Woolly Mutts

Go. Fight. Win.

I am not a competitive person.  At. All.  This is most likely due to my childhood spent as an only.  I had no one to fight with, no one to compete against.  I never had to compete for my parents attention.  I sometimes wonder if this has made me selfish or insensitive.  I don't think so, but....I'm probably not the best judge of that.   For a person who tries to always make peaceful choices, this lack of need to be better, faster, stronger is a good thing.  In a world where you must rise above to be noticed?  Not so much, but I can live with that.

So, anyway, my lack of the competitive gene.  This manifests itself in all sorts of odd ways.  I am the worst game player ever.  Since I really don't care if I win, (Ok, I admit that the time I ALMOST beat Josh in Doctor Mario was sort of a new high for me.)I'm known for giving other players hints if I know the answer.  (Booooo, me.)  But worst of all is my complete lack of interest/understanding in team sports.  What the heck is up with that? Last week almost everyone I talked to asked about what kind of super bowl party I was going to/ hosting?  Uh...none?  What?  What was I going to do?  I'm sorry.  Is there some sort of rule that I missed?  Is the entire planet required to make taco dip and huddle (get it? Huddle?  hee hee) before the tele?  We did huddle before the tele, but we watched Downton Abbey. 

Before I continue, let me say that I am in no way indicating that all you die-hard fans out there are crazy.  (Ok, maybe a little crazy.)  I get that there is social value and that if you enjoy the whole win/lose scenario, watching a nail bitingly close game can be a grand old time.  I'm just talking about me here, so keep the hate mail to a minimum, please.

My first question is always why?  Why run down a long field with a ball in an attempt to escape being thrown to the ground and trampled by the opposing team?  Why attempt to hit a small white ball with a slender wood bat, thrown at you at shockingly high speeds, and then if you do hit it, run around bases?  Why?  Basketball, soccer, hockey (Oh man, don't even get me started on hockey)..why, why, why?  The answer I get most often is...because they can...which is probably about the best answer anyone could ask for and I get that.  Follow your dream, but with great wealth and fame comes great responsibility.  (I'm talking to you Michael Vick, you scumbag.  Sorry...I digress.)

Did you know that Peyton Manning drew a $23 million dollar salary, not including endorsements, in 2011?  His completely adorable brother Eli made just a little less, but after just pulling off the Superbowl win, will most likely pull ahead of his brother with larger paying endorsements. (Not to mention a $75,000 corvette.) When we speak of endorsement money we speak in the millions of dollars.  Close to 10 million dollars. 

The Peyton boys and their families are probably lovely people.  Perhaps they even use some of that money for global good.  I don't know.  I'm sure they don't kick puppies and they love their Mama, but folks, 23 million dollars?  23 MILLION DOLLARS?  That kind of money makes my brain hurt.  Nobody should make that sort of money....no wait.....the person who cures cancer, or aids, or finds a way to deal with traumatic brain injury.  The person who finds a way to keep 600,000 kids a year from dying of malaria.  Ends world hunger, brings water to those who must walk miles to get some safe enough to drink.  Even the person who finds a way to keep horrible men from beating their wives to a pulp, or killing them and then blowing up their kids.  That person or persons?  That person has earned $23 million dollars.  A guy who runs down a field in tight pants, makes a touch down creating a public opportunity to kneel down and thank God, does not.  Not even close. 

And you know the irony?  That person who might make a difference that would change our world monumentally for the better probably wouldn't even want that much money.  The fact of their accomplishment is better compensation than a $75,000 corvette. Go figure.

So,  you superbowl winning Giants (it was the Giants, right?), I challenge you.  When they  say to you, "You just won the superbowl. What are you going to do now?"  Instead of that old used up, going to Disney World answer, how about...I'm funding a clean water program,  or  I'm starting an inner city sports program,  or  I'm building a school in Nepal? 

I'm buying my Mother a house, would also be an acceptable answer.  Just saying.

 

Define and conquer

We are having one of the most lovely fall seasons that I can remember.  There have been no big storms to blow the changing leaves from the trees giving us more time to enjoy them.

And the sky....the sky has offered up sunsets and storm clouds that only come around at this time of the year. 

So, along with all this seasonal appreciation I've been fussing and stewing about my job.  As you may recall, about 3 months ago my boss had a meltdown (of which I am in a much better position to understand now that I'm doing her job) and left us with no notice.  There were all sorts of negative feelings and drama attached to that departure and when the dust had cleared there are now 3 of us doing her job.  I work Tues and Wed, Michelle Thurs and Fri, and Winniy Saturdays and off site sales. 

