Compassion – Who Really Gives a Rats @ss Anymore?

April 29, 2013 By 5 Comments

imagesThe other day, my 15-year-old and I were having a conversation about the state of the world. 

It was prompted by the Boston Bombings, and became a discussion about the tangled trail of human tragedies and her belief that people today don’t really give a crap about other people.  In fact, she said, “People don’t really give a rats @ss about things or other people unless it is happening to them or affects them personally.”

I tried with a hopeful heart to point out all the good things people do.  The way communities come together to help a family, the way churches and organizations form to volunteer time and resources to help others.  The good things that often stem from a tragedy, the friendships made in cancer wards etc.  She wasn’t buying it.

She told me a story about a boy in her class who committed suicide last year.  Up until he did so, she said the teachers and administrators at her school as well as the bulk of the student body were ‘mean’ to this kid.  She believed he had been written off, despite that he was known for smoking pot and getting into trouble and was probably in need of some help.  Then, his funeral turned into a city-wide event – and filled a church to the gills and beyond with people crying and sobbing what she believed were fake tears of guilt.  Many of these same people decimated by his death, adults and children alike,  were the very ones who had nothing good to say about this boy, and who never once reached out a hand or extended themselves to him.  In her eyes the mourning and production in the aftermath was fake, and only a resolution to guilt that people were feeling for treating this young man as disposable to begin with.  And she points out that today, almost a year later – very few people even talk about this young man anymore.

She talked about how at school most young people only get involved in other people’s problems because they are nosy, and likened it to rubber- neckers on the highway slowing down to see an accident.  For a split second they feel compassion, they may offer a word of kindness or some advice, or metaphorical blanket of warmth in the moment - perhaps send up a prayer – but then they move on and give the situation little further thought because it didn’t affect them.

She had in fact, tons of examples of fake compassion.  And although a large part of my hippy self wants to believe that there are a lot of people in this world who truly care, and who truly reach out to others – I have to admit that in many ways she is right. 

There are more people who are willing to remain complacent than there are who are willing to give something – whether it be their time, resources or heart.  We do tend to easily forget, quickly discard, and rapidly un-invest in anything that doesn’t affect us personally.

Sure, we all feel bad about things that happen.  We all hate to see people suffering, see the loss of life, see horrific tragedies like bombings or mass shootings.  And while it may instill many of us with fear and anger – the awful reality is that the majority of the world just moves on shaking their head.  If you gathered the percentages of those that help compared to those that do nothing – it would likely be shockingly low in relation to the overall population.

Why do people help?  What makes someone reach out to someone with an honest heart and compassionate soul?  For those that do because they care, it is simply that.  They care.  And they see humankind as an extension of themselves and realize that if they are able to help and spread love, then they should.  They even feel compelled to do so at a deep self and spiritual level.

And yet, in my young daughters defense, there are plenty of people who reach out momentarily only to relieve their own guilt or fear or anger or resentment about situation.  And plenty of other people who will message you on FB, approach you in the grocery store, or send you a text to check on you just so they can find out what is really going on in your life.  The information alone satisfies them, although their reaching out is done under the veil of compassion – it isn’t really compassionate at all.  It is self-serving and riddled with guilt.

I am not sure that there is a solution to this, or even if this can be classified as a problem.

Perhaps we are living in a world that has become desensitized to one another – that is living by a motto of “every man and woman for himself.”  Or perhaps this is just a defense mechanism so that we aren’t overloaded with fear and misery, and overwhelmed by taking on the broken wings of every bird in the world.  Truth is, I don’t know the answer.

She asked me if our house burned down, who would help us?  She asked me if I were to die and her and her sisters were to lose their mother, how long would it be before people forgot and moved on with their own lives?  And as far as the bombings and mass shootings and terrorist attacks – she reminded me that as soon as the news coverage is over, most will just forget and move on – while thousands of others will be affected for the rest of their lives. And she’s right, the ones personally affected will never forget.  But the rest of us, sadly….will.  Or will at least push it to the back of our minds.

She said, “Mom, is giving those people water – or collecting their shoes or selling t-shirts, really enough?  Or is it just a way for people to make themselves feel better about themselves – boosting their own ego temporarily?” 

I will admit that I was left in awe of her wisdom.  And saddened by her lack of faith in humanity.  I like to believe the best about people.  I like to think that I have raised my daughters to find the good in others, and to be compassionate souls.  But having people literally run over your dog in front of your house – then drive away without even slowing down to apologize while you stand there and watch a beloved pet die – leaves a sharp scar about the compassion in this world.

