Shmee has left the building...

New Website, New Business Model, New Attitude

2010-10-12T21:05:00.004-04:00

Please visit me at my new site... andreamaurer.com
I can't wait to see you there!

Love, Shmee

Magic (or Lunacy...you choose)

2010-10-06T13:04:00.015-04:00

I'm not sure I can adequately describe this week's events without sounding like a complete loon. And the even stranger thing is the realization that I still think there may be someone left out there that doesn't already think I'm a loon and also that I still might actually care.

Okay here goes... I have a daily ritual that I try to adhere to. I start off by reading a few tidbits that I receive via email (Seth, Notes from the Universe, Martha's Quote of the Day, etc.) along with a chapter of the Tao Te Ching (Steven Mitchell's version). I then spend a little time listing all the things for which I'm grateful and then I meditate for twenty minutes or until my hamster brain can't take it anymore, whichever comes first. (Can you guess which one usually comes first?) And then I write. I journal or blog or work on something for Creative Connections or, every once in a while, I try my hand at the ever-illusive book that I'm just sure would be a bestseller if I could ever figure out where and how to start the damn thing.

Anyway, the last couple of weeks have been a little strange. First of all, I've been surprisingly calm. I've been going about my business, enjoying my life and, like I wrote in my last post, I've been keeping busy answering the call to make room for whatever's coming. And something is definitely coming. I have no idea what it is but I can feel it. The whole thing reminds me of a quote I have hanging over my desk...

Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.
~ Arundhati Roy

Yeah. Just like that.

It's almost like I'm tiptoeing through my life. I've been very quiet and calm and deliberate. I'm in low gear. Coasting almost. This is not my usual modus operandi . Not even close. But that's how I've been. It's like some part of me doesn't want to do anything to scare off whatever's headed in this direction because it feels like it just might be something really good and God knows how long I've been waiting for something really good.

And just like the calm before the storm, everything's gotten really still and electrified and eerie.

Every single thing I've read or written each morning for close to two weeks has been super-connected in some way, shape or form and those things have led to other blogs, books and not-so-random serendipities apparently intended to further drive home whatever point God or The Universe or Frodo is trying to make on any given day. It's been so crazy for so long that I've become completely convinced that I'm on some cosmic version of Candid Camera. I just know any minute Buddha's going to jump out from behind my couch and yell, "Gotcha!" while laughing really hard and rubbing his big, round belly.

Tuesday, while reading and writing and meditating, I fell head-over-heals in love with my life. Seriously. I know it sounds completely nuts but all of a sudden I just got that love is all that matters. Like, I REALLY got it. Completely. And no sooner had that wave crashed over me, then my eyes landed square on another quote that seemed to appear out of nowhere in an open book that lay on my desk. A book, by the way, that I swear I never opened or even touched that day...

Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.
~ Rumi

Oh, and I've got some barriers alright. No doubt about that. And now, for the first time ever, I realized that maybe I could simply choose to tear them down. Once and for all.

And just when I thought I had finally unlocked the secret to life and was prepared to do whatever necessary to concentrate on nothing more than loving and being loved, Tuck came home and we ended up getting into a huge argument over something as all-important as CUB SCOUTS! Really? So much for love being the only thing that matters...

The argument (turned full-blown fight) carried over into yesterday morning and before I knew it I was back to square one and wondering how in the hell I'd gotten there. I was so frustrated and exasperated that I barely went through the motions of my morning routine. I half-heartedly wrote down a few things and was prepared to spend my day watching one episode after another of Law and Order in my green and blue plaid, flannel bathrobe. Maybe I'd even throw in a quart of Moose Tracks for good measure.

I was distraught. It broke my heart to go from a day in which I had realized there’s nothing more important than love, to the next in which I was blatantly ignoring that fact.

I started to cry a little and pray. I told God I wanted him to take away my will to fight, to want and to struggle. I told him that I didn't care about anything anymore except being happy. "Just take it...", I said. "Please, just take it all away."

As I moved from praying to meditating, I kept repeating the phrase, Take It while focusing on the space between my eyes and letting the waves of calm and silence wash over me. Soon another voice, or rather several voices, chimed in with my own. Only they weren't chanting "Take It", they were saying, "She's ready". It was like a band of angels lobbying in my favor, trying to convince someone that I was indeed adequately prepared for whatever might be in store for me next.

On and on we all went, over and over, taking turns..... "Take it"... followed by... "She's ready". In the background, at the same time, part of me was hoping for one of those transformative, meditative experiences that you hear people talk about. Like Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love when she was certain that God had picked her up and held her in the palm of his hand. I wanted that. I wanted that moment that would suddenly fill me with some kind of certainty and understanding. I wanted the lightening bolt.

The chanting continued until we all reached a sort of crescendo. And then, all of a sudden, a very bright burst of white light flashed in front of my eyes, startling me and jerking me back into consciousness. It jolted me to my core, like a lightning bolt. I was tingling from my nose to my feet. When I opened my eyes, I realized that the flash was nothing more than the reflection of the bright sun off of a car passing right outside my window and my physical reaction nothing more than that of being abruptly startled awake.

I also knew that it was all much more than that.

Later that evening, Max and I sat in a restaurant having dinner after having done a bit of shopping. Out of the blue he started asking me a bunch of BIG questions... What did I want to do with my life? What’s the most important thing to me? What did I want to be when I was a kid? What would I regret not having done if I never did it? I had no real answers for him. I drew a complete blank. It was like being a stranger in my own head.

What do I want? Nothing. I want to write. That’s about it. That’s about the only answer I could come up with. What’s the most important thing to me? Love. My family. Being happy.

I want to be happy. That’s the phrase that kept coming to my mind. I want to be happy. I want to write. I’d regret nothing.

I felt like a bumbling idiot. I'm the Mom. I'm supposed to have good answers. These were flaky. In the end, he suggested I get a part-time job. Nice.

It took me until this morning to reflect back on that conversation and make the connection to my lightening bolt incident from yesterday morning... Could it really have worked? Do you think that God really took it all away? All the want and the fight and the struggle? Just like I asked? Do you think the angels convinced him that I was indeed ready? Was that the reason I didn't have any substantive answers for Max? Had I indeed become a blank slate? I guess only time will tell.

In the meantime, I certainly feel a bit empty. There’s that word again... empty, nothing. It’s not negative. It’s just a descriptor. I feel like my edges are a bit more rounded, that I'm a kinder and gentler version of my former self. Open. Receptive.

And then this... My Note From The Universe this morning...

O Captain, my Captain, our fearful trip is done. And now, dear Andrea, you're free at last; it's time to have some fun.

That sounds great, Universe. I'll have a plate of that.

Nothing

2010-10-04T09:44:00.003-04:00

Six bags. Six, huge, black, plastic, trash bags. Econo-sized. So packed full that I could barely lift them into my van for transport to Goodwill.

Six. That's how many bags I filled with clothes, shoes and purses from my closet on Saturday. SIX BAGS! Seven, if you count the one filled with trash and other stuff too horrifying even for Goodwill.

It was not easy to let go of it all, despite the fact that every single article that landed in a bag was either in bad condition, tragically out of style or ill-fitting. I wore little of what was packed into that closet, especially since no longer having to don business attire on a daily basis.

It's not the individual items that were hard to part with. It was the false sense of security that having all those bad clothes gave me. It was a just in case thing. Just in case... I have to go to some event or... the weather turns or... I have to go get another job and... I don't have the money to buy something new.... I'd better hang on to this big pile of shit. Just in case.

It was a security blanket. A big, worn out, cheesy, scratchy, deeply-discounted security blanket.

One question determined whether each shoe, belt, jacket, blouse or trouser would stay or go..."How would I feel if I put this on and wore it out in public?" That one question made the whole process pretty easy. And once I got going there was no stopping me.

Now, there is more empty space in my closet than filled. There are more unused hangers than used. There are more vacant shelves than occupied. And that's okay. In fact it's better than okay. It's perfect.

My whole life right now seems to be one big purge. Something deep down inside is telling me to make room for what's coming. Clear out the old and prepare for the new. Themes of empty buckets and blank slates keep presenting themselves over and over again...

Can you remain unmoving until the right action arises by itself?

Risking the appearance of weakness, takes strength...

The master doesn’t seek fulfillment… Not seeking, not expecting, she is present, and can welcome all things.

Become nothing, and He'll turn you into everything.

Nothing. That's the word that keeps appearing. Over and over again. I hear the word nothing. Be nothing. Do nothing. I am enough. Just as I am. All is well.

It's so very hard for me to do nothing. I am a doer. I am inclined to snap into action. I pace. I flitter. I fix. I make the bed or pick up around the house. I put dishes away and fold clothes. I design a new website or fret about my video for Creativity 101. I must DO something.

It's fear that keeps me doing. Fear that doing nothing will result in nothing. And yet somehow, I know that this is what I must do right now. Become nothing. Make room. Clear space.

Everyday for as long as I can remember, I have prayed to be filled with inspiration that flows outward. Don't I need to be empty in order to be filled?

So I'm cleaning out closets, real ones and metaphoric. I'm making space. I'm becoming open and receptive. And each bursting bag that I haul to Goodwill or to the curb makes me feel that much more light and airy. Like an empty suitcase, ready for the next big adventure.

I have a print hanging above my desk by Brian Andreas. I think I've mentioned it here before. The image is one of an abstract woman. Beside her is a bag in which she is placing various items. The caption reads, "She left pieces of her life behind her everywhere she went. It's easier to feel the sunlight without them, she said."

Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.

Sparkly and Shiny

2010-09-27T10:24:00.004-04:00

"Charisma is the light that shines from the core of all ordinary beings. You can't strip the veils that cover your real nature without illuminating the world in a new inimitable way. You'll become the singular you - the one, the only, the Uno - that everyone wants to see."
~ Martha Beck, O Magazine - September 2010

I want to shine.

I think that pretty much sums it up for me. Not like the Vegas Strip or a single 100-watt light bulb hanging from a cord. More like the sun reflecting off the clear, cool sea. Like a Corona commercial. Or, better yet, like a radiant gemstone. A blue topaz. Yeah... if I could be a gemstone, I'd want to be a blue topaz. A big one on a simple chain. I'd just hang out all day, being sparkly and shiny and basking in the glow of just being me. My entire existence would be about letting my natural beauty shine through. Nothing fake or contrived... just pure, authentic brilliance.

That’s what I want… for the true essence of who I am to shine in a way it’s never shined before.

All of us have a unique, one of a kind radiance hidden beneath the facade that we've carefully constructed over the years. If we can find a way to uncover it, others will have no choice but to come running to see it glimmer.

I want to shine. And not only that but I want my kids and my husband and my friends and my family and the whole damn world to shine right along with me. That's really the point of being shiny by the way, to inspire others to shine too.

Authenticity isn't a step in the process of finding happiness. It is happiness. It's the goal. It's the magical porthole to peace and contentment and finding your purpose in this life. Within the absolutely unique combination of personality and intelligence and beauty that is you, lies a perfect gemstone, just waiting to be unearthed so that it can... yes, shine. What I have found is that when you peel away all the layers of labels and roles and fear and guilt, you find the true essence of who you really are. And that true essence glows like nothing you've ever seen.

I'm ready. I can feel it. I've been picking at the cracks in the facade for awhile now and the light beneath the surface is flooding through at a rate that seems to be threatening to bring the whole thing crashing down.

Sweet. Bring on the Coronas!

Life's Idea of Fun

2010-09-21T09:01:00.004-04:00

I'm not gonna lie to you. It's been a rough couple of weeks. I don't know why exactly. I think these things just happen sometimes. I think to a certain extent we're supposed to struggle. Challenges provide us with opportunities to learn who we are and to make a choice to either grow or stay the same. In the end, I'm not sure it matters which we choose. If we decide to stay the same, Life's okay with that. He'll just take his ball, go home, wait a spell and then come back around to see if we're ready to play. Life's patient like that.

Life showed up at my house a couple of weeks ago, bouncing his ball in my driveway and beckoning me to come out and get down to business. I tried to ignore him but he just stood out there, staring through my window and bouncing that damn ball until I got pissed off, laced up my sneakers and stormed outside to teach him a lesson he'd never forget.

Uh huh... you can pretty much guess how that turned out. Yep. Life did all the teaching and I did all the picking myself up off the pavement. Once I stopped acting like I knew everything there was to know about this game, he stopped cuffing me around, sat me down on the bench and gave me the next chapter to the instruction manual.

"You know...", I said. "Don't you think it'd be more efficient if you just went ahead and gave me the whole book all at once?" He just laughed and shook his head.

I've got to tell you that this newest chapter looks eerily similar to the last several. Hmmmm.... do you think that means I'm thick? Anyway, the point is that I've learned some things (again). And just in case you might want to skip a round of medicine ball with you-know-who, I thought I'd share my latest aha's...

Here's what I know for sure:

That every criticism I have of others is actually one I have of myself.

That I am flawed and imperfect and scared and tired and that I am worthy of all the things I want from this life, nonetheless.

That this journey is about burning up the old so that the new can rise from the ashes. Sometimes it takes several fires to do the job.

That it’s okay to be me. In fact, it’s better than okay. It's actually the only way.

That I have to be 100% authentic and original and that I cannot follow. I must lead.

That I am a good writer and that I have much to teach (and learn). Oh yeah, and that writing is what keeps my train on the tracks.

That, like everyone, I am my own worst enemy.

That I am loved much more than I realize and that the only reason I don’t feel it is because I don’t let myself.

That I must fight through this rough patch, perhaps harder than I’ve ever fought before.

That the only valuable reaction to challenges and setbacks is to view them as opportunities. Everything else is just flailing.

That I am closer to getting it all than I think I am.

That I am so much stronger than I believe I am.

That I see my life as harder than it really is.

And finally, that the choice to quit or not to quit doesn’t really matter. I will get to where I’m going either way.

A Simple Walk in the Woods

2010-09-19T15:58:00.005-04:00

If you read the most recent version of my newsletter, you know that I've been working on bringing more of what makes me happy into my life. That includes taking lots of pictures, listening to my favorite music, spending time with "my people", being outdoors soaking up nature and being creative by writing and making videos.

I can't quite explain why it is that I love taking pictures of random things found in nature. It's not because I'm some great photographer. I'm not. I have a basic digital camera and maybe an eye for little, colorful details. My fixation has nothing to do with taking great pictures and everything to do with finding great things to take pictures of. It's like a treasure-hunt of sorts. Creativity thrives on inspiration and I am forever in search of the next muse.

Friday, I talked Charlie into walking some trails at a local park. We trudged around, argued about which way to go and took about a hundred pictures in the course of a half hour. I would've stayed much longer and taken many more pictures but he had important eight-year old boy things to do and was only willing to give his crazy mom so much of his valuable time for such ridiculousness... Sometimes you have to take what you can get.

A Simple Walk in the Woods from Andrea Maurer on Vimeo.

Smitten

2010-09-05T17:16:00.007-04:00

I've taken a lover. I didn't mean to do it. It just happened. The whole thing started off innocently enough. I mean, Tuck's the one that introduced the two of us. I knew the minute I laid eyes on him though, that I was in big trouble. It wasn't long before his sunny disposition, stunning good looks and old southern charm had me weak in the knees.

His name is Charleston and all I can tell you is that I've never felt this way before... about a city, that is. Tuck took me on a work trip with him last week and I spent six days exploring everything this amazing place has to offer.

I'm head over heals in love. And just like any love-struck fool that finds herself separated from the object of her desire by a very long distance, I've done little else since returning home but pour over the 300 plus pictures that I took of the two of us while listening to our song over and over again. If I have my way, we won't be apart for long. In fact, if I have my way, one day we'll be together permanently. It's that serious...

(And yes, I know Mr. Taylor was referring to North Carolina when he wrote this song.)

Charleston from Andrea Maurer on Vimeo.

Birthday Blues

2010-08-20T13:37:00.007-04:00

August 20th... Shmee's birthday. My forty-third, to be exact. Not one of my best in all honesty. I'm tired. What did I expect? It takes a lot of energy to live forty-three years. That's kind of a long time.

Anyway, I woke up and started obsessing over the number forty-three and pretty soon I found myself a bit depressed. Not clinically, just temporarily. I'll snap out of it. I always do. If I've learned anything in these forty-three years, it is that everything eventually passes... bad weather, bad food, bad moods. It always, eventually gets better. Sometimes it's just a matter of waiting it out. Other times, you have to do things differently in order to get different results. Wisdom is knowing the difference.

Maybe wisdom actually does come with age because besides recognizing that my melancholy is being perpetuated by fatigue, I'm also keenly aware that Life is tapping me on the shoulder in order to get my attention. The fatigue will pass. It will correct itself by forcing me to get some rest. My warning light is flashing and soon my engine will come to a screeching halt. Life, on the other hand, will not be so easily placated.

She wants less work and more play. She wants us to step away from the computer and stop checking email incessantly. She's tired of Facebook being the extent of our social life. And she'd like some close personal relationships, some intimacy and a friend or two, if it's not too much trouble. She's tired of us working so hard to build something for ourselves and constantly holding our ears to the ground looking for signs that our dreams are about to come true. In short, Life would like me to get a life.

So far, she's being patient. She started dropping subtle hints a few weeks ago. The shoulder tapping started this morning. If I continue to ignore her though, she'll get more aggressive. She's not above using extreme force if she has to. She's been known to hit me right between the eyes with a large stick in order to get what she wants. I'd prefer to forego that treatment this time if I can. See how wise I've become?

I'm forty-three. Forty-three times two equals eighty-six. In all likelihood, I'm at the half-way point, at best. Nothing is guaranteed from here on out. Actually, nothing ever was. At any rate, I know that what I must achieve now is balance... the balance between work and play, between doing and being, between wanting more and appreciating what already is. And I absolutely must make room in my life for what matters most... deep, loving, intimate relationships.

And I'm going to get right on that... just as soon as I take a nap.

