of stuff. FireDaddy’s uncle routinely takes him out to the shed, or hat closet, or wherever he keeps his crazy stash – and gives him a new Kentucky Wildcats hat every time he sees him. Every meal, when you visit, is like a feast, complete with pies and cakes and gravy and all the fixin’s. These people love my husband, they love my babies, and they love me. And, for that, I am immensely grateful and touched.

However, when we get right down to it – I AM A CITY GIRL. I am spoiled. And, to top it all off, I am a FLORIDA city girl. I don’t do cold very well at all. I’ve had trouble dressing my darling girlies this year on the few “cold” days we’ve had (high in 50s) so far – much less clothing them for a week of wet, cloudy days with temps in the 40s and 30s! So, that’s one panic…

Another is, OH. MY. GOSH! This is happening NEXT WEEK, PEOPLE!!! NEXT WEEK!!!!

My mind is racing with all the things I need to do before then – and only have one weekend left to accomplish. Things like:

1. Tear my house apart looking for the portable DVD player (which I haven’t seen since the summer months) that will prevent FireDaddy and I from strapping our girlies to the roof of our car all the way between Georgia and Kentucky.

2. Purchase and pack a week’s worth of chocolate pop-tarts, gummy snacks, apples, Wheat Thins, Diet Dr. Pepper, CapriSuns, Oreos, and other “survival basics” for the car ride (and sneaky snacks while we’ve there).

3. Refill every prescription known to man – Ibuprofen 800, Prozac Weekly, Prozac daily, muscle relaxers, and anything else you may be able to suggest - that will help me survive being trapped in a Pacifica with FireDaddy and my babies for like a gajillion miles. FireDaddy and BabyGirl don’t always see eye to eye…especially in the car.

4. Sew and wrap presents for the family we’re going to see there….because, have I mentioned? I’m doing a handmade Christmas this year…(i.e. more evidence supporting my claims to insanity)

5. Print photos to insert in my Christmas cards so I can mail them before we high-tail it off for a week.

6. Find a loving, temporary home for my two darling four-legged children….because if they were going too, I might elect to stay home.

7. Get those same darling four-legged children groomed so their winter camp counselors, whomever they wind up being, don’t think I’m a neglectful mother.

8. Wash the twenty-five loads of laundry that has accumulated in the last week at my house.

9. Find an adorable dress suitable for LittleGirl to wear to school all day and straight into her holiday program TOMORROW NIGHT.

10. Continue to plan for and survive the remaining 5 days of the 2009 school year, including (but not limited to) writing detailed sub plans for the last day of school prior to the holiday break (for which, I will not be present), feed my family, and generally go about my life as expected by the world around me.

11. Fight off this sinus infection that is threatening to attack me any moment.

12. Continue to work towards producing and packaging the other handmade gifts I’ve planned for my friends, family and my daughters’ teachers.

What was I thinking?

Scratch that. I know what I was thinking.

I was thinking that these people - this family - are important to FireDaddy and our girlies and I. These are people that aren’t getting any younger or healthier as time wears on, to say the least. These are people that are worth the hassle and heartache that accompanies traveling long distances in a car with short people. These people are part of my daughters’ heritage, whether they understand this or not, and they need to know them. They need to know where they came from. And so does FireDaddy. And so do I.

In the long run, these are small prices to pay for the memories that will be made.

Perhaps I should focus on the feeling that overwhelmed my whole being the moment I stepped foot in that 1920-something home that Auntie and Uncle have owned since their own youth. The feeling that brought tears to my eyes so boldly that I could not stop them from falling down my cheeks. The feeling that instantly, gently, amazingly carried my soul hundreds of miles away to a little home in Louisiana where my own family member had lived. The feeling that said “home”, even though it was all new to me.

Perhaps I should focus on the pictures of babies frozen in time. And brides blushing beside their grooms. And Olan Mills portraits of wrinkled eyes and smiles. The creak in the floorboards. The slow, soft sound of tired feet shuffling to the kitchen to set the morning pot to brew. The cheery yellow wall hangings in a tiny, tiny kitchen. The kitchen stove that doesn’t know the meaning of a day off.