Still, I will continue to point out the good things to my daughter.  Will continue to try and keep her faith in humanity as inherently good alive.  I just wish the world would help me out a bit.

What’s your take?  Do people really care about one another?  Or are many acts of kindness just ways to inflate our own egos?

 

 

 

 

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Can a Licensed Professional Counselor Get You OUT of the Mom Funk

March 28, 2013 By Leave a Comment

CLIPART_OF_83319_SMJPG-2A few weeks ago, I wrote my article about the Mom Funk.  (If you haven’t read the article check it out!) The article was inspired by my waking up one rainy morning at 6:15 am, rushing to the kitchen and realizing that making peanut butter sandwiches that early in the day – for other people (no matter how much I love those other people) was a tad depressing.  After all, I do the same thing every day, at the same time every day.  (Although some days, I make ham sandwiches instead of peanut butter, which is kind of exciting!)  I was so overwhelmed that I started looking for help, which led me to this north Carolina licensed professional counselor.

Did peanut butter sandwiches, mounting laundry piles, a sink full of dishes, smelly arm-pits, physical exhaustion, a lack of creativity and motivation really mean that I needed professional help?  I don’t know.  But I do know this.

Here’s the thing.  Life is monotonous.  For women, for mothers – and hell, even for fathers and our children and teenagers - life is often about settling into routine that works.  But just because it works doesn’t mean that it is fulfilling, or satisfying, or that it prompts us to be at our best creatively and emotionally.

Prolonged, the feeling of being stuck in a rut can lead to all sorts of anxiety disorders, stress problems, and even depression.  When those feelings strike – its easy to feel like a total failure because the reality is – we all have so much to be grateful for.  How can we feel stuck in a rut, or bored, or restless, or depressed, or anxious – when we have so much abundance in our lives.

That is my number one pet peeve with self-help.  Often, it doesn’t tell us that it is okay to feel bad.  We are reminded to choose our destiny, choose our thoughts, take control of our own happiness to the point that when we don’t have those ‘cushy unicorn feelings’ we feel like failures.

My advice is short and simple!  Talk it out.  Talk to a friend, your mother, your aunt.  If your neighbor will stand at the fence long enough to listen to you rant – then use her ears as a sounding board.  See a counselor, or a therapist if you are truly overwhelmed with your duties in life, or need to be redirected to find inspiration.  Lean on your spouse.  Have a conversation with your dog or your kitty cat.  Use Facebook as a place to vent so that you feel less alone, because you will be surprised at the amount of people who come out of the woodwork to say, “HEY, ME TOOOOO!”  And this, feels validating.

My friends, we all have problems or issues.  There are times when each of us needs someone to lean on.  If you don’t know who to turn to, look for a counselor – or email me, and I will at the very least try to make you laugh!

 

**This is a sponsored post, but all opinions, advice and ideas are my own**

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Special Needs Child Meets “Me” The Asshole

March 14, 2013 By 7 Comments

I hope that most of you will read beyond the title, before berating me for what I realize now was discrimination against a special needs child. 

This is a story about awakening, about being re-acquainted with my value for each and every human – regardless (and sometimes despite) their behavior.  But mostly, this is a tale of understanding.  About never forgetting.

As humans – we tend to find fault or anger or make false judgment against things we don’t understand. That doesn’t make it right, or valuable.  We cannot just go around saying, “Well, I didn’t know all that,” and then find comfort in our belief systems that anyone who is different is not ‘right.’  And we certainly cannot expect to know each and every childs (persons) story – or think we have a right to knowing their story, before we can excuse or accept them for who they are.

I make no excuses for myself, except for sheer ignorance.  I tend to believe that I am an extremely understanding individual, and have tried to teach my kids that there are all sorts of people in this world and that we have to try to accept them all.

When it comes to the human beings that land on this planet, I do not believe there are any mistakes.  They are ALL here, WE are all HERE for a reason.  There is not ONE singular exception to this rule….

I am bit embarrassed to admit however, that I too – have unknowingly discriminated against a special needs child.  Not outwardly of course, but inwardly – within the confines of my mind and in conversations with my young daughter.

There is a particular child in my daughters kindergarten class who seems to be constantly out of sync.  On the multiple times that I have visited the classroom, all I notice is his bizarre and impulsive behavior and his lack of self-control.  My daughter comes home every day and tells me yet another story about this ‘little boy in her class’ who has once again, done ‘such and such.’

I always tell her shaking my head with disgust, “Well just stay away from him,” or “Maybe there is something wrong with him.”