Creative Obsession...er...I mean... Expression

2010-07-29T10:47:00.009-04:00

Tuck and the kids got me an iPhone for Mother's Day this year. Prior to that I had a Razor. I couldn't even really text with that damn thing and was really pretty okay being technologically behind the times.

Those days are over... I use my iPhone for everything now and have been heard telling people they'll have to have to pry it out of my cold, dead hand to get it away from me. I don't even really like my kids to look at it let alone touch it. It's mine, damn it! Back off!

One of the things I absolutely adore about my new toy is its ability to take incredible pictures. I haven't used my camera since I got it. I have 209 pictures on the iPhone that I've taken since Mother's Day. I haven't taken that many pictures since Max was a baby.

I fear the photography obsession is about to get ramped up a notch. I bought an app called CameraBag yesterday. It's a photo-processing tool that lets you apply a bunch of really cool filters to your pictures.

And now I CAN'T STOP TAKING RANDOM PICTURES OF EVERYDAY ITEMS AND MANIPULATING THEM TO LOOK OLD OR SKEWED OR OTHERWISE REALLY, REALLY COOL!! And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse... I had the bright idea to use Movie Maker to string together my new masterpieces, add captions and music and create photo montages.

This could be bad, friends. Very, very bad. Don't tell Mr. Maurer! He's still holding out hope that I will actually eek out at least enough money to cover my phone bill with Creative Connections.

Mmmwwwaaaaahhh, ha, ha, ha, ha... Sucker!

Here's my first one. I'm certain there'll be more. Later today.

New and Improved

2010-07-21T21:05:00.008-04:00

Here's a video describing the new Creativity 101 concept. The class includes a weekly live webcast, online private community, a conference call for each group and a low monthly payment plan.

If you ready to supercharge your career, Creativity 101 is for you!

Click here to visit my Creativity 101 homepage. It's loaded with more information about the class.

I hope you'll join us and share this information with others.

Thanks!

Proof Positive

2010-07-18T09:57:00.008-04:00

So, I spent all last week making an encore appearance for the government. They asked if I would come back and oversee a professional development workshop that I had helped to set up before I left. Okay, I said. It's only five days. How bad could it be? If someone had truthfully answered that question before I agreed to do it, I wouldn't have. Agreed to do it, that is.

It wasn't fun or good. It was the opposite of fun and good.

And the thing is I knew it was going to suck. Actually, I didn't want to do it in the first place. The whole thing felt very "shackles on", a Martha Beck-ism describing how it feels internally to do something that you know is not in your best interest. The opposite feeling is, of course, shackles off, denoting freedom and autonomy. After I had agreed to oversee the workshop, every time I thought about the week ahead, I felt a little nauseous and dreadful. If that isn't shackles on, I don't what is.

I did it anyway despite all my trepidation, on account of the fact that Creative Connections hasn't made Forbes yet and the Maurers still like to eat and have grown accustomed to having electricity. I did it for the money.

The things that made it suck so badly were all the things that I didn't have control over in between the time I left my job with the State and the beginning of the workshop. That was left to someone else who is new to his job and hasn't learned to assume absolutely nothing when working with the government. I won't go into all the details (you can thank me later). I'll just say that I spent the whole week putting out fires... large, raging, brain-melting, four-alarm fires... with a watering can.

Before I knew what had hit me, I was waking up in the middle of the night worrying myself sick over one thing after another. I think I got a total of twelve hours of sleep the whole week. I started snapping at the kids, my parents and, naturally, Mr. Maurer. In the course of five short days, I had returned to the stressed-out, exhausted and very unpleasant version of my former self, complete with bags under my eyes and a perma-furled brow. Friday couldn't come soon enough for any of us. When it did, I breathed a sigh of relief and looked forward to returning to my new normal.

But I still can't quite let the whole thing go.

On one hand, I'm really grateful for the confirmation that leaving my job was the right decision. The contrast between Government Shmee and Self-employed Shmee could have never been made so sharp if I hadn't agreed to lead the conference. It was an amazing perspective. I'm now absolutely certain that quitting my job was the right thing to do. My only regret is in not having done it sooner.

On the other hand, I'm bothered by all the snafus and possible dissatisfied participants in the workshop. The program is a good one. I worked long and hard while with the State to get it up and running. The first year participants came away raving fans and I had hoped to have a repeat performance this year. I'm also worried that without my continued involvement, the program will fizzle and eventually die.

But here's what I know for sure... I can't continuing doing things that I don't want to do. Not without making myself and everyone around me miserable, that is. If I continue to work on this project (or any other for that matter) out of fear or obligation, I'll make it bad for everyone -me, the State, the participants and the facilitators. The program will have to go on without me (very dramatic, don't you think?) and I have to accept that it's no longer my program.

In the meantime, I've been sitting around wondering just how I or my family survived three years of my working a job I hated so badly. I'm astounded by my capacity to justify being unhappy. There's really no excuse for it. I absolutely sell myself and everyone I care about out when I choose to do things that diminish my joy and happiness.

How could that not be true? In what sick, twisted version of reality could being unhappy and unpleasant be the right choice? Seriously. You'll never convince me that the path that leads away from the best version of me is a path worth pursuing. It's my responsibility to chase my dreams and my bliss. Period.

If ever I needed proof of that, this week provided it. How could I ever go back to believing that living like that is good for me or anyone else in my life? There's no amount of money or programmatic success or anything else that's worth feeling that way. And anything I tell myself that justifies being that miserable is a lie. Plain and simple.

In the end, I think the only way to sum up this week is with a quote...

“I'm glad I did it, partly because it was worth it, but mostly because I shall never have to do it again” ~ Mark Twain

Amen, Brother. Amen.

Mirror Mirror

2010-07-11T10:17:00.008-04:00

Every Monday through Friday I receive an emailed note from the Universe. I'm that important. Me and 350,000 other people. That's how many subscribers TUTS Adventurers Club claims to have to their Notes from the Universe.

Notes from the Universe is a personalized, daily (apparently the Universe takes the weekends off), new age, law of attraction message that shows up in your inbox and reminds you what's important. They are fun, loving and hopeful. They always make me smile and they always make me think. If that sounds like something you'd be interested in, I highly recommend them.

Friday's message stopped me in my tracks and had me taking a good hard look at all of the relationships in my life. Isn't that what most people spend their weekends doing?

The message was as follows:

To young souls, there are good folks and bad folks.
To mature souls, there are only good folks, though some do bad things.
And old souls only see themselves and they love, love, love.

Okay, so up until now I had always, unequivocally considered myself an old soul. End of discussion. Clearly my soul had been around the proverbial block a time or two and I was all too willing to tell others about the cosmically important lessons that my dear, sweet old soul had learned on its travels from one life to the next. After all, wasn't it my duty as an old soul to impart wisdom to others?

Friday's Note from the Universe changed all that. As I read it, suddenly I wasn't sure if by TUTS definition I was even qualified to call myself a mature soul, let alone an old one. This was troublesome indeed. Ever willing to meet a challenge head-on and conquer it, I forged forward determined to elevate my status. By Monday.

There was just one problem... I didn't how to do it. How does one look at ALL others, only see themselves and love them all the same? I said I was an old soul, not God himself. Isn't that his job? I presumed the answer to that question was no and started taking a good hard look at how I view other people.

I started by paying attention to all the critical thoughts I might have about anyone... friend or foe, stranger or compadre, family member or life-long friend. It's been quite an eye-opening experience, to say the least and the surprising part isn't how critically or negatively I view others but what it all means in terms of how I view myself.

Sometime around Saturday afternoon, as I sat stewing in my own mega-critical juices directed at a woman I don't even know at Charlie's ballgame, the challenge to see others as myself reached up and smacked me right in the mouth. The thought suddenly occurred to me that perhaps, just maybe, my utter disdain for this person and her beauty, age and obvious inclination to go to the gym, might have something to do with the opinion I have of my own appearance. Did I really dislike this stranger because of how I felt about my own willingness (or lack thereof) to work on getting in better shape? The sad answer to that question was yes.

This one little epiphany set off a chain reaction the likes of which I've never seen. No, I did not run out and join a gym. I said it was an epiphany, not a miracle. What has happened is every time a negative or critical thought directed at others occurs to me (which is A LOT, by the way), I immediately ask myself the same question: What does how I'm feeling about this person say about how I feel about myself? The answers have been startling and a little unsettling. It's literally like standing in front of a 360 degree mirror. Under fluorescent lighting. Naked. Every single time I have even the teensy, tiniest, slightly critical thought about someone else, I immediately see my own scary, naked reflection staring back at me.

Seems like that whole bit about old souls only seeing themselves is pretty true after all. Turns out, my feelings about others are indeed a direct reflection of how I feel about myself, meaning I already see others as myself. I just didn't know it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not calling myself an old soul. I didn't say anything about love, love, loving everybody. I'm not there yet. And that's the real point, isn't it? Once you grasp that looking at everybody else is just like looking at yourself, makes it kind of hard to not offer everyone the same kindness, understanding and love you offer yourself every time you're less than your best. And vice versa.

It all starts with me. That lesson just keeps repeating itself. I can't do anything good out in the world until I get square with that chick in the mirror. I've got to drink my own Kool-Aid... be the president of my own fan club... dig my own chili. That requires one part commitment to self-improvement and one part loving acceptance of who am I.

And one very small mirror with good lighting and flattering clothing.

Patience With a Purpose

2010-07-07T12:03:00.002-04:00

**Note - This is a reprint from my other blog. I'm having a little difficulty deciding which one to keep. I thought they were going to be two totally different entities: one personal, one business. Turns out my two worlds are hopelessly intertwined. Oh well, I'll figure it out someday. In the meantime, you can catch me at either place.

“The key to everything is patience. You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not by smashing it.” ~ Arnold H. Glasgow

Patience might be a virtue but it’s never really been one of mine. I don’t like to wait for anything. I want it all and I want it now! Over the last few years, as I’ve developed the vision of my best life and then began to work on those things that I’d like to see happen, I’ve struggled with being patient. Turns out, that struggle was in large part due to my conception of what patience really is.

I started out with the false impression that having patience meant being content while waiting for things to happen. I thought I had to believe that all would come to pass when it was supposed to happen and in the meantime I needed to learn to be a bit more Buddha-like. God or The Universe or Whatever would allow me to have the things I had dreamed for myself when He, She or It was damn good and ready to give it to me.

In the last several months, I’ve experienced a complete turnaround in how I view patience and while I think God or The Universe or Whatever is involved in any challenge you choose you take on, I don’t think He, She or It are withholding what you want most in life until the mood strikes. I’ve now realized, that when you decide you want to change your life and go after a pretty grandiose vision for yourself and you ask God or the Universe or Whatever for help in attaining that goal, “help” will not necessarily come in the form you were expecting. It will, however, come in the form that you need most. And this is where patience comes in.

I have had to learn that in order to be ready for my best life and all the things that will come along with it, I had to become big enough to handle it. I had to become completely whole and healthy in mind, body and spirit. Otherwise, that dream could turn into a nightmare.

Think about that for a minute.

It’s not difficult to bring to mind someone you know or have heard about that has everything they’ve ever wanted but are still miserable. How about the guy who suddenly received a big inheritance or a lottery win or a huge promotion or something else they’ve always dreamed of, only to completely implode and self-destruct just as suddenly? Think that guy was big enough to handle his dreams coming true?

Transforming me into someone that’s whole and healthy enough to become a best-selling author, a world-renowned business coach and the owner of a wildly successful business without my becoming an ego-maniacal monster is a monumental task. That kind of work takes time and that’s where God or The Universe or Whatever comes in. It’s also where patience on my part comes in. And yes, it’s an on-going process.

I’ve had to accept the process and learn to trust that I was being provided exactly what I needed to become the person I need (and want) to be. The best thing I did for myself was to learn to see every challenge that came my way as an opportunity to grow, knowing that one day I’d be ready.

As I look back over the last five years (yes, I said FIVE YEARS), I now see very clearly the opportunities I’ve been provided to change and grow and become bigger. It has been a huge struggle at times to keep my dreams alive. Remember, I’m the girl who’s had dozens of different jobs in dozens of different career fields. I’ve never been this focused or dedicated to anything in my entire life. I haven’t always calmly accepted the journey I’m on or graciously received the lessons that have appeared but I have continued on.

Patience doesn’t have to look like God-incarnate. It can look more like a prize fight that goes all twelve rounds. No matter what it looks like, patience is, in my estimation, more akin to dedication and perseverance than it is to acceptance and serenity.

Listening to the Muse

2010-06-27T11:54:00.007-04:00

If you’ve followed this blog or my Facebook posts of late, you know that I’ve recently read and been rather affected by the book THE WAR OF ART by Steven Pressfield. Affected is an understatement actually. Shaken to my core, turned upside down, or rocked in my boots all come a little closer to the truth.

THE WAR OF ART is about those forces in the universe whose missions are to either hinder or assist: our pursuits of the arts... any new ventures... overall improvements to our physical or spiritual wellbeing... all undertakings designed to better the lives of others... or any other attempts to veer off the tried and true path in any way, shape or form. Pressfield calls the force that aims to hinder these types of quests, Resistance and refers to those meant to assist us as Muses.

The Resistance is anything that we perceive, conjure, manufacture or use as justification not to move forward with something that we feel called to do. It’s fear-incarnate. Muses are those entities, call them spirits, angels, God, serendipity, whatever, that help us reach our highest potential, do good in the world, create beauty and otherwise step into our power.

The book has opened my eyes to all the ways in which I have sabotaged myself for much of my life by doing really stupid things, underachieving, not following through with things I’ve started and generally ignoring all forms of good advice, good ideas and opportunities to improve my lot. I’m now committed to living the biggest, most brave, most intentional and most wide awake life I can. I’m more disciplined, more deliberate and more conscious than I’ve ever been in my whole life.

I’m also deliberately alert and open to those ways in which the Muse might be leading me. I no longer dismiss crazy, random ideas as being crazy and random. I set them free to wander around my brain, mixing, mingling and sharing cocktails with the other half-baked schemes and undeveloped concepts lurking around in the shadows just waiting for the perfect partner to come along. Some ideas never find Mr. Right and end up living out their days as lonely old spinsters. Others, however, get lucky, hook up with a couple of cohorts and emerge as full-fledged inspirations.

The Beating the Odds idea is one of those inspirations. A couple of weeks ago the thought occurred to me to interview cancer patients that have beaten the odds. This, at first glance, seemed particularly crazy and random, even for me. I’m very fortunate in that I do not have a lot of people in my “inner circle” that have died from cancer. In fact, I have virtually no one close to me that has even had cancer in at least the last fifteen or so years. Pretty remarkable, really. And even more cause to sit up and pay attention when I first heard the whisper to interview cancer patients.

It was so "out there" that I had to give it a second look despite my first inclination being to dismiss the idea as ridiculous and inadvertent. My intention to look for signs and signals from the Muse, however, won out. “Okay”, I said rather indifferently. “Be my guest”, as I opened the door to the cocktail party that is my brain and motioned him in.

Enter…SWITCH: HOW TO MAKE CHANGE WHEN CHANGE IS HARD, a new book I’m reading by Chip and Dan Heath. It’s an entertaining look at the successful methods that people employ to make change under very difficult circumstances. As the two brothers started to look at success stories, they found several common points that all of us can use to make whatever changes we’re trying to make in our own lives or the lives of others.

One of the methods or steps they describe is to look for “bright spots”. Bright spots are those places or instances in which we or others who have been in similar situations have found success. The idea is to take those victories, however small or fleeting, and attempt to replicate or otherwise build upon them. For example, someone who’s trying to quit smoking might have hours or days at a time when they have been able to forego lighting up. Instead of focusing on the setbacks and failures associated with quitting, the bright spots method suggests taking a good hard look at the successful periods, however small or seemingly insignificant, determining how they were able to go that long without smoking and then working to reproduce and maximize those instances.

The “bright spots” idea was one that really captured my attention. She breezed right into my brain, ignoring the bouncer, and set up camp right in the center of the action. It wasn’t long before Beating the Odds was introduced to her. Sparks immediately flew and it all started making sense to me. Sort of. At the very least I had a coherent and logical direction in which to move. If I were to interview cancer patients who had beaten the odds, I knew that I’d do so in a way that identified the bright spots…those methods, attributes and other factors that survivors have in common. The more I mulled the idea around in my head, the more sense it made and the more excited I became about it.

So, I’m doing it. I’ve put together a list of ten questions that I plan to ask everyone I’m lucky enough to talk to. I’m looking for bright spots and I have some preconceived notions about what I’ll probably find. I’m also absolutely positive that there will be things that take me by surprise.

I don’t know where all this is heading. My first thought was that there’s a book to be written. Maybe there is. All I know is that the initial request for names that I put on Facebook a couple of days ago has already resulted in some extraordinary conversations and astonishing connections, solidifying my resolve to do this. I’m going to let it take me where it wants to go. I’m going to get out of its way and help it become what it came to me to become. I’m going to ask my questions and listen for the answers. I’m going to listen and learn and carry forward whatever messages there are to carry forward.

My cousin Neil called me this week in response to my Facebook request. He is not a cancer survivor but is a survivor in every sense of the word. Some twenty-plus years ago, he was involved in a construction accident that would completely change his life. A massive load of lumber fell out of a flatbed truck and onto him leaving him in a coma for an extended length of time. He wasn’t expected to live, let alone walk or talk. Believe me when I say he walks and talks. You kind of can’t get the dude to shut up! He’s actually the most positive person I know.

Neil was a bit of a lost soul before the accident. He was involved in drugs and alcohol and had given his family no small amount of grief. He emerged from his near-death experience a changed man and considers his accident to be near the top of his list of best things that have ever happened to him, just below marrying his wife and having his son. He sent me the following email yesterday:

God has not only designed us to be creative but also a source of life with a sense of survival. e.g. The ability to do whatever it takes to survive. This is true spiritually, emotionally and physically. Since we are created with that purpose in mind, we need to look at how that influences every one of our behaviors. How we handle things like disease, death or their potential… I am so glad that you have chosen this topic to work on. It’s very necessary.