One would think that two days a week is a pretty cushy situation and in theory, it is.  However, it almost never is two days a week.  Sometimes it's 5 or 6, or 2 with a few meetings, or just 2 with my mind working 7.  It's that sort of job.  The face of it is a retail store, but the heart is a not-for-profit fair trade mission that fights to end poverty and makes peace a priority.  It's trying to keep our feet under us during an ugly economy where the siren song of Walmart's low (unethical) prices are nearly impossible to say no to.  Giving people a place to spend their hard earned dollars responsibly and in a way that will directly affect a person's life for the better is a privilege and a responsibility not to be taken lightly.  And there in lies my problem; I never take anything lightly.

As is my way, the stress of the job had me throwing emotion in all the wrong directions and being frustrated by things that are not my responsibility to be frustrated by.  All last week I had this nagging feeling like I wasn't the right person for this job.  It needs more of a people person; someone with more passion and energy.  Someone who is willing to live the job; or basically anyone that isn't me.  So much depends......and there it is.  So much depends on me.  What if I'm not enough?

So much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.

William Carlos Williams..  I love this poem.  I feel like that red wheel barrow.

Fear.  It was all about fear.  I'm afraid I can't do this job justice, afraid I'm going to so monumentally drop the ball that it will snowball into ruin.  I've never had a job with this kind of responsibility before...aside from being a mother, which I sort of rocked. :-) (I'm reasonably certain my kids will back me up on this.) 

And, once I actually named it as fear, I could let it go.

Maybe I'm not the best person for this job, but I'm what they've got right now and I'm going to give it my best shot.  I have a supportive board of directors and staff and I'm confident that if I trip up they will catch me.  At the end of the day it is a team effort of which I am only one player. 

Wouldn't it be lovely if you could purchase a can of confidence at Walgreen's for a buck and change with a free gift of positive thinking when you bought two?

Someday I want a REALLY big car.

Maybe something like this:

Just kidding. :-)  Probably more like this:

A REALLY big car is what we might call "outside the box" for me.  Currently I drive a Hyundai Accent.  It's a little 2 door hatchback that gets decent gas mileage and of which I have not one complaint.  Equipped with the "sport package" of power nothing I have become quite accustomed to using my key to lock the door and my entire arm to open or close the window.  Honestly, it is a fine little vehicle that has never required a visit to a repair shop.  To its humble self I mean no disrespect.  It's just that every now and then I would like a REALLY big car.

Wednesday morning I was in the Target parking lot and it was a zoo.  I had no idea that so many people had Wednesday morning off.  I managed a fairly good parking spot, went in and purchased some stocking stuffers for the cutest baby in the world, and came out.  As I was leaving, so was the car directly behind me and one about 4 spots down.  Waiting for my spot was the biggest honking SUV I have ever seen.  My entire car would have fit inside with room left for an all day shopping spree.  And, since it was such a HUGE vehicle, it was, of course, waiting in the exact middle of the lane.  Actually, waiting might be a kind word.  Tapping, yelling and breathing fire would be a bit closer to the truth.  

What came next was a little game of  "who is going when" with the car down the row leaving first and becoming trapped behind myself and car behind me.  Crazy Big Car budged not even a little so he-who-backed-out-first was forced to reverse down the lane to an open space and turn around.  I was next and being a little car, I was able to maneuver out of my spot and up next to the waiting behemoth with little trouble, but as I pulled up she looked down on me like I was a bug and snarled.  Really.  She snarled.  Oh goodness did I want a big car.  I wanted a gall darn monster truck so I could look down and say "snarl at this b*tch".    She didn't even wait for the other departing vehicle to leave before she bee-lined for my space.  The only joy I got was watching in my side mirror as she backed and pulled forward about 10 times so that she could fit into my spot.  Ha!  Take that you gas guzzling hog! Grrr.

Truly, I like driving a small car.  I like fitting into small spaces and not having to fill up my gas tank very often.  I don't mind be a chihuahua in a world of rottweilers.  Ah, but there are days when I wish I had a slightly louder bark.