I have told her that there are just some kids in this world that aren’t disciplined, and that have problems and that some kids just act badly at school.  Bad.  Badly.  (Words that I am ashamed to admit I used about a 6-year-old boy).  Rotten bananas are bad, not kids.

And yes, I will shamefully admit that I have felt sorry for his parents, have wondered what was wrong with his mother and father – and been curious about what atrocious things must be going in his home for him to act so strangely at school.  And, YES, I will further admit that I have felt resentment that this one child has taken up so much time in the conventional classroom, time away from the kids who did fit into the perfect mold of kindergarten academia.

Here’s the thing.  I didn’t know one thing about this boy.  Not one.  Just his name.  And yet I saw him as a ‘threat’ a ‘detriment’ and a person that “normal” kids should not have to deal with on a daily basis.  Yes, I did just write that sentence.  And yes, I feel like a complete and total asshole for admitting that here on a public blog. 

One of my all time favorite Facebook Pages/Blog is The Crumb Diaries.  I look forward to her posts everyday about her son Logan, who is a special needs teen.  I know all about indigo children (as I have one of my own), and I have fallen in love with Logan and his mother (they have no idea who I am) by reading her daily posts about life with Logan.  I have grown to see him as not special needs, but simply special. 

When I was young I wanted to be a writer AND a special needs teacher? 

I have always been able to pick out the kids in this world with a broken wing and extend my hand and my heart openly to give them wings.  So what the hell was wrong with me?  When did I become such a bitch? 

In a short conversation with someone who knew this child well and knew HIS story  I was swallowed whole with guilt and remorse for my feelings toward a child.  A child!   A fewllow human being.  I was guilty for words that I used to describe him without knowing HIS story.  Here I am writing a blog segment called Stories of Us on this blog, and yet I was forgetting that even children have stories that don’t necessarily read like an open book.  They are thrown into this world of standards and rules and when they don’t seem to fit into the puzzle – they are discarded or judged.

Had I really stepped so far off my moral and spiritual road to think that my thoughts were EVER okay?  Apparently, I had.  And apparently the Universe was going to remind me that although my kids may ‘look and act perfect’ on the outside – human perfection and love comes in all different wrappers.

Here’s what I didn’t know.  (Not that it should matter)

But, this boy was found in a dog crate at the age of 18 months while living with his drug addicted mothers home.  He had never had anything to eat at that point in his life – except a bottle.  He spoke not a word.  There’s more to the story that I wont share now, but you can rest assured that he is now in a loving and healthy home.

Here he was 4 1/2 years later, a handsome and healthy young boy with some developmental delays and some emotional problems.  I skimmed the playground to find him and saw him hugging a classmate.  When he accidentally got bark in another child’s face, he ran to the teacher to immediately confess and get a hug.  In fact, he hugged his teacher many times during that short 30 minutes.

There wasnt a ‘mean’ or ‘bad’ bone in this childs body and his heart, when I was really looking at HIM, not his differences - was as honest and pure as crystal.  C.R.Y.S.T.A.L!  And perhaps that is exactly what made him different.

As we walked back to class, me still reeling from my own guilt and horror – I stood back to walk with him as he seemed distracted following the line of students headed back to the building.  He accepted me as a friend without apprehension or shyness.  I looked into his eyes and wondered if he was ever held as a baby,  ever rocked to sleep.  There aren’t words to describe the despair I felt for him.  I grabbed his hand, and he told me – a perfect stranger – that he loved me.  And I think that he meant it.

I think that he really meant it, as tingles shuttered through my body as if I had just touched an angel. I knew I didn’t deserve to be loved in that moment, especially by him – a perfectly beautiful child, who I had written off as a ‘bad egg’ so to speak. 

Our teachers come in all shapes and forms.  This day, my teacher, my messenger from the Universe was a small boy with warm hands and a big heart that I may have missed out on seeing due to my own close-mindedness.

I have never once considered myself close minded until this moment in my life.

The truth is, I shouldn’t have had to learn his story to be accepting.  That is our responsibility from the get go, to accept others.

No one has a responsibility to share with us the reasons, or diagnoses, or unexplained history, or medical definitions of why anyone is the way they are.  We (I) cannot walk around this world with a box to compartmentalize people by shape, size, or color as if we are all Legos. 

Sure, we are all one small part of a bigger plan – a larger picture, a massive and tall Lego tower, where each of us has a place to belong – but none of us have any right to make decisions about where that place is.  Not ever.

In the end, it was me with the special need – not this little boy.  And I am grateful, that he was there to teach me, to put me back on the path of real human acceptance and love.