If you (or anyone you know) has beaten the odds (against Cancer or any other life-threatening challenge) and would consider sharing your story with me, please contact me at andreamaurer@sbcglobal.net or 317-491-2548. You can remain anonymous if you’d like. Please pass this message on. Thanks for your help.

The Glue That Keeps Me From Falling to Pieces

2010-06-23T10:05:00.008-04:00

So, it's day three of my new life. You know, the life in which I no longer have a steady paycheck, relatively inexpensive health care or a designated place that I must be everyday. It's a free life full of promise and possibility. It's also a bit daunting and more than a bit scary.

It's all on me now... no safety nets or supervisors... no set schedules or deadlines. It's my choice. Everything is MY choice. Do I get up at 7:00 or shall I sleep in? Should I waste the day away trolling Facebook and Twitter or should I try and be "productive"? What are my priorities? Making money, yes? But what about those other things I said I wanted to do that I haven't had time for? Like spending some quality time just hanging out with my kids as opposed to barely meeting their basic daily needs? Or working on the house projects that so desperately need done? Is there really time for everything?

These are the thoughts that plagued me as I left my job of three years and ventured into self-employment. Just to get started on the right foot and to make sure my head was on straight, I scheduled a session with Life Coach Extraordinaire, Melissa Foster Cook. As usual, she was a huge help. She sent me a daily schedule to fill out and use and got me set up on Google Calendar.

Everything is scheduled... from when I get up and shower to when I check and return emails and voicemails. There's even Facebook time worked in. There's also designated time with the kids and time to work on house projects. And it's working! I've been up, showered and at my desk by 8:00 all week. I've worked on organizing my office, gotten my monthly newsletter squared away, recorded and posted a video blog, gone to the grocery store for a whole week's worth of food (a rare occurrence indeed), cleaned at least one room of my house every day (even more rare), taken a walk everyday (rare doesn't do this one justice) and played board games with my kids.

It would seem that I really do have time for everything. With one exception. There's one item on my daily agenda that I've been blowing off. Each day, due to one circumstance or another, I've gotten a little behind on my schedule. In order to get back on track, I've kicked the same thing to the curb all week...writing. There's an hour every day dedicated to writing and it's what I've chosen to not do. This is a problem.

This morning I woke up and instantly felt unmotivated, uninspired and generally lazy. The clients that I'm currently working with are too busy to get the ball rolling with me right now, my creativity class that's supposed to start next Tuesday is on life support and I'm running out of things to do that fall under the Creative Connections Services umbrella. I can hear fear, doubt and trepidation slithering in under the door. I'm anxious and fidgety and boredom is threatening to bust in and take over the joint.

Boredom is one of my default positions. It's a symptom of something bigger. It's akin to depression and a signal that I better pay attention to before all hell breaks loose. Boredom is a smoke alarm. Something is out of balance. Something is not right. Something is smoldering just below the surface.

As I tried to busy myself by continuing the long, arduous process of organizing my office and shuffled through the stacks of notes that I have taken on everything from brain research to spiritual enlightenment to how to add a Facebook "Like" button to everything you own, I came across a random thought scribbled on a scrap of paper:

I get discouraged and scared and disconnected when I don't write. I am uninspired, unmotivated and unconvinced of my mission. I must write. Everyday, I must write.

Boom. There it is... the glue that keeps me from falling to pieces.

Writing is where this journey started and I have a feeling it'll be where it ends too. There are times when I secretly think that all the rest of it - creativity training, business design and marketing - are just a front that I've put up to somehow legitimize my pursuit of this unconventional, risky, highly unlikely dream of becoming a writer (a writer that actually gets paid for her work, that is).

Don't misunderstand me. I love those other things. And I'm good at them. But they don't hold a candle to writing. I'm over the moon for writing. It's the ultimate creative expression for me. AND it's the only thing that I've found that I NEVER get bored doing. It's my thing. It's it for me. It's a schoolgirl's crush, a breathtaking first love and a deeply committed, long-term relationship all rolled into one.

And isn't it interesting that this love of my life is the thing on my daily schedule that I choose to forego? This smacks of fear and what Steven Pressfield describes as Resistance in THE WAR OF ART...

Resistance is the most toxic force on the planet. It is the root of more unhappiness than poverty, disease, and erectile dysfunction. To yield to Resistance deforms our spirit. It stunts us and makes us less than we are and were born to be. If you believe in God (and I do) you must declare Resistance evil, for it prevents us from achieving the life God intended when He endowed each of us with our own unique genius.

So I'm redoing my schedule and I'm making writing a much bigger, non-optional priority. I have to. It's all for naught if I don't. From now on, if something needs to be sacrificed from the daily schedule, it WILL NOT be writing. It'll be something less essential to my wellbeing and very survival.

Be afraid, Cooking and Cleaning. Be very afraid.

Creativity 101

2010-06-22T14:59:00.003-04:00

Here's a video regarding a new class I'm starting next Tuesday. You can click here for more information. Let me know if you're interested!

Curious George and Fearless Shmee

2010-06-11T15:43:00.007-04:00

This post was written in response to Bindu Wiles' 215800 challenge and today's prompt to write on the subject of fear.

His name was Stumpy. His friends called him Curious George. That's what the horse trainer told me as we made our way out of the stable and into the field that led to the woods of Brown County State Park in Southern Indiana.

"Curious George?" I inquired. "Why's that?" "You'll see", he said with a wink and a smirk. I was not amused. I didn't want to ride a horse with a fun nickname. I wanted to ride a boring horse... a horse who could at best be described as no-nonsense... a sturdy, dependable, get-you-from-Point-A-to-Point-B kind of a horse. "Curious George" implied wild and maybe a little reckless... a horse with, God forbid, a mind of his own.

It was too late, though. We were off. The eight or so of us - Tuck, me, a retired couple, a ten year-old boy and a handful of others, along with our tour guide and master horseman - rode off into what I hoped was going to be a grand adventure.

It had been my idea. The kids were visiting my parents in Alabama and I wanted to try something new and challenging. I was almost a year into a soul-searching, issue-extricating, purpose-discovering, self-helping mission of unprecedented magnitude and epic proportion and I was itching to test out my new resolve. Fear was the enemy and I was prepared to go to any length to win the battle.

I'd always loved horses. From afar. I was jealous of people who were brave enough to actually climb up into the saddle and go so far as to ride one. I wanted that. I wanted the wild abandon of galloping across a meadow with the wind rushing through my hair. I wanted to feel at one with a beautiful, powerful animal like that. I just wanted to have that without actually having to get on a horse.

I had been on one once before. I was very young and the experience, while fuzzy, was still indelibly etched into my memory. I remember how high off the ground I felt. Too high. What if I fell? What if I fell and the horse stomped on me? What if I fell and the horse stomped me and my foot got caught in the stirrup and I ended up being drug all over hell's half acre? I tried to ride with confidence and bravery. I tried to enjoy it. But I kept looking down at the vast expanse between my feet and the ground. I was terrified. I barely stayed on long enough for my horse to reach a canter.

That memory was one I carried with me. It was a symbol of my being a chicken shit. Along with my fear of roller coasters, snow skiing and surprise parties. I hated being a chicken shit. I wanted to be daring and audacious.

I was ready. Martha Beck had taught me that in order to overcome fear, one had to simply stay in the present moment. I just needed to tell myself that right now I was okay. I'd worry about bad things happening when the time came. I'd ride my horse, focus on the Magic of the moment and I'd be a new woman, big and brave and ready to take on anything.

Brown County State Park is one of the most beautiful spots in Indiana. It sits on over 15,000 acres in the hills of southern Indiana. It's densely wooded, chock full of wildlife and vegetation and home to the third highest elevation in the state. There you can hike, bike, camp, swim, play tennis and yes, ride horses. It's about an hour south of where we live and it was the perfect place to test my wings.

Our ride started off pretty well, despite the Curious George comment. These were pretty well-trained horses. Basically they fell into line, one after the other, and made the trek that I was sure they'd made hundreds of times before. We crossed the flat field and I felt like a million bucks. I'd already looked down and took note that my feet were much closer to the ground than they'd been the first time I rode.

Stumpy broke into a bit of a gallop and still, I remained calm. I was practically giddy as I took the time to notice the intense green of the grass and the trees all around me. It was truly a beautiful area and I felt extreme gratitude for the opportunity to be horseback riding on this fine summer day.

As we made our way into the woods the terrain started to climb upwards. My horse was sure and steady. He stayed on the trail and followed closely behind his pal in front of him. We continued climbing... and climbing... and climbing some more. At one point a rather disturbing thought occurred to me: What comes up must necessarily come down.

The further we climbed, the more frightened I became. We had been going up for a very long time. Stumpy was still doing fairly well although I was starting to understand the nickname. He had grown a bit weary of following behind. He clearly saw himself as a leader and more than once had veered off the narrow path in an attempt to pass the slow pokes in front of him. If he'd had a horn, he would have laid on it. He'd also rammed my knee into a tree along the side of the road while exploring some good smells emanating from the berm. Suffice to say, he was making me more than a little nervous as was the prospect of our impending descent.

Sure enough, in a fairly abrupt fashion, the slope shifted and we were in a downward plunge toward the bottom of what I was now convinced was a mountain. I fell into a full blown panic almost instantly. I was certain that I was going to fall off and, at best, break a limb. I cried, gasped, moaned and, at one very low point, screamed at the top of my lungs causing the rest of the group to turn back and look at me in complete horror, shock and a mixture of pity and embarrassment.

In an attempt to offer help and support, my sweet husband had started laughing and making references to the fact that the 10 year-old child and elderly woman in the group were both perfectly fine. Oddly, trying to shame me didn't diminish my fear.

In desperation I remembered Martha. I tried with everything I had to stay in the present moment. I focused my gaze on the back of Stumpy's head and attempted to mentally will him to behave. He had taken to walking sideways with his head and his butt being completely perpendicular to the straight line of other horses. He was driving. I was just along for the ride. He was not a good driver.

"Tuck" I yelled. "This horse is crazy. Help!"... followed by a non-stop chant of ,"Help. Help. Help. Help. Help." Each cry of help corresponded to each sideways, off balance step that my lunatic horse from hell took. At one point, I actually contemplated getting off the damn thing and walking but I had no idea how to make him stop long enough for me to do that.

By the time we got back to the stable I was exhausted and mortified. My dream of riding a horse had all but burst into flames. As we made our way past the trainer who had sarcastically informed me of my horse's prophetic nickname, I shot him a look that said, "Don't say a word." Wisely he didn't.

I dismounted my steed, groaned in horror at the pain in my rump and inner thighs and swore to one day ride again. Except next time, I might try level ground and a sane riding partner.

Yoga and Writing and New Beginnings...Oh My!

2010-06-08T20:58:00.004-04:00

I'm doing this. It's 3 weeks (21 days) of doing yoga 5 times a week and writing 800 words a day. It's the perfect way to kick off my new life as a professional writer, speaker and revolutionary. Of course, I'm still working for the government for the next week and a half too. Truth is, I've set some pretty lofty daily goals for myself (in addition to these) so that I can hit the ground running when my job ends.

Join me, won't you? Click on the logo above and read all about it. It's pretty flexible. You can do yoga for 5 minutes a day or 50. You can write blog posts, journal entries, a novel...whatever you want. THERE ARE NO RULES. Just you seeing how hard you can push yourself and how disciplined you can be.

Let me know if you're going along for the ride! Check back often for updates on my progress. I actually started a day early just to hit the ground running. (Sounds like a theme!) I got up at 5:30 this morning to write. On purpose.

Who AM I?

Will Write (or Speak or be a Revolutionary) For Food

2010-06-05T08:40:00.008-04:00

Once upon a time there was a little girl with big dreams, big potential and a big personality. Unfortunately, that little girl also encountered some big problems and big obstacles and, just to seal the deal, made some VERY big mistakes. Suddenly, she awoke one day to find that she had veered terribly off course. Those big dreams were but a fading whisper; the big potential lay in a crumpled heap barely discernible from the piles of dirty laundry and unfinished home-improvement projects; and that big personality had shrunk to a shadow of its former self.

Upon waking, the girl blinked several times, rubbed her eyes and looked around as if seeing her life for the very first time. She could barely believe what she was witnessing. How had this happened? How had she gotten so far off the path? And more importantly, how was she going to find her way back?

She picked herself up, dusted herself off (sort of) and decided to give the whole damn thing another go. If there was one aspect of her personality that she hadn't lost, it was her strength and perseverance. She began dreaming again and once more found that big potential. The big personality was a little tougher to coax out of the shadows. It was gun shy and a little shell-shocked from the beating that it had taken over the years. But slowly, it too began to emerge.

The trip back was long and hard and filled with setbacks and roadblocks and many, many days sitting at the side of the road contemplating the trip itself and doubting her ability to stay the course. Just as she'd make it to the top of one mountain, celebrate her accomplishments and think she had indeed arrived to her destination, she'd look up only to find an even bigger, more daunting, more treacherous mountain looming ahead.

There were more days than not that she wanted to give up. There were more days than not that she did give up. Inevitably, a day or a week or a month later, she'd begrudgingly give in to the gnawing desire to, once again, press on. She'd pick herself up, dust herself off (sort of) and decide to give the whole damn thing another go. She'd grab her backpack full of books and her laptop and off she'd trudge.

One day the girl came to a fork in the road. She got out her map and took a good hard look at where the two roads led. One road was familiar and relatively safe. It looked much like the many miles of trails that she had been traversing for longer than she cared to think about. It was a twisting route filled with much circling and doubling back. The second choice was different. It was a new road and would require more than just hiking and climbing. This road led to a cliff and in order to get to the other side, the girl would have to make a daring leap.

Leaps were not the girl's forte. She hated leaps. She hadn't leapt since she was a kid, back when that big personality was at its peak.

She'd come to similar forks in the road before and each time, she'd chosen the familiar terrain over the daring jump. She had contemplated the cliff and even bravely approached the edge, leaning over to try and see the bottom. She couldn't quite make out what lay below, though. The gaping crevasse was filled with billowing clouds that obscured its floor. It was impossible to see just how far she might fall. Every time she'd gotten to this point before, sometimes so close to jumping she could practically feel the ground disappear beneath her feet, she'd turned back and taken the tried and true road.

This time was different. This time the girl somehow understood that she was always going to end up right back at this exact same spot until she finally got up enough courage to just do it. She had to stop going in circles looking for more mountains to climb and more raging rivers to cross. She'd done that. She'd conquered it all. There were no other final frontiers. She was ready. It was time. If she didn't do it now, she might never do it.

So she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, got a running start and jumped! At first, she was filled with awe and wonder. She hadn't crashed her head on any rocks or plunged to her death. In fact the whole thing was fairly uneventful. She floated a bit and felt the mixture of fear and relief of having finally taken the leap. She was fine. No big deal. In fact, she was better than fine. This was the best thing she'd ever done. She was filled with certainty that this was exactly what she had needed in order to finally do what she came to do.

At that instant, the clouds parted and she could at long last see the bottom of the so-called gorge. Turns out there was never really any danger after all. The cliff wasn't really a cliff. It was more like a drop-off or a step-down to a grassy meadow, soft and inviting. The danger had been an illusion. There weren't even any jagged rocks.

The girl felt her feet on solid ground for the first time in a very long time. She distinctly remembered all those big dreams, felt the big potential coursing through her veins and instantly stepped into that big personality once again. She turned back one last time, shook her fist in the air and screamed, "Watch out World! Here I come!"

I quit my job yesterday. No, I didn't live out my fantasy of downing a bunch of whiskey, overturning several desks and whooping and hollering while flipping everybody the bird and making my way to the door. I calmly and rationally put in my two-week notice just like a real, responsible adult.

Beyond quitting my job and actually vastly more important, I turned pro in writing, public speaking and general revolution-starting. I had my moment that Steven Pressfield describes in his kick-ass book THE WAR OF ART...

The moment an artist turns pro is as epochal as the birth of his first child. With one stroke, everything changes. I can state absolutely that the term of my life can be divided into two parts: before turning pro, and after...The professional loves (his work) so much he dedicates his life to it.

I'm dedicating my life to my work. I'm going to write...blogs, ezines, articles and, most importantly, a book...the book that I've known I have to write, but been dancing around and avoiding, since I was a kid. I'm also going to pursue public speaking...another thing I've been dancing around and avoiding for a long time. I've got stories to tell and people to motivate. And...I've got a revolution to start. A revolution founded on people pursuing their dreams and living out loud and taking their own big leaps...a revolution that I believe can change the world.

That's what I do now. I'm a professional.

Junk Food Junkie

2010-05-16T07:41:00.007-04:00

Have I mentioned that my parents moved in with us? No? Well they did. Three weeks ago. They sold their house in Alabama, packed up their stuff and headed north. They are currently working with a REALTOR and friend of mine to find a new home. In the meantime, they're staying with us.

It's great. Seriously. They are a big help and we enjoy their company. There are some challenges associated with having two extra people under our roof but, for the most part, it's fine. We're thrilled that they are no longer twelve hours away and are willing to deal with the minor inconveniences associated with their stay.

It's funny really. I haven't lived with my parents for a very long time. Twenty-plus years as a matter of fact. There's a lot I've forgotten about how they roll. One of those things is my dad's eating habits. Oh sure, we've always made fun of him for his penchant for cheeseburgers and his candy bar addiction. And yes, I was completely aware that he prefers white bread to wheat, but Holy Cow! I had no idea just what the dude has been living on all these years!

Everyday, he comes home with pudding cups and Snickers bars and bag after bag of potato chips. One day I found him teaching Charlie how to dip Nutty Bars into tapioca pudding. "Oh yeah, Buddy. That's goooood eatin'". The next, he drove to Noblesville to an ice cream shop which uses a recipe they bought from a beloved place in Logansport (our home town) and brought back FOUR QUARTS OF FROZEN CUSTARD.