Authoritive Anarchy

This is my father-in-law.  Adorable, isn't he?  He is pictured here with his equally adorable granddaughter, Katherine.  When it comes to politics, well....really pretty much any subject, FIL and I are on completely opposite sides.  He is conservative and I liberal.  I'm a tree hugging hippie, he...........is not. We occasionally joust back and forth, but for the most part we are content to leave our contentions at the door.  In truth, despite our differences I profoundly respect him.  By age, rank, and intellect he has earned the right to be so.  Perhaps I am simply a dying breed, but I believe there is great wisdom in respecting your elders.

Which brings me to something that has been on my mind lately....respect.  Is it just me, or does it seem that today's children are being raised to have little consideration and almost no respect for themselves or anyone else?  Working at the library and now in a retail environment, I have witnessed countless (COUNTLESS) interactions with rude children and their blase' parents.  "Madison is having a difficult day today", as Madison pulls three shelves of books on to the floor.  I don't care what kind of day Madison is having, that is unacceptable behavior and if the parent isn't holding the child responsible a domino effect starts that begins with the parent and continues down to grandparents, teachers and in future, employers. Something as simple as personal accountability seems to have been replaced by entitlement.

And, while I am building up a good head of steam here, what has happened to please, thank you, you are welcome, and excuse me?  Is raising polite, kind, considerate children no longer a priority? To give credit where it is due, while we visited in Nashville last year I observed many instances of lovely behavior from all ages of children.  Maybe the South should rise again.

I think, and having raised a couple of responsible and lovely people I have a little credibility when I say, that teaching children to be respectful of others helps them form a healthy respect for themselves.  There is a big difference between self respect and arrogance, just as there is between dis-agreement and dis-respect.

FIL and I might not always see eye-to-eye and I'm rather glad we don't.  While I might not agree, hearing his point of view does make me think and consider, which is always a good thing.  Now, if I can just get him to burn that Bush bobble head.

The end could possibly be near.

This morning Amazing husband calls and says," I have bad news."  Previous bad news phone calls on days that he is making his 2 hour commute in to work have gone something like "I'm fine, but the car is totaled." so I braced myself.  "The bug is sick." he says.  Ok, not crunched, sick.  I ascertain that he is fine, at work and will be calling a garage to come and assess the situation.  "How sick?", I ask.  "I think the engine is falling out of the bottom of the car."  To be honest, I have no idea how bad that is?  Can you just use a couple of screws and put it back where it belongs?  I do not do cars.  My life, up to about age 40, has been one long stream of s*#t cars.  Lots of them.  Amazing Husband ended all that with my very first, brand new car....the bug. 

It looks like this.  It came with balloons and fresh flowers and a little party when we bought it almost eleven years ago.  We had some great times with that car.  Trips to Door County, filling it with 3 dogs for a trip to the dog park, transporting my mother's favorite chair...good times.  Round for a reason, that little car.  It even does well in snow.  

So, I wait to hear its fate.  I fear that the news will not be good.  Actually, there is no way the news can be good.  Either it is an expensive repair or (sigh) goodbye.  I'll keep you posted.

A bad joke is still bad, even if 700,000 people think it's funny.

I love me some facebook.  I think it's about the best thing since sliced bread.  I was skeptical of social networking at first.  MySpace was full of youngsters looking for a place to hook up and I am neither young or hook-up able.  (for which my gratitude is endless)  Facebook has a home for everyone and every age.  Amazing Husband's 80ish father even has a page.  I have stayed connected with family and friends and re-connected with people I haven't talked to in years.  I LOVE that.  Love.  There are games that kill time (I prefer to think of it as a brain workout) and groups that help me keep up with favorite TV shows, and knitting heroes, and authors of beloved books, etc.  There is a little something for everyone, which is good.  Most of the time.

Yesterday I check in with facebook to discover that a new group has been added for all those Obama haters out there.  It comes with the following catchy title, complete with all caps and misspelled name:

DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZIE. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARAH FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN

That's their official page graphic on the right.

Now, for the most part, I ignore this sort of thing.  I was a child of the 60's and I think a little dissension and protest isn't entirely bad.  In fact, I was more than a little disappointed that the concept of protest had apparently fallen asleep when Bush decided Iraq needed our help to collapse upon itself.  What the heck happened to "Hell no, we won't go"?  The fact that we are a country of diverse population and belief is part of what makes us great, right?  However, a joke, which after reading a great number of the comments is what it is being classified as, stops being funny when a death wish, no matter how innocently veiled, is included.