 

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Habemus Papam – Lessons for All of Us

March 13, 2013 By Leave a Comment

The pope.

If someone were to ask me a week ago what the Pope’s name was, I would have said – with some authority – Pope John Paul the (insert number).  I grew up a long time ago, during the John Paul Pope eras, and under the influence of Catholic churches.  We went to mass, not church.  Much of what was said during church was in Latin.  We had CCD, and didn’t go to church on Wednesdays.

Now, I live immersed in the Bible Belt.  Fire and brimstone Baptist churches on nearly every corner.  So far, my family and I have not found a fit that works for us – which by  no means, indicates that we are ungodly.

The last few days however, have re-introduced me to something that I feel is so incredibly lost in this world. 

As the Cardinals were locked in choosing the new Pope, I would watch with a whimsical heart the people gathered around the Sistine Chapel, with binoculars in the square outside.  As the puffs of black smoke, indicating no decision had been made, stoked out of the chimneys, even from thousands of miles away, I could feel the emotion.  The connection.  The deep and emotional bond to what in some form or another is a part of our history as humanity.

And I have to say that it was breathtaking. 

While the media felt there was a need to transcribe and talk, and over evaluate and translate every thing being said and done, the truth is that a watchful eye – a Godly heart (from any religion or belief system) needed no outside assistance to be understood.

Despite the fact that the new Victor of Christ has been systematically elected in a process virtually untouched from centuries ago,  just TODAY – the truth is it probably feels much like it did centuries ago.

The beauty in the ceremony and the tradition, is not something that we see today.  Even presidential elections are riddled with corrections to history that seem to make them nothing but a necessary evil of being elected as the President of the United States.  I expect no distractions from this election, which was likely sincerely led by Godly intervention and ASKING – as we too often encounter in so many other areas of life today, from beauty pageants to local elections.

There are so few things in this world that we, the people – haven’t screwed up.  There are so few things in life, in which our worlds from one continent to another collide so effortlessly.  This isnt being turned into a South American versus a European ‘thing.’  It is a only being seen as a part of of our unity to one another.  A unity that spans language, and time, and follows tradition. 

For me, watching this unfold has nothing to do with religion, or choosing a church, or believing in God.  It has to do with waiting for something as simple as white puffs of brilliant smoke to pipe from a chimney to alert the world that a new leader has been chosen.  And then, the immediate reception with people cheering and booming Habemus Papam, from the courtyards surrounding the Sistine Chapel.  I wish I could have experienced what it was like in that moment to actually be there.

Pope Francis is here.  His name, probably rightfully so for the world we live in today - defined means simplicity and humility and poverty.

I believe that each of us could afford a little more simplicity and humility in our lives.  And I do think at times, that whatever (and regardless of) our spiritual beliefs, many of us – have become poverty-stricken spiritually - lacking values and ignoring our connection to the singular thread that at some level, at some point in ALL OF OUR HISTORY - binds each of us to one another.

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Confession – I Suffer From Dentist Dental Dread

March 7, 2013 By 4 Comments

dental imageI can still remember the name of my childhood dentist.  His name was Dr. Pincock, and I hated him.  Back then – you know in the days when parents could care less what kind of bed side manner a physician had with their children, nothing like those at Orem Dentist ,I would sit in his chair as quietly as possible while he did whatever it was he did with my teeth.  We never got cool coins after cleanings, got berated for having cavities and certainly didn’t have movies to watch while we lain helpless  in the chair.

We DID have laughing gas – and that’s about the only thing I can remember enjoying about my dental visits. In fact there are some days now that I wish I had a tank of laughing gas I could attach to.  

Funny thing is that I have NEVER ever really gotten over my fear of the dentist.  I started having adult dental issues when I was pregnant with my twins.  I had to have 2 teeth pulled, and of course – they used the short-term Novocaine so that it would be safe during pregnancy.  I can remember cancelling, not showing and rescheduling this appointment six million times.  Finally, I did it – but I it took me over an hour to get to the appointment because the dreaded ’fear diarrhea’ hit me and I had to stop at least 8 times to use gross bathrooms.  (Which is difficult enough when you ARENT pregnant)

Over the last year, I have had a multitude of dental issues.  I use the excuse that dental work is expensive as a reason not to get these issues taken care of.  And I even lived for  months with the sort of excruciating pain that disables people.  I visited with my doctor, had a CT scan, met with a neurologist and was diagnosed with some sort of neuralgia.  Turns out, all the pain and misery that I was going through was really due to yet another tooth.  Apparently, all it would take to end this cycle of pain and taking way too much ibuprofen was to have the tooth pulled.  Simple, right?