He's completely out of control. For lunch one day, I looked at his plate to discover two hot dogs, a gigantic mound of potato chips and a side of salami. Salami? That's not a side dish... "Why isn't it?" was his unabashed response. He doesn't see anything wrong with eating exactly what he wants to eat when he wants to eat it. If you suggest that he try something a little more healthy like baked chips or, God forbid, a piece of fruit, his pat answer is always, "Yuck, that stuff'll kill ya'."

His worst compulsion and the one that drives me the most insane is his donut habit. Donuts have long been on my Do Not Eat list. I'm not saying they don't taste good. They do. I just can't get over the fact that they are nothing more than deep fat fried sugar-dough, stuffed and/or covered with more sugar. Really? That's not technically food, is it? Plus, the world's best donuts are also made in Logansport and after growing up on a steady weekend diet of those, every other cheap imitation leaves me saying, "What's the point?"

Not Dad. He agrees that Bolin's Donuts are the best but apparently, in the World According to Mike, good donuts ain't bad but then again, bad donuts ain't bad either. He's brought home donuts from every shop, grocery store and gas station within a twenty mile radius in the last three weeks. He's obviously on a quest.

My kids are in heaven. They've never seen this much junk food in their house and they are happy to sample every single morsel of unhealthy goodness that Grandpa drags home. They're currently existing on a steady diet of bacon and frozen mini-eclairs. Frozen eclairs? I didn't even know those existed! Apparently, all kinds of rare delicacies can be found at Sam's Club which is fast becoming my most hated store. Every time I hear him say, "Liz, let's go to Sam's", I cringe.

I think my children are paying the REALTOR to drag this house-hunting thing out for as long as she possibly can. And she seems only too happy to comply. He's managed to spin her into his fatty, carbohydrate-laced web too. In four outings to look at houses, he's coerced her into stopping at Wendy's, McDonald's and his new favorite ice cream shop. This week they're slated to visit Culver's (mecca in Mike's book). They may never find a house.

He never leaves the house without a 32-ounce cup of DIET Pepsi (figure that one out...). He collects styrofoam cups from fast food restaurants and reuses them. The other day their real estate agent came over to pick him up and Dad walked out the door with his requisite styrofoam cup, a backup can of Diet Pepsi and a small, brown paper bag with a donut in it. One can never be too careful.

In all fairness, I have to say that despite his horrific eating habits, he's not overweight in the least. He looks like he's always looked. And Mom swears that according to his doctors, he's the picture of health...low cholesterol, good blood pressure, etc. He eats what he wants to eat, he doesn't stuff himself and he's happy. What more could you ask for from a junk food junkie?

Nervous Ned

2010-05-02T08:43:00.010-04:00

Yesterday was the annual Math Pentathlon tournament at Lawrence Central High School in Indianapolis. And yes, it's as geeky as it sounds. Math Pentath (as those of us on the inside call it) consists of five math-based games for students in kindergarten through 7th grade. It's a dream come true for Mr. Maurer and when Max first brought the flier home some five years ago, I knew there was no way in hell that the Maurer children wouldn't be participating.

This year was Charlie's first year to play and yesterday was the tournament. Since Mr. Maurer had volunteered to be an event official (shocker) and had to be there anyway, I decided to opt out. I've been to a MP tournament before. Once. I literally almost died from boredom and vowed to never set foot near one again. Not my gig. It's roughly six hours of watching 250 kids play a series of board games from fifty yards away. Good times.

Thursday night, prior to and in preparation of the tournament, Charlie and his dad attended the Mohawk Trails Math Pentathlon Family Night. Tuck came home saying that the genius teacher coaches had failed to mention that not only did they need parents to serve as judges during Math-o-Rama, 2010 but they also "just had to have" a lot of parents in the stands to supervise and coach the kids. They, the two actual coaches, would be serving in some Grand Poobah capacity during the event and couldn't be bothered with making sure their team was okay.

I didn't like where this was going.

Despite all my bitching, moaning and threatening, yesterday morning I did indeed find myself at Lawrence Central with a ridiculous number of second and third graders and their parents. I was not pleased. As it turns out, it's a damn good thing I went.

Charlie is a great kid. He's sweet and kind and naturally enthusiastic. He's a natural athlete, a good student and all-around great guy. He has lots of friends. Everywhere we go, we're greeted with enthusiastic cries of, "Hey Charlie!" From the school custodian to older kids who know him through Max, Charlie (or Chuck, as the older dudes like to call him) is one popular kid. People like to come up to him, rub his buzz-cut and ask him how life's treating him. He's always got a big smile or a funny anecdote to share with his fans.

While on the surface, he plays the part of "Good Time Charlie" to perfection, my youngest has a secret. Underneath that laid back exterior lies the heart of a chicken shit. Charlie is afraid of everything. He's afraid of the dark, of thunderstorms and of someone breaking into our house, all pretty normal fears for an eight-year old. If that were the extent of it, I wouldn't be so concerned. But it doesn't stop there. Not even close.

Charlie's biggest fear of all is that he'll get lost or left behind or otherwise separated from his family. He spends half his life and I think, much of his mental energy on ensuring that none of these things happen. He quizzes us down about after-school, pick-up procedures, freaks out when all four of us have to get on an elevator (you never know when that door's going to close leaving one us behind) and clings to us like a dryer sheet when we're in crowds.

We've been on a mission of late to assuage these anxieties in him. I hate the thought of this vibrant, larger-than-life character being plagued by worry and fret all of his life. I did some research about childhood anxiety and took the suggestion of encouraging Charlie to name and visualize his fear as a separate entity in his brain... kind of like a anxiety-ridden character running around in his head, reeking havoc and inciting riots. Pretty interesting really, given my latest ebook chapter designed for grown-ups. So we did that. The drawing you see at the top of this post is Charlie's own personal worry wart Ned, as in Nervous Ned.

I love this drawing. It so perfectly captures how Charlie acts when he gets scared. I can almost see this little guy racing around in my young son's head. And that's what we ask Charlie to do too. He's to visualize Ned and watch him for a bit, then talk to him, calm him down and assure him that all is well. It works. Sometimes.

Mathpalooza yesterday, as it turns out, was Ned Nirvana. From the moment we got out of the car in the very crowded parking lot, my mathlete (yes, they actually call them that) was a disaster. In true Ned fashion, Charlie started quizzing me down... What door were we supposed to use... where was Dad...how were we going to find him...etc. When we entered the school, Charlie took one look at the big venue and hundreds of participants and other attendees and Ned promptly started running in circles, hitting himself in the head and ranting like Rain Man. Unfortunately, I didn't pick up on the signs. I should have known that we were in trouble but I missed it. I blame the early hour and previous night's lack of sleep (thunder storms).

The first announcement came and the mathletes were to leave the stands and make their way to the gymnasium floor. They were all split up into groups designated by a letter. Then adults stood at different corners of the gym holding up large signs with each group's letter on it. Charlie's letter was C. Perfect. I patted him on the head, wished him good luck and told him to go and find the big C. He resisted and asked me to go with him. None of the other parents were taking their kids down to the event area so I rather forcefully told him to go and that everything would be fine. Just walk down the stairs and find the letter C. How hard could it be? I spotted some of his friends walking toward the stairs and told him to follow them. He took off like a shot trying to catch up with them. Just as he hit the door to the steps he glanced back at me and I finally recognized the panic in his eyes. Uh oh.

I got up, walked to the rail and leaned over just to make sure he'd made it to his area. I knew if he could do it once on his own, the rest of the day would go smoothly. A successful attempt would calm Ned down and we'd be good to go. I watched and waited for him to make it to the C's. And then I watched and waited some more. After a few minutes of watching and waiting without so much as a glimpse of that blond buzz-cut, I had a little freak-out of my own.

I dashed down the steps, made my way into the throngs of kids and judges and finally spotted him. He was standing against the wall, frantically scanning the crowd for the Big C and sobbing. I went over and hugged him and tried to comfort him. He was a disaster. He had mysteriously developed a severe stomachache and declared that he needed to go home. Oh boy.

I finally talked him down from the edge and got him to stay and play his first game. But not without first promising him that I'd come back down and retrieve him as soon as it was over. He reluctantly agreed to play the second game but only if I'd hand deliver him back to the C. And that's how the rest of the day went. I walked him down to each of his games, ran back up to the stands so he could see me there and wave to me and then came back down to fetch him and escort him back up to stands. We had a few more tears throughout the day and he refused to eat anything until it was all over.

Last night, after it was all over, we went to Charlie's new favorite restaurant Buffalo Wild Wings to celebrate his "victory". He didn't actually win a medal. He was only victorious in one out of five games. The real triumph was in his fighting through the fear. He stayed and he competed despite being scared out of his wits and we made sure he knew we were proud of him for that. We ate burgers and wings and talked about Ned and how there was little truth to all his claims of looming disaster. The biggest victory of all was when Charlie said he "might" actually compete again next year.

Your days are numbered, Ned. Your days are numbered.

Changes

2010-04-25T09:24:00.003-04:00

Along with Nickelback's If Today Was Your Last Day, I have found myself singing another one of my favorite songs lately. It started right around the time of the launch of my business and has continued up to the present. That song is A Change is Gonna Come by Sam Cooke. I am a sucker for the Motown oldies anyway but this song is truly one that touches my soul.

It's proving to be another one of my theme songs...

I was born by the river in a little tent
Oh and just like the river I been a runnin' ever since
It's been a long, a long time coming but I know
A change gon' come oh yes it will
It's been too hard living but I'm afraid to die
Cuz I don't know what's up there beyond the sky
It's been a long, a long time coming but I know
A change gon' come oh yes it will

I go to the movie, and I go downtown
Somebody keep tellin me "don't hang around"
It's been a long, a long time coming, but i know
A change gon' come oh yes it will

Then I go to my brother
And I say "brother, help me please"
But he winds up knocking me
Back down on my knees
There been times that I thought I wouldn't last for long
Now think I'm able to carry on
It's been a long, a long time coming but I know
A change gon' come, oh yes it will

I'm not comparing my life's struggles with that of the black man. Don't get me wrong. Nor do I pretend to have been born in a tent down by the river (reminds me of Chris Farley). I have, however, struggled for much of my life to overcome challenges and there were definitely times that I didn't really think anyone wanted me around or that I'd ever really make any progress or improvement.

I don't feel like that anymore.

I am, for the first time in my life, NOT operating from a position of fear. Which is kind of ironic and a little spooky when you think back to my word of the year (fear-less). Maybe this stuff really works.

Anyway, change is all around me. It's swirling in the air and it's an attitude within me. It's based on a refusal to accept the things in my life that I used to think I had no control over and a commitment to living completely out loud. No more holding back and waiting to see what everyone else is going to do. No more measuring and weighing my every move.

It has been a long time coming. Forty-two years long. Too long? It would be easy to say yes but if I've learned anything it is that everything happens exactly the way it's supposed to and you always end up exactly where you belong.

My mom and dad moved home yesterday. After four-and-a-half years of living twelve hours away, they have returned. It's been a long time coming. But change (and lots of it) had to occur for all of us to get to the point that we could appreciate each other and move forward in a more loving way. And even though I hated every minute of those four-and-a-half years, I can honestly say I'm grateful for the ride. A future now exists that wouldn't have it if weren't for that long separation.

The day after my business launch, I was walking out of my office toward the parking garage. I was still on cloud nine and I was singing A Change is Gonna Come under my breath as I made my way across Washington Street. The weather was in a state of transition. We had just come off of two-plus weeks of unseasonably warm weather and the whipping wind and nip in the air was a clear indication that our luck was about to run out.

A woman was crossing the street from the opposite direction as I. Right as we crossed paths, just about the time I was finishing up my third or fourth refrain of..."It's been a long, a long time coming but I know a change gon' come, oh yes it will", the woman made eye contact with me and said, "It's really starting to change quickly now, isn't it?" She was referring to the weather. I knew from the goosebumps and electrical current that ran up my spine that her message was about something much bigger than that.

"Oh, yes it is", was the only response I could manage.

The End of the Beginning

2010-04-18T08:46:00.012-04:00

Well, just in case you haven't heard, this week was a rather big one for old Shmee. I launched my new business this week. It was one of the most meaningful, awe-inspiring moments of my life. I'm not sure I can properly articulate why it was so monumental but I'll try.

The date had been circled on my calendar for weeks. Actually, the date had been moved forward a week so that I could go on vacation and not spend the entire time holed up in our condo, screaming and cussing at, and threatening my laptop. That proved to be a pretty good decision.

The big day came and my to-do list looked insurmountable. I had to officially launch the website and my new email account, write a post for the new Creative Connections blog, release the first chapter of my ebook into the atmosphere (after correcting some typos, adding the proper hyperlinks and converting it to a PDF for the thousandth time), create a Creative Connections Facebook fan page and then link everything together so that people could easily find and share it all.

I got out of bed, put on a bra under my pajama top (just to prove I'm a real professional), grabbed a giant cup of coffee and planted my ass in my office for the next ten hours. I got up once to go to the bathroom and once to grab some cold, leftover pizza from the fridge. That's it. I didn't shower or even brush my teeth until after 5:00. Pretty picture, huh? Probably makes you want to go start a business of your very own. Well, if it feels like your life's calling, I highly recommend it.

When the time came to push the launch button, I was a mixture of exhausted and exhilarated... proud and humble... scared and fearless. I hesitated and looked out the window to my right. So many days I've spent at that computer. So many times, I've turned to my right and looked out that window. It's one of my favorite views in our house. Through that window, I can see our gigantic Japanese Maple (my favorite tree) along with the sky and lots of grass (or snow depending on the season). It's where I pray. I turn to the right, look out the window and talk to God.

Yesterday, I was overwhelmed as I prepared to launch my creation. I was overwhelmed as I looked backed over the last five years of searching and self-discovery and roadblocks and epiphanies. I turned to the right, looked out my window and said, "Well, this is where it all started. Right here. And this is where you have taken me. And all I can say is thank you."

I relived the journey. I could have never imagined that this is where I'd end up but I knew that it was exactly where I am supposed to be. The road has been perfect and it was custom-designed to train me to help others. That's what Creative Connections is all about.

I cried like a baby, pushed the button, and then celebrated. I drank a beer and danced and cried some more. It doesn't matter what happens with Creative Connections. It doesn't matter if I make a dime or if, by the world's definition, it fails. What matters is that I proved something. I created something. All by myself. I put myself out there. I released a semi-wacky ebook to the public and emailed Seth Godin (who responded, by the way) to thank him.

No one can ever take this away from me. It changes everything. No matter what. I'm forever changed. I possess the knowledge that I am capable of just about anything.

There are people who are going to get it and there are people who think I've got no business doing this. I've had some conversations about this whole thing that have resembled that of an employer grilling a potential candidate. I've been questioned in regard to my credentials, experience and skill level in a not-so-nice way.

Yesterday, after the launch, Tuck said he hoped I'd be able to shove my successes up those people's asses one day (you've got to love a man like that!). I told him that didn't matter and that I had to keep my eye off other people's definitions of success. He said, "Yeah, I know but wouldn't it be great if you could prove them all wrong." I said, "I already have, Tuck. I already have."

The response overall has been a little lukewarm. I won't lie and tell you that I'm not slightly disappointed with that. I understand that my very human reaction is normal. I also understand that I can't worry about it. I refuse to let fear and ego turn this into something bad for me. Those that I can help, will find me.

As I turned to the right this morning, I asked God to help me not spin this into something vain and gross and egotistical. I said, "My only hope is that this is what You had in mind. I hope You're proud of me." I think He is.

Home

2010-04-11T11:04:00.002-04:00

I'm back. We're back actually... all four of us along with a week's worth of laundry, layers and layers of pink and pealing skin and I think, most of the sand that used to live on a beach in Southern Alabama.

We got home at 1:30 this morning even though we should have gotten home at 9:00 last night.

Please allow me just a sec to rant in the general direction of the Tennessee Department of Transportation...

Seriously? Was it really necessary to delay about a million Spring Break travelers from Kentucky, Indiana, Michigan, Illinois and Wisconsin for FOUR HOURS so that you could close a lane of northbound 65 for all of 100 feet?? And what exactly was the reason for said lane closure? From my vantage point, it appeared that there was NO REASON for it. Twenty-five orange barrels and two state police cruisers do not constitute a construction zone. Where were the construction workers? Where was the heavy equipment? I didn't see so much as a can of paint!

Were y'all bored yesterday? Did Cletus walk into the break room at TDOT and say, "Hey y'all. Watch this?"

WTF??

And while I'm at it, perhaps in the future it might be helpful if you used some of those very expensive message boards that your tax payers funded to alert travelers of the impending hell that awaits them if they should choose to stay on 65 as opposed to exiting and detouring around the teeny, tiny little stretch of non-construction zone that you might feel compelled to manufacture. Again, FOR NO APPARENT REASON! I didn't need 10 reminders to "share the road" with my fellow motorcycle riders. I needed a head's up that we were about to enter the seventh circle of hell. Someone could have made it a bit more clear that my life was about to come to an abrupt halt so that two of your state troopers could sit in their cars and watch people inch along a 10 mile stretch of highway. FOR FOUR HOURS!

In the words of one of my friends who texted me while she and her family were enduring their own special slice of hell on a different interstate, "Next year I'm going to the tanning bed for Spring Break." Amen, Sister!

Thank you. I feel much better now.

Out of Office Assistant

2010-03-31T20:00:00.002-04:00

Hello -- I am currently out of my mind and unable to respond to your need for a new blog post. I plan to return to sanity in a couple of weeks after I've properly prepared the entire family for vacation, driven twelve hours (twice!), sat my big ass in a beach chair for five days, and... oh yeah, LAUNCHED A NEW BUSINESS!

If there is anything left after that, I promise to come back here and write something spectacular. In the meantime, wish me luck. I'm going to need it.