Perhaps I will focus on these.

Oh, what a happy holiday it will be.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/auvet/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Tackling Giants

I am all about prioritizing. I'm that girl who loves "To Do" lists. I'm a complete sucker for structured notepads (To Buy, To Do, To Call, etc.). My iGoogle has a to do list gadget. My Google Calendar has "tasks" included throughout. My Blackberry has notes and tasks entered left and right, including everything from the website I didn't have time to check out to the recipe I swiped from the magazine in the doctor's office waiting room to what to pick up at the grocery store.

What I HATE, HATE, HATE is when you just can't prioritize.

I remember a day last year when I came into my office, dropped my purse and entourage of miscellaneous baggage in a heap on my desk and let out a frustrated growl fit to scare small children. My partner and officemate at the time looked up from his daily dose of espn.com and chuckled, "Having a good morning, Sunshine?"...a question I'm sure he soon regretted asking.

"I'VE GOT FIFTY MILLION THINGS TO DO TODAY AND I JUST CAN'T DO IT ALL!"

"That's when you've got to prioritize," he smugly replied. Who the hee-haw does he think I am? An idiot? "You need to write it all down and then put it in order and start at number one." Duh, Dingbat!

"THEY'RE ALL NUMBER ONE!" After rambling off a litany of urgent tasks with near immediate due dates, I bit my tongue to prevent dishing out any further coworker abuse.

His reply? "Yep. That sucks for you, doesn't it?"

I think he may have actually seen the smoke beginning to seep out of my ears and the flames stoking in my eyes, because he and his sports web page made a hasty exit stage left.

This week has been another of those weeks. It is as though I blinked my eyes and, upon opening them, was surrounded by a herd of giants towering around me.

"Oh yeah? Well, excuse me, Big Boy, but take a number and get in line...I'll get to you in a minute."

Perhaps what I need is improved strategery. (Aaaah, Georgie-Porgie...that word makes me smile.)

You see, I've never really enjoyed games of strategy. It is a skill I've been able to avoid sharpening in my life. Games like Risk, Axis and Allies, Doom, checkers...I've just never been interested. Even strategy-laden card games like Hearts, Spades, or Rook and strategy puzzle games like Sudoku or...tic-tac-toe...they're just not for me. I'm really more of a Go Fish or War kind of gal...take it one step at a time. Climb one mountain before starting up the next.

Unfortunately, life doesn't seem to play fair sometimes. And I find myself staring into the eyes of a herd of giants, yet again.

Perhaps today is the day to start working on my strategery.

Here's "The Plan": I'm going to bat my eyelashes, smile real pretty-like and spread on a little sweet talk....

"Oh, boys.....maybe one of you big, strong men can help me. I just don't see how little ol'me can ever do all of this by myself! Any suggestions???"

Wish me luck!

On My Best Behavior

Sometimes, it's really hard to do the right thing.

Sometimes, I really, REALLY want to get low down dirty and play me some hard ball.

Apparently, some people believe that it's acceptable to treat other people like a punching bag. Someone, apparently, decided that their beef with the world was a higher priority than...well...anything else.

This week, I've been snapped at and talked down to. I've been demanded to do things A.S.A.P. I've been "schooled" in things I could school the masses in. (Not to toot my own horn...) I've sat back and watched people whine and b!tch and manipulate the world around them until they get their way, no matter how ridiculous. And I'm OVER IT.

Who do they think they are???

Long ago and far away, I once spend my days in a world where I was Captain of My Domain. I once had the right to declare my expectations to the world - my expectation of respect. I once had the right to stand up in my own defense and say "Enough is enough!" And, I believed better of people.

I guess I was spoiled in recent history. I was granted a reprieve by the heavens for a period of time...a healing period, perhaps. I was blessed with the company of those who were courteous, respectful, and grateful. My vision was blurred looking through rose-tinted glasses.

Until someone ripped them off my face. And slapped me.

The hardest part is sucking it up and shutting up.