The funny thing is that once I had the appointment to get the tooth pulled, all the pain went away.  So I figured I didn’t really need to have it yanked after all.  This is what people with irrational fears do – they make excuses and find reasons to avoid their fears.  So, I waited.

I’m sure you can guess where I am going with this.  About a month ago, the tooth, face, head, neck pain all returned with a fury.  Instead of calling the dentist, I do what I always do – and started using every home remedy from vinegar to hot sauce, turmeric and aspirin – to try to cure the pain.  Eventually, I made an appointment for this past Monday.  I had literally talk myself in to it.  My mother in law offered to give me a Xanax before my appointment to help ease my fear.

Sounds stupid – but this fear, is REAL!  REAL I tell ya.  I can break out in a cold sweat just thinking about it.  As fate would have it, I got an appointment reminder Sunday evening that my daughter had a orthodontist appointment the  next morning, at the exact same time that I was scheduled to have this stupid tooth pulled.  So I did what any person living in denial and fear would do.  I cancelled MY appointment again.

I really hate myself for being this afraid of the dentist.  I also really hate the discomfort I live with all because of a tooth.  I also am having a hard time rationalizing this dental dread.  I can easily call and make the appointment – but the reality is, I might not go.

Maybe I need someone to come and hold my hand.  Maybe I need copious amounts of laughing gas.  Maybe I need Xanax.  Or maybe, I could just woman up a little – realize that I survived birthing 4 kids and engorged boobs, and just go have this tooth pulled.  I know that this fear of the dentist, which I can only blame on Dr. Pincock, is much more frightening than actually having the tooth pulled.

So today, I am asking for help!  Rub my hair and tell me it will be okay.  Remind me that people get teeth pulled every day.  Offer to come with me and hold my hand.  Tell me the wonderful stories of your own dental experiences.  You know, treat me like a big baby and don’t judge me because I am admitting raw, carnal fear of something that rationally, I realize is ridiculous.

Anyone else afraid of the dentist?  Or is there something else lurking in your psyche that makes you turn into a 2-year-old looking for the monster under the bed?

 

(Yo, this is a sponsored post!  But all opinons, ideas and fears are completely my own!)

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Pocketful of Joules – Blogger Winter Swap

March 2, 2013 By 3 Comments

296925_350131478402580_1223385214_nI hate winter.  And I hate mail.

Winter is cold and the mail only seems to deliver me bills, or fancy catalogs filled with things that I cannot afford to buy.

So when Joules over at Pocketful of Joules, (which by the way if you havent checked her out, YOU NEED TO) was looking for participants in her winter blogger swap, of course I opted in.  Imagine, getting something in the mail that would make the trek through the cold wind to the mailbox actually worth it!!!!  Plus, I am a firm believer that on our worst days, or when the world feels like it is about to cave in around us – the Universe will always come through with something good, exciting, happy, and fun that reminds you are a worth it.

Sadly, being a participant – it meant I had to send out a gift to.  And I am the worlds biggest procrastinator.  I did finally get my gift out – a few days late of course, and received my gift the same day. 

In the game, we were supposed to figure out who sent us the gift.  And I will be honest, I have no idea.  I know that the person who send out my winter care package likes cinammon because there were cinammon muffins and candles, and she must be pretty awesome since she sent me some cinammon latte as well.  I love candles, and have already burned through both the candles she sent.  I am thinking that my mystery blogger may have also known that I am slightly diabetic at times (did you know cinammon helps regulate blood sugar) although I dont think I ever admitted that on my blog.  Perhaps she is a psychic.  Whihc would be totally cool, because I have always wanted a psychic reading.

Truth is, I have never been good at board games like Clue, and I always flip to the back of mystery books to see the ending because I am impatient.  So I cannot guess who sent me my gift.  But I can say this, IT MADE MY DAY!  It came in the mail on a blustery day, and was the ONLY thing in the mailbox (which means no bills YAY!)  So to whomever my mystery blogger swapper was – here is a big, virtual, hug!

I love that Joules takes the time to do these little things that equate to random acts of kindness.  That makes her pretty hot in my book.  And I am even more grateful that someone in this great big world thought to send little old anonymous me, who she didnt know a gift in the mail.  Can you say win-win!

So Joules – WHO WAS MY MYSTERY MATCH UP?

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Stories of Us – Stacy

February 18, 2013 By 2 Comments

imagesCAE3CBG3This week, my Stories of Us Post is about someone who in all honestly, I don’t know very well. I do know that we share the same ‘escape to the beach as soon as the kids are grown’ dream, but other than that, I don’t know her as a friend. 