Life's Too Short

2010-03-21T09:18:00.004-04:00

My new favorite song these days is not so new. It's Nickelback's, If Today Was Your Last Day. It's off of their Dark Horse album which was released in 2008. Nonetheless, it has just recently come to my attention and it's proving to be my new theme song. I LOVE IT and play it constantly. Tuck is about to hide or break my iPod.

The lyrics sum up what my new business is all about: helping people create remarkable careers based on their passions, gifts, skills and experiences. It's about getting people excited about what they do for a living. Oh sure, Creative Connections is also about very serious things like business development and marketing but at it's root, is my baseline passion for helping other people find their passions.

Pretty interesting, huh? A person who has spent her ENTIRE life trying to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up, ends up helping other people figure out what they want to be when they grow up. Ooh, the irony. It's ironic on so many levels that it kind of freaks me out.

You know those interest inventories that you can take online to help you figure out the perfect profession for you? Well, trust me when I say I've taken them all. I came to the conclusion long ago that they were all bullshit. Why? Because all of them - EVERY SINGLE ONE - have indicated that I should be a teacher. A teacher? Me? Excuse me but have you forgotten my motto: I like my kids and pictures of yours? I would last about 15 seconds in a classroom full of kids, whereupon the police would show up and escort me from the building. The only group of people who would be happy about my becoming a teacher would be the attorneys of the parents of my students. Please.

But here's the thing, I'm kind of, sort of good at teaching full grown people things like personal development and self-improvement and yes, spiritual growth. Stop laughing. I'm not talking about Bible study. I'm talking about finding that part of you that's connected to other people and yes, The Divine and using it as a guide to living your best life. What does all that have to do with business development and marketing? A lot, actually.

I believe that all of us have something that we're supposed to be doing, some greater good to serve. Aristotle called this innate potential, entelechy. Entelechy is the "seed of potential growth" that lies inside each one of us. It's your fullest potential and life is leading you to the experiences that will help you realize that potential. In other words, everything happens for a reason and that reason is entelechy. Entelechy is what keeps us wanting for more. Sometimes we get very confused about what exactly "more" is and end up chasing things that have nothing to do with entelechy. Then we get even more confused and frustrated when we get to the end of the rainbow and find that the pot of gold we just had to have is still leaving us empty.

It's not that you shouldn't want. It's that you haven't figured out what to want yet. I can TEACH people how to find what to want. And once you find what to want, career/business development and marketing are a walk in the park. There's no better career builder than finding your life's purpose and there's no better marketing than someone jacked up on life itself. Period.

So that's it. My entelechy is to teach. It's not to teach scary school children how to add and subtract (Thank God!). It's to teach people (adults only, please) that life's too short not to find something you're passionate about and then totally kick ass at it. That's why If Today Was Your Last Day speaks to me so.

Friday, I was in the bathroom in my office and there was a woman in there at the same time chatting with a friend. She was lamenting the fact that her husband was already retired but she was "only sixty" so she had to continue working. Her friend said, "Oh, well you still have a ways to go." The woman then replied, "Don't I know it. I can't wait."

This really struck me. Here's a sixty year-old woman. Best case scenario, two-thirds of her life is over and she "can't wait" for five more years to go by. What's that say? How many of us are wishing our lives away with thoughts of "I'll be happy when..."? Isn't it time to get seriously pumped up about your life right now?

Here are some of the relevant lyrics from my new favorite song. I hope they motivate you to keep searching for your entelechy. Let me know if I can help.

My best friend gave me the best advice
He said each day's a gift and not a given right
Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind
And try to take the path less traveled by
That first step you take is the longest stride

If today was your last day and tomorrow was too late
Could you say goodbye to yesterday?
Would you live each moment like your last
Leave old pictures in the past?
Donate every dime you had, if today was your last day?
What if, what if, if today was your last day?

Against the grain should be a way of life
What's worth the price is always worth the fight
Every second counts 'cause there's no second try
So live like you're never living twice
Don't take the free ride in your own life

You know it's never too late to shoot for the stars
Regardless of who you are

So do whatever it takes
'Cause you can't rewind a moment in this life
Let nothing stand in your way
'Cause the hands of time are never on your side

A Few Good Books

2010-03-14T09:24:00.008-04:00

It's an illness really. On the surface, it looks really good. "Wow. You really read a lot! That's awesome." That's what people typically say when, about thirty seconds into any exchange with me, they make the discovery that I am indeed a manic reader. Either that or, "How do you have the time?" Answer: I watch NO television. Don't talk to me about American Idol or Lost or any other show that you might be tuning into on a regular basis. Including the news.

Someone recently asked me what I thought about the Carmel High School hazing scandal. My blank stare pretty much summed up my answer. Had I been living under a rock?, my perplexed friend inquired. No, under a mountain of books. And guess what? Since neither of my kids were involved, it wasn't really imperative that I know about it. Do I need to worry and fret and take some extraordinary measures to keep my kids out of harm's way just in case they ever find themselves playing for the Carmel basketball team? OK, first of all, my kids are short - really, really short. I didn't pick the best gene pool in which to dive in terms of height. They've got about as much chance of playing basketball for CHS (student population 4,000+!) as I do of being America's next top model. So, I'm pretty sure this is one scary scenario that I don't need to add to my list. But I digress.

Anywho, I can't have a conversation anymore without mentioning, if not directly quoting, three or four different authors. I can't help it. The ridiculous amount of information that I've crammed into my ever-decreasing number of brain cells is practically oozing out of my ears. And if you're near me when it's time to do a data-dump, you might get some on you. Sorry. With any luck, it won't be completely random and insane. It might even be, dare I say, useful or even enlightening.

But underneath that good-looking, "check me and my big brain out" exterior lies a passive-aggressive diversionary tactic that I never saw coming.

Last Sunday, I wrote my piece here at Rambling Shmee and then scurried off to The Cheesecake Factory (yum!) to meet Melissa Foster, Life Coach extraordinaire. She was in town visiting family and we finally got the chance to meet, live and in person. It was incredible. We was just like peas and carrots. To say that we connected would be an understatement. I'm not sure either of us took a breath for the entire two hours. Melissa said something during lunch that, while very flattering, set off a chain of events that would leave me, yet again, picking myself up and dusting myself off.

Just to refresh your memory, the blog post I wrote right before meeting her contained the following passage:

I've been given every tool, resource and contact I need to make this whole thing happen. It's truly remarkable and a little spooky. And I HAVE to do it. There is no other option. It is my gift to give to the world. That's how BIG it feels.

This is relevant because, right in the middle of my Weight Management Spicy Chicken Salad (yes, I ordered something lo-cal. Who am I?), Melissa - ever the encouraging life coach - said something to the affect of, "I want you to know that I'm being completely sincere when I say there's something really BIG about you. I just know that one of these days, I'm going to be saying, I knew you when..." And I'm pretty sure "BIG" wasn't in reference to my size 12 ass or the fact that I should keep ordering menu items with "Weight Management" in the title.

Pretty cool, huh? Goose-bump cool, actually. I had just written about my new business concept feeling really BIG and important and here, not even a full hour later, was my life coach telling me that she just knew I was headed for BIG things. And no, she hadn't read my blog post yet. It was "random".

This whole Magical exchange should have left me pumped up and on cloud nine, right? You probably think I went home after that and busted out my new website, put the finishing touches on my process and generally rocked out my business development. Well, you'd be incorrect. For all intents and purposes I ground to a complete halt.

I came home that afternoon and declared to myself, my family and the universe that I was exhausted. I didn't feel like working on the site. I didn't feel like writing more content for my eseries. I didn't feel like doing much of anything. Except reading. I looked over at the stack of books piled up on my desk and heard the siren's call of relevant information and pertinent research.

If I wasn't feeling inspired to work on website development or any other tangible thing that someone trying to start a business needs to do, then perhaps I should just read a bit. After all, the books on my must-read list were all business related. What could be bad about gathering more information about marketing and motivation when that's what Creative Connections is all about?

So that's what I did. I started reading and taking notes and highlighting passages and putting Post-it tabs on every other page. And, just for good measure, I found some ebooks to throw into the mix. And pretty soon, I was starting to consider changing my business model. And my launch date. If there was so much more relevant information out there for me to obtain and if slowing down just a bit would enable me to position myself as the expert in the market, then what was the harm in doing just that? Did I really need to hit my launch date (or "ship" date as Seth Godin calls it).

This all seemed really rational and wise and patient and measured and a whole bunch of other words that no one has ever used to describe me. And that should have been my first clue that there was something more going on than just being tired and sage. I did not pick up on the clues however, until Thursday night rolled around and I had my usual group coaching call.

I asked one innocent little question. That's it. It was regarding how to determine when you should push toward a goal that you set for yourself (like a ship date) and when you should change that date on account of there being a whole bunch more information that you felt you should acquire before embarking on building something as small and trivial as your life's dream. That one question had a surprisingly simple and unexpected answer.

I was expecting Melissa to say that if I felt that I should read more and push my launch date back then I should do it. The type of coaching that she does is largely based on being acutely in tune to your feelings. Every decision you make is supposed to be based on how you feel. If it feels freeing to do something, then do it. If it feels confining and limiting, then don't. Pretty simple. I was just sure that she was going to give me permission to delay my launch.

Well, she didn't. Damn her. She said, get this, that the information contained in those books wasn't going anywhere. And that I wasn't under any time constraints to get them read and therefore, they'd always be available to me. She said I should work toward the launch and I could make tweaks based on additional information AFTER I got things up and running. What? That's not what I wanted to hear.

And that's when it hit me.

As I wrote my email response to her advice, I realized that Frank had awakened from his nap, took one look around and launched Operation Stall and Divert. The email I wrote to Melissa was on Frank's letterhead...

But what if????? What if I miss a piece of the puzzle and I ship and I end up wishing I would have waited and been patient? Patience isn't my strong suit. I typically jump and then look. I've waited sooooo long for this vision. I've worked sooooo hard to get here. I don't want to screw it up by being hasty.

I'm scared. The whole "BIG" thing had thrown me into a tail spin. And the really scary part is that I didn't even know it! I was scared shitless and had no idea. I didn't feel scared. I felt tired. I thought I might be coming down with something or on some massive sleep-deprivation, but scared? Nah...not me. This was it! The thing I've been waiting for. My chance.

Well, here's the thing. Doing what you feel like you were meant to do is scary. It's scary because other people might think you're crazy and because it's not the mainstream way that we've been taught to go about things. But more importantly, doing what you feel like you were meant to do is risky - deeply, personally, I'VE GOT TO MAKE THIS WORK OR ELSE risky. That's what makes it so important.

Once I found Frank lurking in the shadows, we sat down and had a long talk. I told him I understood his concerns and thanked him for his diligence (this is the only way to handle Frank) but that we needed to find a way to work together on this thing because I wasn't giving up. He agreed to cool it a bit. But since then, he's launched every fear-grenade he can in my direction. Little "You're not good enough" bombs and barrages of "You're going to make a fool of yourself" have been going off all over the battlefield that is my brain. Frank's not going down without a fight.

Each time something explodes, I just smile and say, "I know, Frank. I know. But I'm doing it anyway, Pal." And I am.

P.S. Don't tell Melissa or Frank but turns out, I've got plenty of time to read and work on my business. It was never an all or nothing proposition, after all.

Making a Difference

2010-03-07T08:57:00.009-05:00

Can't talk now... I'm too busy building an empire. AND A WEBSITE. Have you ever built a website? Me neither. It's hard. And I'm not twenty. I'm forty-two. And a half. And my brain is already packed full of information about self improvement and writing and blogging and marketing and creativity development and grocery lists and dental appointments and band performances and dinner parties. Seriously. There's no room in the inn.

But with each page I create and each perfect picture I find on iStock, I become more and more determined to accomplish this seemingly impossible task. And yes, I'm obsessed. I wake up, take a shower (sometimes), go to work, come home and work on my website. That's it. I stop to eat, sleep (a little), kiss the kids and tend to their other basic needs and occasionally grunt in the general direction of my husband. Other than that, I'm on my computer.

So, forgive me for cutting this blog short and I'm really sorry that The Daily Quota hasn't been updated for over a week. I finally have a desire turned fleeting glimpse turned idea turned dream turned vision turned business concept. And I am going to see it come to fruition.

The concept itself eerily resembles my own journey. It's how to take a yearning for something more and using that to generate an idea or multiple ideas which will then become a business. Once the business development is complete, the branding, marketing and fan club creation begins. I've been given every tool, resource and contact I need to make this whole thing happen. It's truly remarkable and a little spooky. And I HAVE to do it. There is no other option. It is my gift to give to the world. That's how BIG it feels.

This morning's Indianapolis Star contained an article written by a teacher at one of the elementary schools in the Indiana Public Schools district. It is a very poor district and the students there are as disadvantaged as they can get. I read the essay to my kids this morning at the breakfast table and then promptly gave them a big lecture on making the most of all the advantages, gifts and talents they've been given.

My own words rang in my ears just minutes later when I sat down to write this blog. I told Max and Charlie that if they were lucky enough to have been gifted intelligence, skills, passions, people who love and believe in them, plenty of food, every modern convenience and virtually no obstacles standing in the way of their making a difference in this world, then shame on them if they didn't go out and do just that. It would all have been for nothing. A waste.

And I, my friends, must practice what I preach.

...I Decide to Make Being Happy a Priority

2010-02-27T19:38:00.009-05:00

In our last episode, Shmee had finally found a way to incorporate all her passions and talents into a legitimate business idea that even her husband thought was doable. She was thrilled. She was motivated. She was manic. What could go wrong?

Well, it's Shmee we're talking about so obviously the potential for setbacks is always present, if not probable. And we all know what the catalyst for most Shmee setbacks is, right? That's right, her job.

Before I continue, allow me to take just a sec to say I get that you're probably all really sick to death of my bitching about my job. I too am sick to death of my bitching about my job. I know for a fact that a couple of my readers are out of work and are struggling to keep their ships afloat. I don't mean to be insensitive. The reason I talk about my job so much is because my struggle with it has been a big part of my journey. But, in honor of those readers and the other people out there that would be thrilled to have my job, I'm calling it quits. With the bitching, that is. I solemnly swear this is the last time I'm ever going to complain about my job. Seriously. Stop rolling your eyes. I mean it.

OK, back to the story. So the first thing I did after my successful client presentation was to go straight to our organization's CFO to announce that now that I'd found my mission in life, I'd be needing to leave the job from hell so that I could focus on ruling the marketing world. By "organization", I mean The Maurer Family and by "CFO", I mean Mr. Maurer. This did not go over well. He got all technical about debits and credits and how the numbers weren't really computing and said that if I quit my job we'd have to give up some of the extras like electricity and car insurance.

I went back to work.

I also started working like a dog on my new business concept. I worked everyday after I got home from my real job and I worked on the weekends and I start blowing off just about everything else including eating and sleeping. And, surprisingly, I got a little crabby.

One Monday, after I'd spent every waking moment of the prior two days on Creative Connections, I went back to my job (you know, the one that I USED to bitch about a lot) an exhausted mess. I was down and worn out and sick of wanting and of not seeing any changes in my life despite all my hard work and constant wanting.

As I drove home that afternoon, it occurred to me that perhaps I should put all this writing/coaching/marketing stuff aside and just focus on improving my life in general . Maybe, I thought, I should just work on our house, try to get closer to moving, focus on my relationships and just forget trying to build some BIG, meaningful career. In other words, maybe I should let go.

I've never really had this mental conversation before in such a rational state of mind. Translation: I wasn't crying and throwing things when I thought it. I was down but I wasn't psycho. It was more like, "Hmmm... I wonder what would happen if I just blogged for fun and tolerated my job and concentrated on actually enjoying my life. Now there's an interesting thought."

I decided the whole subject needed a little more investigation. So I went home, got out my trusty journal and regurgitated the whole enchilada onto the page. I wrote:

Seriously. I'm obsessed. My kids need more of my time. My husband needs more of my time. I want other things besides a BIG career. Plus, I keep putting pressure on building this one thing. In my mind it's supposed to solve all of my problems: financial, relational, geographical, etc. It's not the solution to all of my problems. It's one piece of the puzzle. I treat it like it's the head domino and once it falls, only then will everything else fall into place. It's not the basket that holds all the eggs, it's just one of the eggs.

So, I drew my line in the sand and called the new marketing company what it is: A new business venture. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not my messiah. I'm my messiah. It's my job to keep my eye on my own big picture. No more waiting for my life to start or my ship to come in. No more, "I'll be happy when... I have the career I've been dreaming for myself". Nope. I'll be happy when I decide to make it a priority. And I did. Decide to make it a priority, that is. And once I announced my decision to find more balance in my life, balance came a-knocking.

Friends, both old and new, came out of the woodwork with opportunities to reconnect. My life coach recommended a technique to tackle a bit of the work that needs to be done on the house in small, manageable chunks, which so far seems to be working. Tuck and I have had two whole dates nights in the last two weeks (unprecedented since the early nineties).

And, the icing on the cake is, the business has taken on a life of its own. In the last ten days I've been led around like a dog on a leash, finding one Milkbone after another. EVERYTHING is falling into place. It's just like what Martha Beck describes as Magic, where everything is very connected and almost electrically charged...

A "random" conversation led to an idea which led to a memory which led to a long-forgotten, invaluable resource buried in my archived work emails. Helpful marketing suggestions to a friend just getting started on a new business venture led to a partnership offer. Another suggestion for a business idea to a person on Facebook led to a GIGANTIC expansion of the Creative Connections concept which incorporates everything I've been working on for the last five years: writing, blogging and coaching (with some marketing thrown in for good measure).

Yesterday morning I woke up and took just a few minutes before climbing out of bed to reflect on the journey. In my mind's eye I saw the path from its scary and tentative first few steps, to some pretty embarrassing missteps to some unfortunate detours and setbacks. I couldn't help but be amazed and grateful for the perfect way in which I have been guided so that I could learn and grow and forgive and trust and love.