Here's something I've learned, though. When times get tough, people get rough. So simple, but so true. People behave badly, especially when they're pinching pennies. And when I say "behave badly", I mean BADLY. And, they behave badly in so many ways.

Tempers flare easily. They become selfish. They are suspicious. It is them against the world. They point fingers and place blame. They hold grudges and cling to their bitterness. They call names and overreact.

And you know what? I don't want to be like that. But, I also don't want to be TREATED like that.

It gets old saying "thank you" to the person that just sent you a scathing email. I grow weary of grinning and bearing it. My tongue is nearly severed in two from biting it in restraint.

But, you know what? My kids are watching me. I have to live with myself. I want people to like me. I don't want to burn bridges. I believe in kharma. And so, I'll move on. I'll suck it up and shut up.

I'm on my best behavior.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinsteele/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Getting Back Into the Swing

Unfortunately, that's not the swing to which I'm referring. This is more like the swing I'm climbing back into...

My glorious spring break has come to an end, as all good things must do. This week, I've had to get back into the swing of things - which, fortunately, includes this blog! (You know how it is, you are more willing to get started on the things you look forward to first.)

So, with that, there's a few things that have been burning on my mind that I feel the need to share with you.

Item: I have found a miracle pill - and it isn't Prozac. Recently, after hearing about the benefits of B vitamins, I strolled down the vitamin aisle in Target. I intended to casually read the labels and generally scope out the B Market, when a little bottle called my name.

Stress B-Complex? Um, Hello??? I GOT stress, baby!

Needless to say, it didn't take much thought before that bottle hopped into my red cart and I popped one before I even hit the sack that night.

Wow. I felt it immediately. I have been more energized and "peppy" everyday that I've taken them. They may possibly be my little miracle pill.

Side effect not noted on the bottle: neon yellow-green pee. But it's worth it! (And nobody has to know...except everyone who reads my blog.)

Item: I'm thirty-two (almost) and can still (more like finally) do a cartwheel. My darling eldest daughter has this problem with stress and being really hard on herself...I have no idea where she gets it from. She's currently struggling with learning to do a cartwheel in her jazz/acro class. So, being the loving, supportive mommy that I am, I realized the best thing I could do is "tutor" her in tumbling at home. She just needs a little more practice and confidence and I'm sure she'll get the hang of it.

We tried practicing indoors and giving verbal feedback. We tried using our hands to support and guide her legs and body so she could feel the right form. (A method which failed miserably, by the way. Apparently, at the mere touch of our hand, she expects to be carried through the motions and turns every muscle to mush.) So, to what did this crafty teacher resort? Well, every good teacher knows you need to model first. And away I went!

I discovered a number of things...

1. Cartwheels are 90% psychological. It's freaking scary when you've never done it before (or haven't in a really long time) to throw your hind end over your head, relying on the strength of two feeble girly (soft and squishy) arms to prevent you from crashing to the ground and breaking something important.

2. Landing gracefully is much harder than it looks.

3. I look really bad in yoga pants with a t-shirt tucked in. (I had to protect my modesty in front of my father and any of my parents' neighbors that may have glanced out their windows!)

Long story short, I wowed myself and my daughter improved slightly (after she beat herself up after watching video of her own cartwheels). We've got many more tutoring sessions ahead of us, but I'm sure she'll get it.

Item: I'm no good at waiting in lines. All it takes is a few lovely days at theme parks to discover this personal truth.

However, the icing on the cake came as I waited in line at the Kodak machine in Target to print 9 measly photos for Big Girl's school project behind two insanely rude and inconsiderate women for 40 minutes as they scanned and printed copies of an ENTIRE photo album! They kicked my personal torture into high gear with a particularly vicious below-the-belt assault to my afternoon schedule as they turned away from the machine and chatted with an old friend who was, apparently, so close and important to them that he was completely unaware that she had divorced her husband FIVE FREAKING YEARS AGO and is now dating a new guy who is "a big boy" whatever that was supposed to mean.