Now folks, if you don't care for the current leader of our country, I'm good with that.  Personally, it think it's a little early in the game to find so much fault considering the gosh awful mess that was left for him, but hey, I'm sure you've got your reasons.  Wanting him dead, even jokingly, crosses a dangerous line.  And, if that wasn't bad enough, asking your God to pull the trigger.  Really?  Funny?  Wow.

Here is the thing that I really have a problem with; I don't think the majority of the Obama haters even have their facts straight enough to form an intelligent opinion.  Most of them are so eager to get on the train to AntiObamaville that they will grab onto any ticket that passes by.  Do your research, people.  If you have issues with the health care bill, or the economy, or who really takes care of the First Dog, be sure you know the real truth and not just the truth being fed to you by Fred the barber, or the ladies of your bridge club, or even Fox News.  There any number of reliable, unbiased sources out there.  FactCheck is a good place to start.  Regardless of opinion, you're gonna have to endure the current administration for at least another couple of years.  Might be good to be clear on what is really worth expending this much energy.

And to you Believers, you might want to spend a little time making things right with your God.  While you might have thought, "If you want to make me happy, Lord, taking out the President would be a great place to start" was funny, I'm guessing He is less than amused.

Lost: The Final Season (no spoilers cuz I'm clueless)

Dear LOST,

      I've missed you.  All your twists, turns, freaky music, and cute red (bad) robots; it was just way too long between visits.  So long, in fact, that when we met again last night I had a hard time remembering who was dead, or alive, of both, or neither.  I guess that's why you offered the recap that I decided I had better things to do and ignored.  Live and learn.

    So, to keep this short, even though it appears you've gone all Shrodinger's Cat on us (this, I must confess, was my amazing husband's observation since I have always been too pissed at Shrodinger for being mean to his cat to really grasp the experiment) I will continue to be faithful, right up to the very bitter end.  Despite a few not-so-fantastic seasons, LOST has been some of the best television to come along in a long, long time.  Don't let me down.

Mahalo,

Holly

P.S. Sayid, hang in there man. 

Tales of Naked Barbies.

I am a feminist.  Not the burn-my-bra sort of feminist, but rather the sort that would like to see women have the choices necessary to reach whatever potential they wish to achieve.  Being the mother of a daughter, I strove to try and lead her away from stereo types of what society tells us women should be and toward ways of thinking that would offer her a broader, choice filled life.  Yes, well,  lets just say it was society 1, forward thinking mother zip, zero, nada.  Not that she did not turn out just fine in the end, because she did.  The road we took to get there was just a little less feminist mom and little more cheerleading, Hooters, and a basement full of naked Barbies.

Ah, Barbie, you and I never could quite see eye to eye.  Even as a child I chose other dolls over your pose-able, bend-able, comb-able self and as a mother I REALLY didn't want you a part of my daughter's life.  They could dress you up in every fashion and uniform out there; give you glasses and a fake job at NASA, but beneath it all you were still the 12 inch waisted, pointed boobed, bimbo with great hair and an unhealthy tan. (Take that Malibu Barbie!)  You even kicked Ken to the curb, and after all the years he was loyal to your perky arse.  I told him he should have joined the military. But, despite our negative history, there you were, all packaged in pink at my daughter's third birthday party and her eyes shone like diamonds as she attempted to pry you from your over packaged and insanely secure box.  On that day I knew I was fighting a losing battle.

As the years past the Barbie population grew....and grew....and grew.  There were Barbie houses and cars and teensy little 4 inch heels (that's Barbie metric) to match every fashionable Barbie outfit.  The basement play room became Barbie central and I tried to look the other way until one day I glanced over to discover that the floor was littered with Barbies AND they were all naked.  It looked like the Barbie Apocalypse down there.  Some were even bald (egad!).  When asked, my daughter sort of shook her head and said she got tired of getting them all dressed.  Poor Barbie, exposed and broken by the burden of fashion.  Let there be light. (cue heavenly choir)

At that point  we had a basement of naked Barbies, a defined lack of interest in clothing them, and a brother that had had just about enough of bringing his friends to play and getting razzed about the mass nakedness in the basement.  Something must be done.....and you know....for the life of me I can't remember what exactly was done.  Maybe they ended up at the curb in a garbage bag (oh sweet revenge) or handed out to other friends, but in the end the basement play room become a naked Barbie free zone.  That is not to say no more Barbies entered the family, but they met with a better, more fashionable life than their predecessors.