The journey's not over. Not by a long shot. In some ways, it's just beginning. But for the first time, I can see what I set out to find. All I knew for certain back then was that there was something I was supposed to be doing. I had no idea what it was but I HAD to find it. I'm not done. I still have to build it. But at least, at long last, I finally know what IT is.

I'll Be Happy When...

2010-02-21T12:20:00.001-05:00

It's been a big week and the epiphanies are flowing like water.

Did I ever tell you that a friend of mine once said that if I ever had a baby girl, I should name her Epiphany? This was in reference to the frequency with which I've claimed to have moments of illuminating discoveries about every topic imaginable, from what to be when I grow up to what to have for dinner. I can't even say the word "epiphany" anymore without chuckling to myself or without first explaining my propensity for having multiple mystical revelations to whomever I might be speaking.

At any rate, it's been one of those weeks.

It started with a funk on Monday. Pardon me, Mr. Costello but I don't need anyone to "tell me why I don't like Mondays." I know why. Cuz they suck, that's why! I'm always exhausted and pissed off that I am, once again, getting up at 6:00 am to drive 50 minutes to a job I hate. Period. I'm actually pissed off everyday but Mondays are the worst. This week was no exception. In fact, I was a little more pissed off than usual.

A few weeks ago I had an epiphany (chuckle). It was a big one AND it was fairly rational (rare). It was so rational that even Mr. Maurer is on board with the whole idea. This particular epiphany followed a meltdown (they often do). I had had one beast of a week at work. It was such a beast that Friday felt like Monday and by 3:00 when I arrived home I was a wreck. I had called Tuck in the middle of the day to announce (for the 79th time) that I was quitting and for the 79th time, he had said, "OK, do what you've got to do. We'll work it out." Then, for the 79th time, I told myself that I couldn't quit because we'd starve, end up homeless and the kids' teeth would rot and fall out on account of us not having any dental coverage.

I came home, cried like my dog had died and begged God to let me die in my sleep so that my family could use my life insurance money to start a new life. "Please, God! Everyone would be soooo much better without me..." (Insert sobbing and copious amounts of snot here.)

Saturday, just to add some bitter, vomit-flavored icing to my already putrid, sewage-filled cake, I woke up at the crack of dawn. As I lay in bed, drowsy and still feeling the effects of the previous night's tantrum, my mind wandered down a path it has wandered down quite frequently. It's the "Here's my genius, cutting-edge marketing plan that I'll roll out just as soon as I have a product or service to market" path. I've already written about this and how I've recently tried to refocus my efforts off of marketing and back on to that writing career I said I wanted.

Apparently my brain has a mind of its own, because despite my best efforts, he seemed dead set on fixating on marketing. So off we went, Brain and I, skipping along the well-traveled Trail of Social Media and Experiential Marketing Ideas. At least that's where I thought we were going. Brain had a different plan. He decided it was time to take me on a new route before I had an aneurysm during one of my fits and wrecked the whole operation.

This time, just before the All the Marketing Schemes in the World Don't Mean Shit Without Something to Sell Pass, we took a detour. We tripped over a couple of rocks, stumbled through the bramble and emerged into a clearing. And there it was...Epiphany (chuckle) Falls.

I was never going to find a product or service to market because marketing is my product and service. AAAWWWHHH.....(insert inspirational music here).

That was it! I would start a marketing company. Instead of conjuring up a product or service to market, I would help other people with legitimate businesses market their products and services using my cutting-edge, outside-the-box methods. Why hadn't I thought of that before? I blame Brain. He's an idiot.

Anyway, none of that mattered anymore. I was off to the races. I literally leaped out of bed and ran into my office. Once the lid was off the jar, I couldn't type fast enough. I put as much of my evolving idea on paper as I could and the second Tuck woke up, I regurgitated the whole thing to him. At first, he was a bit dumbstruck. Even after all these years (16 this week) of marriage, I still manage to surprise him with my manic lunacy.

He asked me a couple of anal retentive questions (because that's how he rolls) and played the part of devil's advocate for a bit (Skeptical Sam is my pet name for him) and then proclaimed my idea (again, insert the inspirational music here) "brilliant". BRILLIANT! My husband has NEVER used the word "brilliant", at least not in reference to any of my ideas. Typically, he just smiles and says something to the effect of, "Is that what you want to do?" And then I get to spend the next 17 -18 hours trying to convince him of the merits of my latest... er... epiphany (chuckle).

But not this time! Nope. This time, he said it was brilliant and told me to get to work. So I did. And four days later, I met with my first potential client. Yes, I said four days. I had a PowerPoint presentation complete with pricing (thanks to Life Coach extraordinaire, Melissa Foster) and a tiered service plan and everything. And the client liked it! He's not ready to pull the trigger yet (and neither am I) but I feel pretty confident that in the not so distant future, we'll be doing business together.

It's amazing. Since then I've designed a logo and business cards, started the development of a website and successfully pitched my ideas to several sane people. Creative Connections Marketing is off and running.

So how did I get from that mountain-top mecca back down into the valley of starvation and rotten teeth and back again? Well, that is another story for another day complete with drama, additional epiphanies (chuckle) and more plot twists than an episode of 24.

Tune in next week for the exciting conclusion...

Lifesaver

2010-02-14T09:11:00.009-05:00

I want, therefore I am.

This could be my mantra. It seems that a good deal of my time and energy is spent on trying to figure out a way to get the things that I want. The objects of my desire are not the same as they once were. In fact, all the things I used to want are the things that I: a) have already managed to acquire; and b) would like to get rid of now, thank you very much.

Now there's an interesting thought.

A long time ago I had an interview for a job in which I was asked, "What motivates you?" The answer I gave was so good, it alone got me the job. Here's what I said...

"Motivation comes from recognizing what you want and doing whatever it takes to go out and get it. And since what you want is always changing, you have to be willing to learn and grow and change too so that you're always ready for the next challenge or conquest. That's what keeps me motivated."

The interviewer (my future boss) ate that up. She told me as much after she hired me. She said that was the best answer she'd ever been given to that question. At the time, her saying that made me feel pretty damn good. Finally, one of my bullshit interview answers had paid off. In retrospect though, my response would prove to be more telling than either of us could have ever imagined. On the surface, it appeared that I was everything she wanted in an employee - goal-oriented, willing to learn and grow. I had it all. Little did she (or I) know that my ever-evolving objects of desires would prove to be my undoing in regard to that job and every other I've had since. It wasn't long before I had my sights set on the door.

Oh, I'm goal-oriented alright. And I'm all about learning and growing. It's the moving target part that's gotten me into trouble time and time again. It's what has led me to change jobs dozens of times, buy a house that was too big, too expensive and needed too many updates and generally blow around in the wind like a loose leaf hoping that someone or something would snatch me out of the breeze and place me under something heavy so that I might stay put for a spell.

And I thought it was because I wanted too much.

Turns out my problem wasn't that I wanted too much but rather I really didn't really know what I wanted. I had never taken the time to find out. By the time I discovered that missing piece of the puzzle and took the necessary steps to fill in the blanks, there was a mountain of past choices and obligations blocking the path that leads to my best life. That mountain is what I struggle to overcome in my quest for the life that calls to me from the other side - a life filled with creativity and inspiration and amazing people and love and joy and simplicity and natural beauty and making a difference and feeling connected.

The mountain that stands in my way is not easily conquered or overcome. I must try and reach my new life while dealing with the repercussions that my past compulsions have created. Those repercussions include, among other things, our house with it's gigantic price tag, over-abundance of square footage and much needed repairs. The irony of this one choice is enough to leave me laughing through my tears. I wanted it because it was big and had "great bones" and because it would be my greatest conquest in terms of interior design. It was a project house and I dreamed of turning it into a showplace. And that was great, right up to the point that I made the astonishing discovery that all those things have little to do with I really want.

Now, the house limits our choices and options and we'd love to be able to sell it and start over. The current state of the real estate market isn't doing us any favors right now and if we want any chance of breaking even, the house needs to be in much better shape than it is currently. That will require time to work on it and money, two commodities that are in short supply around here. This reality is what makes me feel like a caged animal, trapped and suffocating. I can't accept the fact that I have no choices or ways to affect any positive change.

This simmering pot of angst is starting to boil over more and more frequently and Mr. Maurer is the lucky recipient of the resulting burns. I want him to fix it. I want him to put his big, bald, intelligence-packed head to work in order to craft our exit strategy. And I want him to do it RIGHT NOW. Oh, and by the way, there are some solutions that are off limits. Solutions like selling our rental and using the equity toward getting our current house market-ready. Why is this solution off limits? Well, that is a complicated question and the answer is the real point of this post.

The reason that solution is off limits is because our rental used to be our house. It was our first house and leaving it represents some very bad judgment on our part. We'd only been in it for three years when I get the wild hare that it was time for bigger and better. This was during the height of my being a loose leaf on the wind phase and I had momentarily come to rest on the idea that a bigger house was just what the doctor ordered. In true, Shmee fashion I didn't take the traditional route to get to my destination. We didn't put our house on the market, sell it and then look for our next house. No, we went looking for houses first.

When we found one that we wanted, I didn't let a little thing like needing to sell the old one stand in our way. No, no, no. We'd just simply turn the first house into a rental and Viola! Onward and upward we'd go.

Enter: Justification

In order to not look like the flaky, flighty leaf on the wind that I was, it was necessary to create the illusion that we were making a considered, informed and fiscally-prudent decision. So I created it. A rental could be made to look like an investment, right? I know! It's a college fund for the kids! Perfect. Never mind that it sat empty for a six month stretch of time causing us to pay two mortgages and putting us into a giant, gaping financial hole. Never mind that one of our renters had unauthorized pets that ruined every square inch of carpet in the place. Never mind that we had no business buying a new house before selling the old one. Illusions aren't based on facts. They're based on appearances and they require that you buy into your own story.

Hence, the reason that the rental is off limits. Come hell or high water, I'm keeping that rental until it results in sending my kids to college! NO MATTER WHAT. And that's exactly what I told Mr. Maurer when he suggested for the 158th time that we sell it. And then he told me I was an idiot. He said my refusing to consider using this resource to get to a place where I didn't feel like "I am suffocating" simply because I liked the idea of the rental being a "smart investment" was like drowning and refusing to use the lifesaver being offered because it's too pretty to get wet.

In other words, "TAKE THE FRIGGIN' LIFESAVER, SHMEE!"

And so I am. We ran the numbers and contacted a Realtor and our tenant has agreed to help us in anyway he can. We're going to cash in all our chips in an attempt to finally get over the mountain. It's risky and it goes against conventional wisdom. Our financial adviser would probably advise against it. But sometimes you've got to do what you've got to do. It's a short life and you only get so many chances to make it what you want. That warrants taking a risk and rolling the dice and utilizing every single resource available to you. It's that important.

To quote my very most favorite movie line of all time, you've got to "get busy living or get busy dying.", Andy Dufresne, The Shawshank Redemption.

Teetotaling

2010-02-07T14:51:00.004-05:00

Well, it's over. The thirty day hiatus from alcohol has come to an end. It's been an interesting little experiment and one that I believe will have a long-term effect on my behavior, if not my life.

I have not gone thirty days without drinking (pregnancy withstanding) since longer than I care to admit. Let's just say I was in my teens and leave it at that. My social life has always revolved around booze. My drink of choice has changed over the years: Beer and cheap wine (teens), turned into Long Island iced teas and shots (twenties) which turned into vodka/tonics and better wine (thirties and beyond). Weekend binge drinking (teens) turned into 24/7 binge drinking (twenties) and then into weeknight, after-work cocktails and alcohol-based dinner parties (thirties and beyond).

I have invented events and made excuses designed to fool myself into thinking that I had evolved from drinking for the sake of getting drunk into a restrained, social drinker. Often the results have been the same despite the events or excuses: inebriation. Prior to my self-imposed prohibition period, I was consuming 2-3 glasses of wine a night, almost every night with the weekends being somewhat of a free-for-all.

I think I needed to know that I could live without it when not being forced by maternal obligation. I can. Live without it I mean. In fact, it would seem that I can actually thrive without it. I slept better, handled stress more effectively, was more productive, more creative and, according to a certain man I live with, a lot less moody and cantankerous. I think his is exact words were, "You're a lot nicer to me."

I can't completely explain this other than to say that I feel better. Physically, yes but more importantly, I feel better emotionally. I knew alcohol was a depressant but I thought that meant that while you were under the influence, you might have a tendency to be down or sad. That doesn't happen to me. I'm a happy drunk. What I'm coming to believe is that the regular use of it can affect your overall mood on a daily basis. So it's a vicious cycle: you drink to take the edge off when all along it's the drinking that's helping to create the edge in the first place. That's my theory anyway.

I actually didn't make it the entire thirty days. I had a beer on Wednesday (five days short of the goal). And let me just say it was perhaps the best tasting beer of my life. I enjoyed every drop and after (almost) a month of abstinence, felt the effects of it quite acutely. I liked being a cheap drunk. It felt good to be someone who could just have one. And that was the point of this whole thing - to break the daily habit of over-indulgence.

It wasn't as hard as I thought it was going to be. I had a few moments when I really wanted a drink. And, admittedly, I'm never going to enjoy being the only sober person in a group full of drunks. But I learned a few things and I'm proud of myself and once again, I find I'm turning yet another corner and making the most amazing discoveries.

Reruns

2010-01-28T15:52:00.005-05:00

Life is so ridiculously weird and ironic and frustrating sometimes that I swear I'm being followed and secretly video taped for a new reality TV series entitled, How Not to Live that's set to air just minutes before my death. Wouldn't that just be the olive in my martini? Here you go! Here's your fifteen minutes! Enjoy!

As I mentioned in my last post, in preparation for the group coaching experience that starts tonight, I went digging through roughly five years worth of journal entries. Um, yeah... if you think reading my blog regularly is confusing and sometimes painful, let me just say...YOU HAVE NO IDEA. Good God. It's a little embarrassing. I really am a nut case. And I could have saved myself gallons of ink and several cases of carpal tunnel by just referring to one or two original entries instead of writing THE SAME EXACT SHIT OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

Ugh.

How many different ways are there to say: I hate my job; Let go; I need to be thankful for what I have; I want a writing career; I want to be a life coach; I drink too much; I think I'm supposed to write a book; No, it's definitely the blog; and oh yeah, did I mention I hate my job? I'M STILL WRITING ABOUT THESE EXACT SAME THINGS. It's the most irritating and annoying thing ever. If I had a friend that called me up all the time and whined about the same things as much as I do in my journals, I'd change my number, get a restraining order and consider moving to another planet to get away from her. But how exactly do you get away from yourself?

You don't. Believe me. I've tried.

I think (and believe me when I say this is just a guess) that you just have to keep moving forward. Even if it means you're doing little else but going around in circles.

Maybe, eventually you start to notice that the scenery is repeating... Hey, haven't we seen that two-headed cow before? or, Didn't we just pass that life-sized Homer Simpson yard ornament? And maybe there's some mysterious, predetermined number of times that you have to write something in your journal before you can make the connection and either a) formulate and actually initiate a plan to make changes; or b) give up, stop the innocent killing of trees and accept that this is your lot in life.

Maybe.

If that's the case, then perhaps I am at least at that stage of recognition. I've just spent the last eighteen days, 12 hours, 1 minute and 43 seconds, sans liquor. That's right. I haven't had so much as a shot of NyQuil in nearly three weeks! This is a new, non-pregnant Shmee world record. Tuck and I both decided to forego drinking for a month on account of the two of us trying to set some different world records over the holidays. Plus, like I said, the whole drinking thing has been on my radar for quite some time. I've actually made some interesting observations which I'll share with you after it's all over. We officially fall off the wagon on Superbowl Sunday so let's hope the Colt's give us something to properly celebrate.

Anyway, maybe I'm getting there. Or not. This week, I called Tuck and swore I was quitting my job (for the 4,739th time); Max served a one day detention for flicking a carrot at a teacher's head; I declared I wasn't going to continue writing my book and then promptly started writing it again; and I came this close to saying, "screw this not drinking crap.." and having a glass or seven of wine (for medicinal purposes only).

Hmmm. I think I've seen this episode before.

Remember

2010-01-25T15:13:00.004-05:00

I am currently writing a book. It’s my fourth or fifth attempt at chronicling the events that have occurred over the last five years of my life. Those events have taken me from a conversion experience to very heavy involvement in a church to leaving said church to the overwhelming feeling that there is something I’m supposed to be doing to the realization that I want to be a writer to reading every self-help/self-realization book and website known to man to wanting to be a life coach to wanting to start an online small group development resource hub. And back again. In the words of The Grateful Dead, What a long strange trip it’s been. To say the least.

The problem with the book(s) has been that I don’t really want to write a book. Interesting discovery, huh? It’s true and anyone who knows me will not be surprised to learn why I do not want to write a book. It's because I don’t have the patience for it. A book requires a very long, coherent, step-by-step, beginning, middle and end. And here’s the thing, while I have been keeping a journal (on and off) for the better part of five years, I’m finding it extremely difficult to fully describe this wild, mystical, awe-inspiring journey that I’ve been on without continuously overusing the words “wild”, “mystical” and “awe-inspiring”. Additionally, sometimes in retrospect, the whole thing doesn’t make much sense.

It’s much more natural to come here frequently and write short little narratives which record the expedition while it’s still in motion. In actuality, if you were to take a lot of what I’ve written on Rambling Shmee and combine it with what I wrote on The Boat (decommissioned online women’s group), you’d have a pretty good narrative of my trek. OK, you’d want to leave out the mismatched shoes episode and Tuck’s epic bee battle but besides those, I’ve really already written my story. These are the thoughts that led to my latest epiphany. As I’ve struggled with writing the most recent version of my book, I’ve once again entered the land of Doubt and Frustration. (Hello, old friends.)