At this point, I refrained from my vain attempts to silence my tired daughter's whines. Let her whine. Go ahead, baby. Tell them how tired you are.

"What was that, Honey? This is taking FOREVER? You're hungry? I know, Sweetie. Let me see, I think I found a stale fruit loop in the bottom of my purse. Suck on this until we finally get a turn to use this machine. I just hope it is before the preschool closes. It would be awful if the school called the Department of Children and Families because I never made it to pick up your baby sister. Poor baby girl, she's probably going to be the last one there tonight. I hope she knows that we'll come EVENTUALLY for her. Surely her teacher will take her home eventually, right? They won't call a foster home yet, will they?"

It took me a good...24 hours?...for my blood to stop boiling. Actually, I'm not sure it ever really stopped. I hate waiting in lines.

Manic Mondays

Treat yourself to a flashback while you read this post...

Am I the only one who feels like Mondays come around way too regularly?  

I can hear my mother in my head now, "Life would be so gaily, if it weren't so daily."  Is that the truth, or what?

I will spare you the whines...  But if you're in the mood for whining, check out this site.  It's rather amusing - in the watching-a-train-wreck sort of way.  Just let it be known that, next week, when I'm not trying to coerce a tempermental toddler (What other kind are there?) and an exhausted kindergartener (and we only have ONE DAY of extra-curricular per week) to cooperate and function on a fixed schedule, all the while managing my own blasted schedule, whacked out hormones, and filled-to-the-rim neurotic head, I will be blissfully enjoying a week of recreation and (relative) relaxation.  

Aaaaaaah...the promise of spring break is so close I can taste it.  

Isn't it amazing, though?  Like many things in life, it seems to get worse before it gets better.  Like suffering through sleepless nights listening to a puppy's high-pitched whine, begging you to allow them into your bed.  As they quieten temporarily, you hopefully close your eyes with a sigh of relief and fatigue...only to throw the lids back open a short minute later as the now ear-piercing whining returns.  

Like potty training a child.  The first day in Big Girl Panties/Big Boy Underwear may surprise you.  You may arrive at the preschool to, amazingly, find them still in the same outfit!  HOORAY!  NO ACCIDENTS!  Not to worry, Mommy Dear, tomorrow will be different...and the next day...and the next.  Better go stock up on changes of clothes because your laundry burden is about to multiply ...exponentially.

Like being pregnant.  In the beginning, you feel like crap - if you're lucky.  Then, nature has this way of teasing you for a while during your second trimester.  It grants you temporary relief from nausea, blesses you with a budding tummy (just enough so people actually know for sure you're pregnant), and fills your bra with bodacious boobs (that's for your hubs).  Until you run into the wall that is your THIRD TRIMESTER.  Ugh.  Your body hurts.  You can't sleep.  Braxton-Hicks contractions control your life.  Your varicose veins are so bad people think your foot is actually broken.  Acid reflux.  Lower back pain.  Even your MATERNITY CLOTHES no longer fit.  And that due date begins to feel more and more like a mirage in the desert.  

So, this week, in my final 4 days before my long anticipated, glorious Spring Break (cue angelic light and trumpeting here) I plan to run myself ragged, wake up early and work late, climb mountains (er...StairMasters?), run a marathon (over the course of the week) and completely deplete myself of energy and the zest for life....because...well...isn't that what I do best???

It's Fake'n Bake...and It Helped!

Disclaimer: If you are inclined to lectures, don't read any further.  There are some people who may be prone to be scornful of my behavior (namely: my dermatologist, my mother, Tiffany, and probably more).  With all due respect, save your breath.  I'm puttin' on my Big Girl Panties and puttin' my foot down.  To quote No Doubt, "It's my life".

Spring has arrived, and not a moment too soon.  I am so thankful for the warm sun, the cool breeze, the brilliant blue sky, and the promise of breaks.  Spring break.  Summer vacation.  Real vacation.  Beach time.  Pool time.  Backyard kiddie pools.  Sprinkler play.  

Then, it occurs to me...swimsuit season.  Dear. God. Save. Me.