But I do know one thing when I see it, and that is PASSION!

Stacy has passion.  The kind of passion that makes people without passion realize that they are missing out on life by not taking themselves, or their dreams seriously.

In my own life, I am always at my best when I am passionate about something.  Even if that something is baking cookies (which would be a shot in the dark because I hate to cook) – if passion is involved, I cannot fail. 

I admire passion in other people, regardless of what that passion is for.

Passion is a fire that burns from the inside out, that lights up the eyes like glowing jewels, that is worn on the face with pride, that enables people to spew confidence and erases all signs of petty things like jealousy and hate.

Passionate people GIVE.  And share.  And expect much from others.  Passionate people work hard.  Passionate people aren’t afraid to be honest.  Passionate people want EVERYONE to succeed.  Passionate people are driven by a different wheel than people who do things just to get reward in return. 

When someone is passionate – in my humble opinion, they are living THEIR life in perfect harmony with where their love is the greatest.  And it shows. 

Stacy is one of those people. 

She is a dance teacher at a local dance studio in the town where my children go to school.  While my kids aren’t into dance, we know lots of girls who are.  These are girls at all levels of dance – some that may go on to dance for the rest of their lives and others who are there because they like the frilly outfits and music.  And from what everyone says, Stacy is equally passionate about every student she has regardless of skill or talent.  When I approached Stacy on Facebook to get a little information about her for this post, here is what she said:

Well, okay.  I’m not that exciting, but here goes!  My mom put me in dance when I was 5 years old.  I took locally until about the age of 14, and then I started dancing with the youth ensemble, 3 days/week, at the Atlanta School of Ballet.  I used to love to attend weekend workshops and went to my first Tremaine Dance Convention at the age of 16.  I fell in love with the hip styles of the L.A. choreographers and continued going to as many of his conventions as possible through high school.  I tried out for a scholarship to Joe Tremaine’s studio in L.A. and got it.  I moved to L.A., from tiny little Bremen, at the age of 18!!  I danced, worked and lived life for 4 1/2 years.  I decided to come back to GA. and open my own studio.  I had one in Douglasville for 15 years, and have owned Bremen for 9 years.  I ran both for 3 years, but it just got to be too much for me to handle.  James (her husband)and I met when I moved home in December of 1989.  We have been married for almost 22 years.  We have two daughters Mackenzie and Reese.  I plan to continue teaching until Reese graduates, which will be my 30th year of owning a studio.  At that time, James plans to retire from over 30 years at ATT, and we will move to the beach and enjoy life!  I hope that helps.  Let me know if you need anything else.

But there is much that she left out about herself. 

I think one of the most amazing things that Stacy has done, aside from her dance studio – is to open that said studio to women, other moms to come and join her in the mornings for a FREE workout.

Each day, Monday through Friday after school drop off, she has sent out an open invitation to EVERYONE in the community to come to her studio and do an intense workout WITH HER.  She stands in the front of the room, (making the rest of us look pathetic) , and encourages each and every one of us to push our bodies.  To work harder.  To push through.

The thing is, she could do this by herself. 

She could only invite HER friends, or the parents of her students. 

She could choose to NEVER get on Facebook and tag as many people as she can find to invite women to join the workout. 

She could charge for this. 

She could be like so many women in this world who are petty, judgmental, and jealous and who would NEVER think to share their success, their fulfillment, their inspiration and their PASSION with others – out of fear that someone might ‘do better’ or ‘look better’ than her. 

When one of the women succeed and start losing weight, or change their life through exercise, she could ignore their success or feel threatened by it.  Yet she IS the one who sings their praises in the loudest voice, genuinely proud FOR them.

Be honest! Not very many women today are confident or secure enough to share their beach body secrets with other women.  Women tend to hang around in tribes, and to be intimidated by other women who are beautiful or successful.  But not Stacy.  She is driven by passion, and therefore her extended invitation to so many other women, is done so willingly and lovingly.  (And for those that don’t know what her morning workout class is like, be warned – do NOT show up unless you are fully ready to work, because Stacy will make you push yourself to your limits)

I truly admire Stacy and her passion.  I also admire the fact that she is setting such an amazing example of just how empowering one woman can be when she extends her passion to others. 

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What Does LOL Mean to You

February 7, 2013 By Leave a Comment

Face it, we have entered a new world, where grammar and spelling, punctuation, sentence structure, syntax and fragments don’t mean a thing.  Most teens today cannot even form a complete sentence, and who needs to know how to spell when you have auto correct screwing everything up for you and correcting all your mistakes.  Plus, acronyms are everywhere.  For instant, LOL!  What does LOL mean to you?