Everyday, I read a couple of fun and innovative marketing blogs (Seth Godin and Hugh McCleod) and everyday I am inspired to do some outside-of-the-box marketing for myself. There’s just one problem: I don’t have a product to market. I don’t have a book; I’m not a life coach; I don’t have a widget to take to production. I’ve got a bunch (think: WAR AND PEACE multiplied by the first draft of the HOLY BIBLE) of short stories, anecdotes and analogies that I’ve created over the last three or so years along with four unfinished, incoherent versions of a book that I hate writing. That’s it. How do you market that?

For the next five weeks, I’m going to be participating in a group coaching session with life coach Melissa Foster. When I signed up, I didn’t really know why I was doing it. It was pretty inexpensive, as compared to one-on-one coaching, and I thought I would just roll with it and see where it took me. I didn’t really have any preconceived notions or desired outcomes I was looking to obtain. In true Shmee form, I was just planning to blow around in the wind looking for inspiration and/or direction. And that probably would have been exactly how things progressed if it weren't for the “life coaching” part. Life coaches have agendas. Their job is to get you from Point A to Point B. Oops.

So, when Ms. Foster emailed and asked all the participants to provide an answer to the question, “What do you want?” as well as a statement of our intentions for the group experience, I panicked a little. What was I supposed to tell her? I wasn’t feeling too good about sending her the statement, “I want a product to market.” or, “I intend to find an excuse to flit around for the next five years until I accidentally stumble into a writing career.”

As I sat at my desk with my head in my hands, staring at the unidentified goo on my desk, repeating “What do I want?” over and over and over again, I remembered something that I had written a long time ago. Right after The Overwhelming Feeling That There is Something I’m Supposed to be Doing period and The Realization That I Want to be a Writer phase, I had answered this very question during a similar ritual. I paged through three old journals before finding the illusive answer that I somehow can’t manage to hold in my memory. There, written in my all but illegible scrawl, under the recurring question of my life (What do you want?) was the answer I ultimately sent to Melissa… I want to have a career that involves working from home and writing short, funny, insightful pieces that help and inspire others. And my intention for the five weeks of group coaching? My intention is to develop a plan, with action steps, to get what I want (see specific writing career described above). In other words, I intend to develop a product that I can package and market and, God willing, SELL!

Once again, I’m being reminded and guided. Just when I was about to give up (again) and start blaming my lack of a college degree and my age and all my responsibilities for my inability to get what I want, I remember with crystal clear certainty that I am still, more or less, on a path. When the lights go dim and I have a hard time finding the next step it is not a sign to turn back or to give up but rather a signal to look even harder for the bread crumbs. The road twists and turns and sometimes doubles back to the beginning but it is a definitely a path, intended not only to take me to a specific destination, but also to teach me lessons and provide me with opportunities to share what I've learned.

Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me;
Other times, I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me ...
What a long, strange trip it's been.

All By Myself

2010-01-19T15:22:00.004-05:00

My husband and I have lived together for a VERY long time. This summer will mark the twentieth anniversary of our first date. I was twenty-three years old when, two months later, I had to call my dad and tell him that Tuck was moving in with my roommate and me. (Sorry again, Dad).

For nearly TWENTY years, I've lived with one person. Honestly, the gravity of that reality is almost more than I can wrap my wee little brain around. Never mind that the truth of that statement necessarily means that one person has lived with ME for that long as well. Who'd a thunk it?

Before the grand entrance of one Tucker Maurer into my life, I was a pretty independent, self-sufficient person (if you concede that the term "self-sufficient" is a relative term). I wasn't homeless, I had a job (or two), my electricity was connected more than it wasn't and if you count having a head of lettuce and a bottle of Jagermeister as there being food in the fridge, then I had that too. Clearly, I was doing just fine all by myself.

OK, so maybe there was room for improvement in my life and I'll be the first one to admit that Tuck was and continues to be the best that thing ever happened to me. However, when you meet, fall in love and immediately shack up with someone at the ripe old age of twenty-three, there are bound to be some unforeseen and lasting effects.

One of those effects is my complete abhorrence of sleeping in our house (or anywhere for that matter) by myself. I do not like it when Tuck is gone. Period. In fact, I hate it. In the words of me shortly before every departure that keeps my beloved away overnight, "I ain't no good without you , Daddy."

This is the direct result of the longevity of our relationship. Way back when, before I knew there was a Tucker Maurer, I lived alone. I moved from Logansport to Indianapolis on my twenty-second birthday. All by myself. I lived in a 600 square foot, one bedroom apartment at 62nd and Allisonville. It was just me and my bottle of Jager. And I was perfectly fine.

Well, those days are gone. I am no longer fine by myself. I have become a withering, frightened female. It's pathetic. I'd hit the Jager again if I thought it would help but I'm fairly certain it'll just make matters worse. I can barely handle more than a glass or two of red wine these days.

Tuck is in South Carolina right now. He left on Sunday morning and will be returning either tomorrow or Thursday. In an effort to carry forward my word-of-the-year theme (fear-less), I intended to spend this week examining just why I am so very timid about staying by myself. When the answer to that question became blatantly obvious (I'm a giant chicken shit and no amount of self-exploration or examination is going to change that), I decided to go a different route.

I was born when all I once feared - I could love.
Rabia of Basra, Sufi Poet, 717-801

The above quote challenged me to look at my husband's absence from a different point of view. What if I paid attention to all the things I enjoy when he's not here? What if I kept a running list of positives that occur when Mr. Maurer goes a-traveling? Could I, by looking at the glass as half full, actually get to a point where, despite my fear, I welcome his departures? Couldn't hurt to try, right?

Here's some of the things that have made my list so far...

Not being awakened by his snoring
Less odor coming from the bathroom

Um, yeah. That's about all I've got. So much for that little experiment. I think I'm just going to have to accept that I've turned into a giant fraidy cat.

Oh well, I guess it's a small price to pay for finding your soul mate at such a young age.

Fear Factor

2010-01-12T21:23:00.004-05:00

Hugh MacLeod, author of IGNORE EVERYBODY, cartoonist, entrepreneur and genius who wrote the essay that inspired me to choose FEAR as my word of the year, is in the process of writing another book. It's called EVIL PLANS and MacLeod published the first 25% of the draft on his website.

There's a section in it entitled Welcome to the Hunger that describes exactly how I've felt for about the last five years. When I first read the passage, I immediately printed it off and handed it to Tuck who immediately took one look at it and set to the tune of Welcome to the Jungle. So, now you know what I'm dealing with.

At any rate, it puts into words what I've tried to explain to several unsuspecting friends and family members, typically after multiple cocktails. The results have been less than ideal. Usually, these poor slobs end up nodding their heads and looking as if I might be wearing a clown nose and speaking in Portuguese.

Here's the passage by Hugh MacLeod:

Welcome to the Hunger

The Hunger to do something creative.

The Hunger to do something amazing.

The Hunger to change the world.

The Hunger to make a difference.

The Hunger to enjoy one's work.

The Hunger to be able to look back and say, Yeah, cool, I did that.

The Hunger to make the most of this utterly brief blip of time Creation has given us.

The Hunger to dream the good dreams.

The Hunger to have amazing people in our lives.

The Hunger to have the synapses continually fired up on overdrive.

The Hunger to experience beauty.

The Hunger to tell the truth.

The Hunger to be part of something bigger than yourself.

The Hunger to have good stories to tell.

The Hunger to stay the course, despite of the odds.

The Hunger to feel passion.

The Hunger to know and express Love.

The Hunger to know and express Joy.

The Hunger to channel The Divine.

The Hunger to actually feel alive.

The Hunger will give you everything. And it will take from you, everything. It will cost you your life, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

But knowing this, of course, is what ultimately sets you free.

Bingo.

This is what has caused me to explore and search and introspect and pray and beg and meditate and consult a psychic and send unsolicited written pieces to friends and start three or four different websites and generally make a fool of myself.

And you know what, there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. I HAVE to pursue this dream - this fuzzy, ambiguous, vague dream. Yes, it's scary and it's causes me no small amount of trepidation and FEAR. And the biggest FEAR of all is of the possibility that I'll never find what I'm looking for - that all this scratching and clawing and trying to build something that I can't even really name, will be all for naught.

But here's the thing that I've learned...Clearly there's a reason I'm still on this path, feeling stuck and insane. There's something for me to learn or some greater good that I'm supposed to serve, right here. And the minute that I start thinking that I'm not exactly where I'm supposed to be, I have to recognize that the thinking is FEAR-based. I have to look around and find the lesson or just be still and wait patiently for the next step to present itself.

I've got some inklings about what the next lessons are and let me just say, I'm none too excited about learning them. They will require a level of sacrifice and a lifestyle change that I've not experienced up to this point. And yes, I FEAR them. But then I remember The Hunger and I am reminded that I don't have a choice.

Side note: Check out the new feature at the top of the page: Your Daily Quota. Everyday, I'll be posting an inspirational, funny or thought-provoking quote. Let me know what you think.

Scary List Number 2

2010-01-07T08:24:00.009-05:00

I wish I could properly articulate all the amazing occurrences that have started swirling around me ever since I declared my own personal war on fear. I could try but in the end you'd either be completely convinced of my mental instability (if you're not already) and/or made totally aware of my limits as a writer. Let me just say that the amazing occurrences are too numerous and blatant to be coincidental.

I KNOW that fear-less was the right word of the year for me. And here's the other thing, it's working. The more aware I become of all the fear-based jibber-jabber floating around in my hamster brain, the more I can diffuse it. And the more I listen to my thoughts, the more clear my image of Fear becomes. I was mistaken. He's not like Voldemort. He's more like Ron Weasley.

He's not evil. He's just neurotic. He needs a stiff drink or a Xanax or both. He needs a shrink and I'm just the gal for the job. And as I pay attention to the things that Frank (my pet name for him) is so uptight about, it has the same effect as would slipping a little something in his prune juice or inviting him to lie down on the coach and tell me all about it.

Before long, he loosens his tie and props his feet up on his desk, swirls the ice around in his glass and says, "You know, I like you. You really get me." Pretty soon, he gets up and stumbles over to the sofa declaring that he just needs to rest his eyes for a bit. And when Frank's asleep, the whole operation runs better. I'd fire him completely but I'm afraid he'll go get his stockpile of weapons and ammo and attempt to blow the place up. He's like that. Besides, all he really needs is a little attention.

I had to promise him that I'd properly air his grievances in order to get him to take a nap, so without further ado...

Scary List Number 2

Frank fears...

Being late for work (even though he likes to pretend he doesn't care if he's late);
Getting home late from work;
People who feel the need to back into parking spaces;
That he'll never really figure it all out;
That he's going to be a government worker for the rest of his life;
That his husband doesn't listen to him or respect his opinions;
Waking up in the middle of the night;
That the cleaning lady will think badly of him because his house is so dirty;
That nobody really cares about him;
That his children watch too much TV and play too many video games;
Anyone (including his kids' friends) seeing his house unkempt;
That his lack of a college degree makes him less;
That his writing doesn't even come close to being as good as all the other stuff he reads;
That people think he's crazy;
Morons on the road during rush hour.

Scary List Number 1

2010-01-02T09:58:00.006-05:00

If you read my last post then you'll get this. If you didn't read it, you better do that now or else you're probably going to think I've finally, completely lost it.

As promised, in an attempt to expose Fear for the nuisance in my life that he really is and to shrink him down to a more manageable level, I am compiling a list of things that he likes to point to and yell, "See! This is exactly what I'm talking about! We really are in trouble!" This list is just the tip of the iceberg. I pulled it together in about fifteen minutes.

Don't hate me because I'm crazy.

Scary List Number 1

I fear...

The bowl of (previously) perfectly good tortilla chips in the kitchen that I left out all night;
The Christmas decorations adorning every square inch of my house (it's January 2nd, for God's sake);
The dead poinsettia sitting on my washer (RIP, little Poinsettia. RIP);
The sad, scary, dilapidated gingerbread house that we tried to pass off as quaint;
Overflowing trashcans;
That Martha Beck’s life coach training session which starts on January 14th and that I can’t afford to register for ($6,000) will be the last one ever and I’ll never actually get to be a life coach;
Thick Dust and her children The Dust Bunnies;
That my children will contract a life threatening illness due to very poor nutrition and bad sleeping habits;
Clutter;
Crumbs;
That I’m not doing enough to help;
The telephone (and its incessant ringing);
That (insert name of any random friend, coworker or relative here) doesn’t really like me;
The storage area of our basement (shudder);
That the "bald spot" comment I made to a guy from my hometown while trying to be funny when I saw him on New Year's Eve was way over the top;
That I drink too much;
That I won’t be able to balance spending time with my parents on their last day here with the mountain of pre-workweek preparation that I have to do, leading to either: a) my parents being angry and disappointed;or b) starting the Monday after Christmas break in a deep, dark hole out of which I will never be able to crawl;
That my husband really does have clown music playing in his head;
That I try too hard;
That people will read this blog and think that I am absolutely, certifiably insane or (worse yet) that I have no writing talent whatsoever.

2010

2009-12-31T13:21:00.008-05:00

I read A LOT. And my reading list is probably a bit different from yours. I'm just guessing that you don't read upwards of seven to ten blogs a day with subject matter ranging from self-help to marketing to spirituality to brain research to ridiculous nonsense.

The list of books I've read over the last year alone looks like that of someone with a severe, hybrid case of ADHD/Schizophrenia. The only thing that all of my reading materials have in common is the fact that they are all non-fiction (with the exception of the fluff I'm forced to read for Book Club and that endeavor is SO on life support).

The reason I give you all this background information on what my daily reading habits entail (as if any of you could possibly care in the least little bit) is because recently several different sources have touched on the same theme. The theme, in and of itself, isn't particularly surprising given that we are about to end one decade and begin another. What is a bit surprising is how all of what I just so happen to read has come together to form a rather interesting concept that I'd like to share with you.

Ok, so first there's Christine Kane. She just might be my long-lost twin sister. She too has a penchant for "focusing" on a variety of different areas. She's a singer-songwriter/life coach/writer/public speaker/creativity consultant (I'm not making that up). In other words, she's my hero.

She developed an exercise to replace the dreaded New Year's resolution on account of New Year's resolutions are passe and, oh yeah, THEY DON'T WORK. She suggests that you pick one word to set your intention for the coming year and she has a tool that you can use to choose yours at the link above.

What's my word? Hold your horses! We're getting there but first, a bit more background information. (Did I just hear a collective groan from the crowd?)

On to Seth Godin. Seth Godin is a best-selling author/marketing guru/business-trend predictor/etc. He wrote the book TRIBES which was instrumental in helping me find Ning, which in turn helped me start my online women's group All in the Same Boat. The Boat is now sunk (for all intents and purposes) but that experience has been invaluable and it gave me the knowledge to create a website for the Dongoskis in a fairly short amount of time after their life-altering, punch to the gut in early November.

So a couple of weeks ago, I received a link to an ebook that Seth Godin put together designed to get people thinking in a new and different way in this very new and different time that we have all entered. Over seventy people contributed to the ebook which consists of one page, mini-essays with one word titles. Are you seeing a theme developing here? Ok, stay with me...

The ebook is called WHAT MATTERS NOW and it's fanfreekingtastic! I love it. There's enough blog fodder in it to keep me rambling through 2010 and beyond. (Good news, huh?)

One of my favorite essays contained in this work of pure genius was written by a guy named Hugh Macleod, another hybrid, hyperactive schizo. Get this. He's a cartoonist/author/blogger/entrepreneur. Again, another one of my People. Oh, and by the way, this dude has a sick, twisted sense of humor which has further endeared him to me for life.

So his essay, entitled Meaning, isn't really an essay at all but rather a seemingly random collection of sentences compiled and formed into the shape of a block (see picture above). I could spend the rest of 2010 taking a sentence a week from Macleod's block of inspirational brilliance and use it by expanding upon and waxing poetic here, ad nauseum. (If that doesn't get you fired up about frequenting Rambling Shmee in 2010, nothing will.)

Ok, so one of the sentences in the block is "Everybody has their own private Mount Everest they were put on this earth to climb."

Boom.

What? No boom for you? You don't think this is a meaning-of-life statement of the highest magnitude? Well I beg to differ. I read the ebook (in its entirety) for the first time on December 15th and that one statement rattled around in my brain, knocking bottles off of shelves and inciting mini-riots all over the place for the better part of two weeks. I kept asking myself, "If I were put on this earth to overcome one thing, then what in the hell is it?" I saw it as my mission in life to determine exactly what my own private Mount Everest is.

In the meantime, Christine Kane and her band of groupies were posting daily pieces discussing their One Word selections for 2009 and how the exercise had worked out for them. All of this thought provocation was driving me a little nuts (I know, short trip) until I added the holidays into the mix.

As I mentioned in some previous posts, I had made it my mission in life to not stress and freak out and make myself and everyone I love miserable this holiday season. And I did it. I succeeded in holding off the full Shmee meltdown until December 29th (a new World record, by the way). But it wasn't easy and when the lid finally did blow off the pot, I noticed something: those things that finally got to me all fell under the heading of Perfection.

Eureka! That was it! Suddenly all the pieces fit. I finally heard the click as the tumblers of my brain slide into place and the secret door swung open exposing my own private Mount Everest. (Insert awe-inspiring, angelic chorus here.) Just like that I saw what stood behind my life-long, bone-crushing craving for everything to be perfect.

It's my old friend Fear.

I thought he was dead. I had a funeral and everything. It was lovely.

Turns out that much like a cat, Fear has nine lives. He's a resilient sucker and he's not above laying low (like Voldemort) until you're warm and snugly and thinking you've got this whole life thing figured out. Then he worms his way back in, little by little, so slowly that you barely notice that he's back. Until you wake up in the middle of the night and realize that your thoughts are focusing on THE MENU FOR NEW YEAR'S DAY and WHETHER YOUR PARENTS WILL PROPERLY ENTERTAIN YOUR CHILDREN ON NEW YEAR'S EVE!!!!!