To Do:

1. Get rockin' bod before spring break.

2. Get tan.  Correction - get "non-reflective".

As you know, I'm working hard at gettin' my groove back.  This leaves getting tan.  

Aaaaaah...'tis the season to fake bake.  

Many years, I treat myself to a few spring sessions in the oven to jumpstart my summery style.  In addition to the cosmetic factor, I revel in an equally enjoyable mental benefit.  Lying atop a plexiglass table beneath the heat of synthetic sunshine, listening to the dull hum of the blue bulbs and roaring fans, I turn off the world around me.  My worries roll back in my head and hide beneath my eyelids (beneath their space goggles).  For a solid fifteen minutes, there are no interruptions.  No distractions.  No fussing.  No working.  No cleaning.  No eating.  (Except when I snag a Jolly Rancher from the bowl at the check-in desk.)  Not even sleep.  It is a meditation, of sorts.  Just breathing and baking.

So, the bottom line is:  I don't do it for the tan entirely.  It's for my sanity...however relative that might be.

A New Addition

In case you haven't noticed... What? You have A LIFE other than reading my blog???... I've added a "Reader On the Run" corner box. This lovely little bite-sized chunk of neuroses was inspired by my brother Abner. You see, as he so carefully explained to me how much he enjoys reading my blog updates (He lived with me for 17 years or so...he knows how important word choice is.), he also just as carefully explained the disappointment that accompanies the realization that he doesn't always have time to read a complete post. After a discussion of how best to meet my reader's needs, the idea for this handy-dandy little corner was born.

Here's what I wrote to explain it that night:

I totally respect the fact that you are a busy gal/guy and don't always have time to stay for my entire neurotic shpeal. (How do you spell that word, by the way? I have no Yiddish Schema. I didn't learn the word "tchotchke" until I worked for a Jewish accountant a few years ago.) Anyhow, when you're on the run -- check out my new corner. Oh, and thank you, Abner, for the inspiration. Always with your finger on the pulse of the masses.....

So, with busy readers in mind today, I'll end this post here. Be sure to check back, though, to have a nibble of my random thinkings. I hope you'll enjoy them.

Disclaimer: I told you I'm not very good at "daily" things. So just keep in mind that this is AN EXPERIMENT. Don't hate me if it fails miserably, OK? Thanks!

I <3 Starbux Peeps

It’s not just their delicious skinny vanilla latte – hot or iced. It isn’t their yummy, moist reduced-fat coffee cakes. It isn’t even their cool CDs, trendy green travel mugs, or inviting patio tables. (Who has time to lounge around there, anyway? Probably people who take bubble baths.) I am addicted to Starbucks – and its employees.

Our love affair has been slow in the making. We’ve been courting for years. It was only recently, though, that I realized exactly how important to me they really are. Their chipper morning attitudes. Their warm greetings. Their exaggerated smiles are just the right brew to reach my spirit through the fog in my early morning mind. I cannot live without them.

No one else understands me like they do.

I call out to the drive through speaker, fumbling my order in 5 different ways as I struggle to connect the synapses in my sleepy mind. They never complain.

I pull up to the window, pass them my card, and stare blankly at them when they ask to see my ID. What? ID? Oh…you’re talking to me? They never flinch. They smile reassuringly, waiting patiently.

I pull away from the window, forgetting my drink. They never laugh. They lean out the window and call to me; their wide smile telling me they understand.

They never stare as I slam my side view mirror into their already dented to go shelf. (Obviously, I’m not the only one.)

They never ridicule as I hop the curb in my Pacifica. (Who the heck designs drive-through traffic patterns, anyway? I mean, come on! What kind of driver do they think I am?)

I love them. I love the quirky, sing-songy way they speak. I love their freaky intuition. (How did they know I needed that extra shot of espresso today?)

I love the small talk they so graciously make while waiting on the barista to finish my beverage. Sure, it’s cheesy, but it takes my mind off the whiny princesses in my backseat. (I especially love it when they sweet talk to my whiny princesses through their window.)

In short, Starbucks Peeps, I love you. You rock my mornings. I never want to wake up a day without you there again.