So, the other night I turn on BBC America to watch the hilarious Graham Norton and what do I spy on the desk behind him??????   NAKED BARBIES.

Not a grand photo, but the best I could find.  Look over his right shoulder and there they are. This pic is just a small representation of the display.  I bet the table is 4 feet long and covered with naked Barbies.  Hysterical.  Absolutely brilliant.

Take that Barbie, you unrealistic b*t#h.  No girl can live up to the body proportions, not to mention jet setting lifestyle you exemplify, but you won't see us proper women standing, en masse in our birthday suits on a British talk show with our hair all a shambles.  Eat a sandwich, for heavens sake, and get real.

Our resident klepto.

Madagascar Moon Schmidt, a.k.a Maddie.  Black fur, gold eyes, last seen dragging yet another knitted item down the hallway. 

We have three cats.  Each cat has its own little set of quirks.  Frank is the King of cats and don't you forget it.  He is the oldest, wisest, and grumpiest.  Magnolia is the beauty queen who prefers not to have her fur ruffled because it takes so very long to get it back the way she likes it. Frank and Nolie are an item. Maddie is a loner and, except for the little stealing problem, the most normal of the cats.  Normal is such a relative word. 

Maddie likes wool.  Any knitted wool item left without protection will be pulled on the floor, dragged down the hallway and then kneaded and chewed.  When we first noticed this problem it was sort of cute.  After having to put countless projects back on the needles after she dragged it away and mangled it, not so much any more.  All knitting must be put back in bag; all yarn balls must be put away in room and door closed.  It is now a way of life to protect all wool from the claws of Miss Maddie.  We thought we had dealt with the issue.

Last week my bracelet was missing.  A friend had beaded me a beautiful black bracelet for my birthday.  It is the perfect size and I wear it frequently.  Bad habit of mine is to take off my jewelry as I sit at the computer.  Not the best practice, but I generally know where to go looking for what I can't find in the jewelry box.  I looked everywhere and no bracelet.  I happened to look out in the hallway and there was Maddie dragging my bracelet in her teeth.  What followed was the cat chase/fight for the bracelet.  I won. This time. 

So what is up with this new development? Is she now attracted to shiny things like a big furry, black crow?  Does it have something to do with my scent?  We will probably never know.  Good thing we're cleaning the basement cuz I bet she has a stash down there.  Who knows what we'll find!

Steps

One of the things about me that has changed since my mother's death, or perhaps rather more accurately her last months of life, is that I have become more fearful.  I'm sure a competent therapist could tell me why that is, but the reason doesn't concern me as much as my ability to rise above it.  I have found that where I was once a pretty brave little toaster, I now stumble a bit more often and question myself much more frequently.  I am also fearful for my health.  Considering the months of trips to various doctor's offices with Mother, I don't need to pay money to understand where that comes from.

Today I had my yearly girl visit with my nurse practitioner.  My next door neighbor used to call it the "under the hood check for women".  I've never had a bad pap or mammogram, but I was worried about this visit and after voicing this to my NP we talked about it for a bit.  I have to tell you that I love this woman.  She is fighting breast cancer herself so I think her empathy and compassion are real and born of life experience.  After some conversation she strongly suggested that I seek therapy telling me that the time spent with a therapist is like hearing yourself think.  Later in the day, when I had more time to consider the conversation, it occurred to me that this blog is rather like hearing myself think, and you poor souls are the audience to my own dialog with myself.  Just so you know, I appreciate it.  I have frequently planned to stop blogging about my experience with my mother and my personal grief process, and just when I do someone emails or calls and tells me how much my candid accounts have helped them cope with their own situations.  I'm glad about that.  We should never walk through the dark places without someone's hand to hold.

My "under the hood check" was fairly good.  There are a few concerns that need to be dealt with, but nothing life threatening.  I can move forward with the next step of that without too much concern.  I haven't decided about the therapy part yet.  My rational self knows that it certainly couldn't hurt, but my fearful self thinks it's somewhat self indulgent.  I haven't completely ruled it out. These past months have been all about steps.  Moving forward, upward, checking in with myself as I go and reminding myself that I am worthy of the bounty of goodness in my life.  Each new revelation is a step in itself.

For each of you that have continued to tune in and "listen to me think" I'd like to say thanks.  You are all lights along the pathway.  Namaste.