Most people would say “Oh that’s easy, it means laugh out loud!”  Right!?

imagesWhen the acronyms first starting showing up, I admit – I’m old school and I had to look them up to see WTH (What the hell) they meant.  While I could write paragraphs using a beeper with just numbers – (WHO REMEMBERS THAT?) I had no idea what all these letters put together meant.

Since then, my urban dictionary has been put aside unless I come across something really unusual.  I have even made up my own acronyms such as BFBIAAH, which for those of us that have Pages, know means (Because Facebook Is An A-Hole).

However apparently, there are still quite a few people in this world who have not become accustomed with the latest and greatest acronyms, that truly make it damn near unnecessary to actually have a real face to face conversation with anything.

With the addition of emoticons and acronyms, we can have an emotion packed, meaningful and fluent form of communication without ever seeing another person.  (this is great news for people afraid of leaving the home)

Since I am old school, I will be the first to admit that when my kids text me from the living room it pisses me off.  Or, when I ask them to CALL their dad – they text him instead I get irritated.  ”What’s the difference,” they ask as if I am from the stone age?

One of the cutest things though that has happened lately concerns the acronym LOL. 

When my teenagers got I-phones this year (an apparent rite of passage into high school), and Verizon (THIS IS NOT AN ENDORSEMENT BECAUSE I AM MAD AT THEM RIGHT NOW BUT AM STUCK IN A CONTRACT) started giving away free I-phones, all the grandparents got on board and upgraded their flip phones for smart phones.  It was funny to see my teens teaching their grandparents how to use the phones, how to text and take pictures.  “Stop mashing the buttons so hard – they aren’t really buttons, they are a TOUCH SCREEN,” they would instruct – shaking their heads.  At first, the grandparents would call the teens every few hours to learn how to download an app, or what to do when a certain screen appeared etc.  And then, the grandparents caught on.

Now, the grandparents and the granddaughters text quite often.  Cute, loving little texts such as I love you, and have a good day, or what are you doing.  It really is a pretty cool thing – and an easy way for my kids to remind the grandparents that they are thinking about them (and vice versa)

However, their Papa, would text my girls and he would always put LOL at the end of the text.

The girls would giggle, and say, “Papa is cra-cra (teen slang for crazy) Mama, he is constantly saying LOL!” 

“Maybe he doesn’t know what it means,” I asked?

A few more days passed and more LOL’s on texts that were not LOL worthy.  Teen one would text  Papa, “I had a bad day,” and he would respond “LOL!”  They would be left SMH (shaking my head) or LMAO (laughing my ass off!)

Finally, one of my daughters asked (via text of course) “Papa, why do you keep typing LOL?” 

His answer sort of summed up the relationship between my daughters and their Papa in three little words when he replied……

LOTS OF LOVE

He thought LOL meant LOTS OF LOVE and he was continuously sending my girls lots of love!

How freaking priceless is that?????

Lots of Love Ya’ll!  Lots of LOVE!

 

Filed Under: Wisdom Tagged With: , , , ,

How to Powder Your Balls

February 6, 2013 By 2 Comments

Last week, I posted a photo of powdery foot prints on Facebook that led a trail from the bathroom, through the living room – to the kitchen and back again. 

These footprints, were not left by some mysterious ghost or spiritual being who was trying to make me aware of their presence.  They weren’t even left by a hapless 5-year-old who went a little nuts with the baby powder after her shower.  And they certainly weren’t left by me.

They were left by my husband of all people.  A grown, 43-year-old man – who has a fascination with baby powder.  He loves body powder.  If I come home with a fresh bottle of Shower to Shower, he gets literally giddy.

The problem is, that like this picture shows below (and the explanation above) he OBVIOUSLY has no idea how to properly (or at least politely) powder his nether regions.  I have always imagined that the reason he loves powder is simply because he has balls, and I know that two little sticky things hanging between my legs would drive me crazy too – especially when its hot outside.  So I imagine again, that the powder helps to alleviate some of that discomfort.  (Any men want to confirm this, please feel free to do so!)

428301_486246241431822_695192921_nThe problem is, that putting on powder after a shower is one thing.  But shamelessly leaving powder footprints all over hardwood floors throughout the house is quite simple another.  After all, WHO pray tell will become so annoyed by the powder that they feel compelled to clean it up?  Yep.  ME! 