Will you marry me?

Buried Treasure

I was "thumbing" through my posts and back-tagging posts tonight, when I stumbled upon this unpublished piece. I assumed it was incomplete and began rereading it. I decided it was a story worth sharing, so here it is. This post was originally titled "My Little Neurotic". Hope you enjoy!

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I feel a little bit guilty for the title, but it's true.

My Big Girl appears to be following in Neurotic Mommy's footsteps. Tonight we had a mini-princess-meltdown about a costume parade that has yet to happen. Mind you, the Little Princess has NO exposure to this event in the past, but she seems to have sense of what is to come.

This story starts last year when she was in Pre-K. On the 100th day of school, they had an (I'm sure) adorable little, miniature parade that included only the 30 students in the four year-old program. Apparently, she had a not-so-mini-meltdown on this day. It was too loud (???) and there were too many people (???). She refused to walk and, thank God, one of her loving, wonderful teachers stayed with her and held her hand, lovingly reassuring her as they trailed behind her 29 peers and their teachers.

Now she has joined my school, which goes, admittedly, a bit over the top when it comes to celebrations and...well, just about everything. She has no idea what she's in for. Regardless, tonight, she hysterically sobbed, "They think I'm going to be in the parade, BUT I'M NOT!!!" With great contempt she declared her intentions -- she would just stand in the hallway. (The reality is, she probably won't even want to do that tomorrow.)

Not ten minutes after this episode, which came a mere 5 minutes after her daily after-school snack meltdown, Big Girl emphatically told her sister, Little Girl, "I just can't take it. I cannot take your crying. You cry about everything! You cry when you want something, you cry for food, you cry for your pacie, you cry for your drink. I cannot take this crying all the time!"

OK. Am I hearing things? Did she really just say that? Who does she think she is???

I tried. I tried really hard to be as sweet as I could be, but I just HAD to point out to her how much she sounded like she was talking about HERSELF.

"Baby, do you know anyone else who cries a lot? What you just said sounded a lot like you..." I began to explain. Of course, she denied any parallels.

I KID YOU NOT -- It was not 1 minute later when she decided she was thirsty. Yep. You guessed it! MELTDOWN, BABY!

Do you ever feel like you're the only sane one? For me, that's a little sad...

I need to teach this girl to vacuum.

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Author's Note: Wondering how it all worked out with the parade? She made liars out of us -- completely. Fire Daddy, faculty friends, other parents and I were all braced for the worst...and Big Girl paraded proudly as Sleeping Beauty with the rest of the approximately 400 Kindergarteners and first graders -- sans tears. I thought I was going to faint out of shock! Who knew?

Do You Like Roller Coasters?

It occurred to me today, as I realized I was walking around my school with a queasy stomach, waiting for the other ball to drop, that my life is like a roller coaster. I don't know how you feel about roller coasters, but they're not my favorite. I like a good wooden roller coaster, on occasion. (I've learned that wooden roller coasters are my style: they're fast and they go up and down WITHOUT going upside down.) However, I really could do without them, too. I can get my thrills on a jet ski or some other fast moving vehicle that feels "safe" to me. (Yes, I realize that my sense of safety is, at times, nothing more than a false sense of security.)

Ever had a REALLY GREAT week? One of those weeks when you feel like you're Queen of the World. One of those weeks when you feel like Sally Field in her 1985 acceptance speech ("...You like me. Right now, you like me!"). One of those weeks when you strut everywhere you go, confident that you're good enough, you're smart enough, and, doggone it, people like you!

In the midst of one of those weeks, you are on your game. You can handle life. In fact, you're a master. You've got your stuff together. Alright, world, bring it on!

On the other hand, there's those weeks when the phrases "spiraling out of control" and "it all went downhill" completely characterize your life. Visions of yourself in a Twilight-Zone swirl flood your mind. You see Almira Gulch (better known as the Wicked Witch of the West, pre-cyclonic-transformation) pedaling her little bicycle through swirling winds outside your window. Your home is a Money Pit and your family reminds you of the Bundy family. Ugh.

How did this happen? Just last week you rocked! What went wrong?

I start to wonder, what triggered it all to disintegrate? Was there a point when you could have turned it around? Or, at least, kept it from getting too bad? Is it a mind over matter thing? Would positive thinking help? Deep breathing? Feng shui? Incense? A voodoo doll???

Wouldn't you like to take some of those really great weeks and spread them around like icing on a cake? Back and forth with your spatula till the waves are Betty Crocker approved.

I don't know about you, but I need a cupcake.

Prozac, Take Me Away!

Long ago and far away, women used to wash their worries away in a relaxing bubble bath. A leisurely soak in a hot, steamy bathroom, shut away from the world, screaming children and barking husbands. Aaaaah. A calm, thirty or so minutes to yourself and you come out with soft skin, a sweet aroma, and a new attitude.

That sounds nice, doesn't it? That would be nice if I HAD thirty minutes to spend DOING NOTHING! That would be nice if I could shut the bathroom door! That would be nice if my husband could put pajamas on the girls without an assistant!

Today, I needed a bubble bath. Wait...scratch that. Monday, I needed a bubble bath. By last night, I needed a forty-eight hour spa retreat! Today? I took a Prozac.

Aaaaaaah. I know they say it takes a few weeks to feel the effects, but they lie. I felt them, baby. You may say it was a placebo effect...who cares, is what I say! Amazingly, amidst the insanity of my afternoon, my blood pressure remained below 150 today! My blood remained below the boiling point. No steam whistled from my ears. My nostrils did not morph into the nostrils of a charging bull.

I love Prozac. I love Prozac so much, I think I'm going to take a hot bath.

Anybody care for some vino?

To Do Tomorrow:
1. Call for Rx renewal.

Mommy Guilt

You do your best everyday, but we're all human. You know the days. Your patience is unusually thin and you're determined that you will NOT deal with the same arguments, fights, struggles AGAIN today. TODAY, you will put your foot down, by gosh!

Today was one of those days for me and my older daughter.

She thinks she has a bladder of steel. However, she doesn't. Well, maybe she does...I'm not entirely decided. Anyhow, she waits...and waits...and waits...until she "feels the feeling" (which means she's been feeling it for about an hour, I think) and then she panics and has to go -- in tears and protests the whole time!

Today, after our usual teary-eyed after school battle over snacks (Her: Mommy I'm hungry. Me: I don't have any snacks, we'll get you something as soon as we get home. Her: But I can't wait that long!!! Cue hysterics.), I gave in and stopped at a gas station to pick up a quick snack for her and sis. We load up, momentarily happy and satisfied, and are on our way to Sissy's school.

You know how it is, not two seconds after you turn into traffic, you hear, "Mommy, I'm going to go potty as soon as we get home." (This means she's going to wet her pants like NOW.) I'll spare you the hysterical details of our very short ride to the next gas station restroom (filthy, by the way) AND the hysterics at the noisy and exceptionally forceful air hand dryer.

Skip to home...the girls have eaten and we're well into homework. She's busily working on her patterning homework, remarking about the diarrhea brown color she chose to include in her pattern (???), when little sis comes along and strikes up a game....a game that involves running and screaming all around the house.

This is another nightly struggle at our house. With one child that requires much more sleep than the other and one night owl, bedtime is a chore to say the least. Baby Girl gets all fired up come 8:00, while Big Girl needs to wind down before bed. Now, remember, I'm not having any of it tonight! I'm pullin' out the big guns, baby!!!

After a flashing of the iron fist and a brief

timeout one, I found my elder daughter writing me this note.


Can you say, I'm the meanest mother in the world???

Oh, by the way, enter neurotic teacher. She's reading her letter of apology to me and realizes she omitted the "ou" in "you". What do I do? I launch into a writer's conference. "I love how you wrote all the sounds you heard. I love your letter. You know what I do when I find a mistake? I circle it and write the correction right above it. Would you like to try that?"

She loved the new strategy. :) That's my girl!!!