Well, apparently according to some of the Facebook comments on this picture, I am not the only women in a relationship with a man who has no idea how to powder his balls. 

There were plenty of women who said, “OMG My signficant other does that too!”

Seriously, guys?

Its bad enough that you leave the little razor shavings in the sink for us to wash down the drain.  It’s annoying but tolerable  that you cannot cook a meal without leaving the kitchen looking like you fed 600 people.  And it’s certainly okay to sit in the bathroom for 30 minutes and forget to spray air freshener before you get up, with the little red ringlets from sitting so long tattooed on your butt.

But this!  This is atrocious.

Leaving powder all over the bathroom floor, all over the house.  So much so that footprints show up.  And then pouring powder down in your boxers and doing the little “snap thing” that makes it look like a cloud of dust is escaping from your britches is downright ridiculous.  You are a grown man.

Do you really need to use so much powder that when you fart, a dusty cloud rushes from your ass?

Plus, do you have idea how difficult it is to mop up powder that seeps into the grains of the floor. (Of course you don’t!)  Today, I am offering a little instruction!  How to powder your balls.  Politely!

1.  Take your shower – dry off INSIDE the shower – and then powder IN THE SHOWER.  Then, and this step is important – before you get out of the shower with powder all of yourself, put a towel down and then get dressed.

2.  Another option is to powder in a room with carpet.  (Although the dust will still get all over every piece of furniture in the room) But at least you wont leave footprints and a dust cloud all over the house - AND powder is easier to vacuum of carpet than it is to mop off the floor.

3.  Get dressed, like totally dressed – then use SMALL amounts of powder on the areas you need it most.  This way, most of the powder will stay in your clothes.

4.  Go outside completely naked – powder your entire body, put on all of your clothes (including socks) before coming back indoors.

5.  Let your wife or partner powder your balls for you.  Chances are she will take much more care to not get powder all over the place, AND you will get a cheap thrill.

6.  STOP SNAPPING YOUR UNDERWEAR AFTER YOU PUT ON POWDER! You’re not 4 years old, and your not a superhero with magical powers to ejaculate itching powder into the air. 

Unfortunately, these are the ONLY solutions I could come up with to this little problem.  But rest assured men – THIS IS A PROBLEM!

 

 

Filed Under: Wisecracks Tagged With: , , , ,

Momspirational – Strange Addictions

January 23, 2013 By 4 Comments

I confess.  I have a strange addiction.  unfortunately, it’s not so strange that it would be worthy of an episode of the show with the same name.

Yesterday, while shopping for replacement boots for my 5-year-old who accidentally peed in her new ones (There’s a STORY THERE), me and the clan ran into several stores.  My favorite shops are places like TJ Maxx, or Marshalls or Ross.  Not because of the prices, but because they always have plenty of cool little under $10 items (that I can buy without feeling guilty) to indulge in my strange addiction.

My strange addiction that is, to notebooks. I LOVE NOTEBOOKS. 

This is a picture of the one I bought yesterday on our little shopping trip.

notebookSpiral notebooks, legal pads, journals.  You name it, I love them.  Even though I don’t really need any notebooks, especially since most of my writing is done online – I am constantly retreating to my childhood years when I kept a diary, and purchasing notebooks.

Every time I buy one, I get a little thrill and look forward to the ‘things’ I am going to put in the notebook.  Maybe it will be my big idea for the next Best Selling book.  Maybe this notebook will help me get organized, or be a great place to start recording daily bills and expenses.  Maybe I will use it for my dream journal.

The truth is that since I am from the paper generation, the sheer possibility that exists with a blank piece of paper is still exciting to me.  I always say, “THIS IS IT,” this is the notebook that will help me fulfill all of my (insert anything) dreams.

(Most of the time I find these notebooks days later filled with scribbles from my children…the newness and possibility vanished) Which is probably good because it allows me to find another one. 

I have tried to get my kiddos to keep notebooks and diaries.  My old diaries sit up in my attic, and there’s a small quilt of comfort that I have just knowing they are there.  From time to time, I will thumb through my diaries of old and remember an old me, and be reintroduced to parts of my life that I had forgotten about.  Sometimes, I just laugh at the confused words and drama filled paragraphs that I find, the hurt from an another me barely tangible on my tongue.

I think that each of us has a brand new notebook, a new canvas that is just waiting to be written on.  The possibility of change is limitless.  For me, the notebooks represent that – especially in a landscape of motherhood that is constantly changing and that I cannot control.

What about you?  Do you have a strange obsession or addiction? 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Wellbeing Tagged With: , , ,