What? This is what's keeping you awake at night?

Yeah, it is. That and every other ridiculous shit-nugget that I'm worried about and afraid of.

So that's it. My own private Mount Everest to climb is Fear (actually I ultimately think this is all of our Mount Everest's) and my One Word for 2010 is... (drum roll please)... Fearless. It's appropriate on so many levels but none more so than the fact that it's New Years and it's a fresh start and in a lot of ways, I'm back to square one and ready to try again.

This time, I'm going about it a little differently. The permanent eradication of Fear is no longer my goal. I think I've learned enough to know that he's indestructible. You can't really destroy him. You can only hope to contain him. Containment comes from exposing him for what he is and minimizing his effect on your life. It's kind of like saying, "Oh look, there's Fear everybody! Say hello to Fear. Now, go sit in the corner while I enjoy and make the best of my life. That's a good boy. Here's a biscuit."

My posts for the next couple of weeks are going to be dedicated to exposing Fear and then politely asking him to shut the hell up. I hope you'll join me in living a life with a little less fear in it. (Get it? Less fear. Fear less. Nice play on words, huh?) Whatever.

Happy New Year, friends. Thanks for indulging this very lengthy ramble!

Tradition

2009-12-30T09:52:00.004-05:00

Well, I did it! I managed to pull off Christmas without having a full Shmee meltdown. There were a few close calls - like when my dad started being very vocal about getting the rules of our first annual Dirty Santa gift exchange set in stone - but for the most part, it truly was the best Christmas ever. By the way, Dad's insistence on very strictly enforced rules did not save him from receiving the quirkiest gift in the lot: a set of mustache-shaped salt and pepper shakers (shown above).

Anyway, I actually took a nap on Christmas Eve! Wait. Stop. Go back and read that sentence again. I TOOK A NAP ON CHRISTMAS EVE! This is unprecedented. Of course it may have had something to do with having had a multitude of different kinds of cocktails and being up past 3:00 am the night before but that's a story for another day. For now, I'm chalking the nap up to my being completely calm and zen-like.

I should probably mention, lest they think I'm not giving them their just due, that my brothers were BOTH on time to our house this year. This in and of itself qualifies as a legitimate Christmas miracle. And, just to really freak me out, all their gifts were wrapped when they arrived. Granted, Donald's wrapping included some festive Hanukkah prints and newspaper-stuffed gift bags, but HE WAS ON TIME AND ALL HIS GIFTS WERE WRAPPED!

Tuck and I were in bed on Christmas Eve by 11:00. Again, this is unprecedented. Typically we're up way past midnight assembling life-sized GI Joe helicopters or washing dirty glass number 327 or trying to coax one of my over-served brothers to bed. Not this year. Nope, this year by 11:00, not a creature was stirring, not even a Mee. It was a slice of Christmas heaven.

And now it's over.

Yesterday I hit the wall. Perhaps it was inevitable. Maybe Shmee meltdowns are as unavoidable as bad weather. You can have a whole bunch of sunny days in a row but eventually it's going to rain. Yesterday was stormy. Yesterday was really stormy. Yesterday was tornado-stormy.

Actually, in retrospect the writing was on the wall. All the warning signs were there but I ignored them. First there was the mound of gifts that covered every square inch of our second floor. New Terminator Salvation toys were commingled with broken Buzz Lightyears and damaged Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; boxes, packaging and discarded wrapping paper was scattered everywhere; and extremely expensive articles of clothing lay in tangled heaps around my children's rooms. This alone was enough to send my blood pressure skyrocketing. But that's not the end of it. No, there's more.

Prior to Christmas, while I lay in bed with round two of the flu, my mother had graciously decorated every square inch of our house with Christmas decorations that I'd forgotten I had. It was lovely. It was picturesque...right up to the point that she scurried off to Chicago for three days leaving me to wonder how in the hell I'd ever get it all taken down and put away.

Then there was the laundry. I've written before about the obscene amount of laundry that this family produces. Well, let's just say we set a new record. I'm pretty sure Guinness has been notified.

And finally, there were the gift returns that needed to be made. Let me ask you a question. How is it that there are no standards in sizing kids' clothing? How can a size 10 vary to the degree that a pair of pants from one store is six full inches longer than a pair from another store? Additionally, how can an eleven year-old boy be more attuned to how clothes fit than a judge on Top Design? "Um. Yeah. This sweatshirt is just a tad too small and these sweatpants bind in the crotch." Huh? You don't even have a crotch!

Fours hours and over a dozen exchanges and returns later, I returned home. I won't go into the details of my rant but Tuck has just now started speaking to me again and the kids have taken to offering me snacks and cocktails at regular intervals.

Do I get any credit for waiting until after Christmas to implode?

Joy

2009-12-22T15:07:00.004-05:00

Christmas is not my favorite holiday. I used to like it a bit more before I had kids and before the weight of turning a seemingly ordinary day into a dream come true for half the known free world became mine to bear. Year after year, I’ve struggled to deliver the quintessential Christmas extravaganza. And year after year I’ve fallen short, managing to deliver little more than a broken, depleted and petulant Shmee complete with temper tantrums, pouting and general ill-will. By the time Christmas rolled around each year, I wasn’t fit for public consumption and no amount of Martha Stewart-quality accoutrements could camouflage that.

Last year I drew my line in the sand. I made the pronouncement that something had to give before I took the Christmas fund and made a run for the border. I had tried to scale back and simplify to no avail. I had stopped hosting my annual girls’ night in. I had stopped hosting our annual Christmas Eve open house. I had stopped decorating every square inch of our house. I had stopped making four different kinds of soup. I had stopped just about everything I could think to stop short of Christmas itself – and that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

This year has been different. It’s still early (we still have plenty of time for a full Shmee meltdown) but so far, all indications point to the best Christmas ever. What have I done differently?

Well first of all, the Mees made the decision to draw names and only buy one gift per person instead of everybody buying multiple gifts for everybody else. This was not my brainchild although I wish it were. Somehow it never dawned on me that running around from store to store to find The Perfect Gift for six grown adults and then hauling them all home and wrapping them was such a big time-suck. Duh. This one thing has been such an effort saver that I’ve found myself with so much extra time I keep wondering if I’m forgetting to do something.

Secondly, I ordered almost every single gift that we did buy online. This is such a no-brainer that I may never see the inside of a mall again. What little actual shopping I did do was: 1) very early; and 2) in small doses. Brilliant!

Thirdly, when I’ve started to consider doing something ridiculous like making homemade coffee cakes for several friends or whipping up chicken stock for the traditional soup, I’ve asked myself a few questions…Is this really necessary? Is there something else I can do that won’t take as much time? Are you out of your mind? These questions led me to better choices like canned chicken broth and store-bought gifts (ordered online and delivered to my door, of course). Since it’s the thought that counts I decided to try thinking a little. Weird.

Lastly, I’ve kept my eyes on the prize. What’s the prize? Well, that’s a good question and one I had to answer early on in order to get and stay focused. The prize is joy. Remember that part? A couple of weeks ago, my wise seven year-old gave me a Christmas sound bite to play in my head whenever I start to wander down Stress and Strain Lane. We were actually in the middle of decorating the tree and I was not a happy elf. I was tired and irritated and not at all basking in the glow of the twinkling lights. The whole thing had been reduced to an item on my to-do list and I was eager to check it off and move on. Charlie, in true Charlie fashion, was picking up on my disdain and displeasure. He climbed into my lap, looked me in the eye and said, “Christmas is supposed to be fun and we never have any fun.”

This was hard to hear. It was also completely true. From that moment on, I vowed to try harder at finding the joy and to stop trying so hard at making things perfect. My kids will never remember all the tiny, little micro-managed details that I worried about every year. They’ll only remember that I worried.

Once again, wisdom has come from the mouth of one of my kids and I think Charlie’s message is one for all of us to carry throughout the holiday season: Christmas is supposed to be fun!

Happy Holidays Everyone!

Dusting Myself Off

2009-12-15T10:19:00.005-05:00

I'm getting there. It's been a long road and I really thought I might not ever find my way back. But it would appear I was wrong. What was perhaps my longest lapse of creativity and motivation and general enthusiasm for life itself is coming to a close.

Thank God.

I don't know exactly when it started. It might have been when Dirty fell out of the tree and lost the use of his legs. That kind of thing isn't something for which you can prepare yourself. And you also can't change the baseline fact that the whole thing is one gigantic shit sandwich, no matter how many hours you dedicate to raising funds and supporting and volunteering. All that helps, don't get me wrong, but it does not change the fact that he is in a wheelchair. I cannot bear the burden of that for him or his family.

Or perhaps it was when I realized that no matter how much I want things to change, sometimes things are unchangeable. I have spent the better part of my life trying to better my life. I have introspected and dissected and paradigm-shifted every aspect of every detail of my existence, ad nauseum. And yes, I have made improvements. I am a kinder and gentler Shmee. But (and here's the crux of the issue) I want more.

I want more and the fact that I don't have what I want and can see no logical, realistic way of getting that which I desire is what I hold up in front of myself everyday as my excuse for being miserable. "This", I scream. "Is exactly why there can not be any peace for me or anyone I love! Because, this is what I want and there is no earthly way for me to get this so I have no choice but to be angry and venomous and yes, miserable! You've left me no choice!"

What is it that I want so desperately? Now that's a question! It might be The Question to End All Questions actually. Here's what I want (drum roll, please)....

I want to be happy.

Hmmm. Don't we all.

So, since Happy is a bit of a moving target for me (gross understatement) and since some of the things on Shmee's If-I-Had-These-Things-I'd-be-Happy list cost money and since I've made MULTIPLE mistakes in the past that have put us in the category of not really having any money, I've been of the mindset that Happy just ain't in the cards for me. I had devolved to a point where I thought that someone (God) was withholding Happy from me and clearly my lot in life was just to suffer and be miserable. End of discussion.

I was done trying. I was done writing and creating. I was done looking for inspiration. I was done trying to be positive and trying to find the silver lining. I was done masking my frustration and irritation for all the frustrating and irritating things in my life. I was done with gratitude and my self-help/life coaching gurus and vision boards. And yes, I was done with books. I didn't want to be motivated or inspired or made to feel hopeful. I wanted to wallow in my anger and my self-pity. And I did.

But now I'm snapping out of it. And I don't know exactly why I'm snapping out of it. Maybe it's all those years of self-help. Perhaps my very thick, impermeable brain actually has soaked up little bits of the psychobabble that I've been exposing it to for about a million years. Could it be that I'm simply no longer capable of maintaining a funk? Say it ain't so! Who would I be without my depressive spells?

Truth is I just can't help it. I can't help but to pick myself up and dust myself off. That trait is in my DNA. I've been doing it all my life. No matter how bad things get, I eventually come to the conclusion that I can make them better, that I have no choice but to try. I think they call that perserverence. I'm not too free with the self praise but if there's one thing I'll admit to being good at, it's pushing forward.

It doesn't hurt that I've got good things swirling all around me in the form of my ever-patient, ever-positive, ever-tolerant husband. That man just won't stop loving me. It's highly annoying. And those damn kids with their sweet faces and their blue eyes. How am I supposed to stay all negative and pessimistic with them around? I can't. No, scratch that. I choose not too.

That's really what it boils down to, choices. Everyday I have a choice to appreciate what I have or not; to work on what I can change or to be pissed about what I can't; to focus on all the ways in which I'm lucky and blessed or to pay more attention to my disadvantages; to love or to be afraid; to read those things that inspire and motivate me or to ignore them all together; to write and create and otherwise use my gifts to encourage, entertain and enthuse others or not;

These are my choices and I'm lucky to have them.

Without a Net

2009-12-01T17:27:00.002-05:00

It's that time of the month again. No, not THAT time of that month. I'm not going to sink so low as to discuss that particular hell, no matter how desperate for blog topics I get. No, the time of the month to which I'm referring is the one that rolls around at least once every three or four weeks when I seriously contemplate quitting my job. Again. Before I get another one.

I can't take it anymore. And this time the not being able to take it anymore has morphed into a form I don't remember having ever experienced. I'm actually, for the first time in my life, apathetic. I don't care. In fact I couldn't care less. I'm not angry (my most commonly felt emotion) or exasperated (second most commonly felt emotion). I'm indifferent.

This new emotional phase that I've entered should not be confused with boredom (third most commonly felt emotion). I'm not bored. Boredom requires some level of interest in what one is being asked or ordered to do. I'm so far past disinterested that boredom is just a sweet, charming memory. I'd welcome boredom right about now.

No, this is different. What has typically pissed me off to the point of eye rolls and audible sighs in the past, has literally zero affect on me now. When before I'd shake my head and practically jump out of my chair in protest, now I just zone out, doodle on my legal pad and visualize the future when I'm no longer a part of the idiocy that is my current employment.

I'm practically already gone.

It's just a matter of making it official. And I have to do it. There's really no other choice. Nothing is going to happen until I quit. That much I know. I'm not going to find another job or take the next step until I'm free to do it. You see, despite the image that I've been trying to portray of myself as the all-powerful, unlimited energy-having SuperMom, I don't possess the ability to produce time. And there aren't enough hours in the day to commute for two hours, work six, take care of all of my other responsibilities AND look for another job. It ain't gonna happen.

If it were going to happen, it would have by now.

No, I'm going to have to jump without a net. And I don't want to jump without a net. I want a real, grownup exit strategy. I've done the jumping thing before and the results were less than ideal. And I'm tired of less than ideal. I want ideal, damn it!

But I KNOW (when I write KNOW in all caps it means there's no doubt) that I have to jump. I'm stuck and have been for quite some time and I'm not going to move one single inch forward until I take a deep breath and close my eyes and step off the edge. It's called being bold and brazen and it's what I need to be in order to light the fire under my ass that apparently needs lit.

Once I quit, fear of poverty and cheap red wine (cheaper than my usual cheap red wine) will force me to find something else. It's the way it's got to be. So, here I go. I'm going to do it.....Ok, maybe not until after the holidays. Nothing ruins Christmas like poverty and really cheap red wine.

Thankful

2009-11-25T18:00:00.003-05:00

I'm not going to lie and say that my heart is overflowing with gratitude this Thanksgiving. The truth is, I've had better days than the ones I've had lately.

Just when I thought my job might get better, it didn't. I was slated to become an independent contractor for the State complete with more money and more flexibility. It seemed like the answer to a two-year-long prayer, that is if you can call incessant begging, whining and bitching a prayer. I threw in the word God a few times so I'm chalking it up as praying. At any rate, it was not to be. In the end, the risk was too high versus the rewards and I had to walk away from the whole thing. And now I'm back to square one.

The job implosion came on the heels of the devastating news of our friend's tragic accident which in and of itself has been enough to send me spinning toward the dark side. The bout with THE flu that kept me from visiting him and his wife during his first few days in the hospital didn't help much.

And, just to add insult to injury, my father-in-law's declining health and poor quality of life are becoming more and more of an issue everyday.

It's bad. It's all so very, very bad.

I've gone to that place where you start to question what this life is really all about. And where every answer to that question seems to point to pain and/or suffering and heartache.

And yet, in the midst of just about everything that could go wrong actually going wrong, there is still good.

There is the good that is the literally hundreds of people that have stepped up to help our friends.

There is the good that came from the website I developed for them while being laid up with the flu.

There is the good that is my friend's undaunted humor and determination in the face of unimaginable adversity.

There is the good of my father-in-law actually requesting that we stay longer than planned when we come to visit this weekend (not his usual m.o.).

There is the good that was a simple game of Yahtzee with my two sweet boys one night this week.

There is the good of a visit from one of my oldest and dearest friends, who now lives in Arizona, for a few hours yesterday.

There is the good of recently witnessing Max showing his younger brother how to style his hair while Charlie hung on his idol's every word and gazed adoringly at him in the mirror.

And there is the good that will be when my brother joins us for dinner tomorrow. We'll eat. We'll make fun of each other. We'll stroll down memory lane. We'll laugh. And we'll be thankful for the juxtaposition of good and bad; of sweet and sad; and of laughter and tears.

I guess that's what Thanksgiving's all about, forcing yourself to be thankful no matter how much life's got you down and acknowledging the blessings that are inevitably interspersed throughout our lives and intermingled among the tragedies and the disappointments.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. When I count my blessings tomorrow, hard as that might be, I will count you among them. Thank you.

In an Instant

2009-11-10T12:56:00.003-05:00

Our world has been rocked. It's actually not so much our world that has been rocked but rather that of one of our oldest and dearest friends. Sunday night we got the call you pray you never get. Our friend Chris, aka Dirty, had been climbing a tree with his kids and fell no more than ten feet. He landed on his back. In an instant, everything changed. He will, in all likelihood, spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

Dirty, who has scaled a glacier and ran from a bear, fell out of a tree. It's incomprehensible. Words cannot begin to describe. I'll not even try.

What I will try to do is to help them pick up the pieces and build a new life. As I nurse a case of flu that keeps me from the hospital and a very heavy heart that keeps me from getting much sleep, I will pray and I will organize and I will start a website dedicated to doing whatever we can to help this beautiful, wonderful, loving family start over.

I will also dedicate my life to never again sweating the small stuff. It's the least I can do.

In The Weeds

2009-10-27T09:48:00.008-04:00

There's a saying amongst restaurant workers that refers to being busier than is manageable during your shift. It's called being "in the weeds" and it means you're buried. You can't get caught up. Your station is full and everyone in it needs something. You're so busy, you don't even know what you need to get un-busy. You'd love help but you can't even articulate what would qualify as help, other than shooting you in the head in order to end the misery altogether. It is a helpless, overwhelming, horrible feeling and if you've ever at anytime during your life worked as a server, you know exactly what I mean.

Being in the weeds sucks. In fact, it sucks so bad that every ex-restaurateur I know still has "weed dreams" even though they haven't waited a table for twenty-plus years. Weed dreams are just what they sound like: dreams about being in the weeds. They should really be called weed nightmares because, as most dreams tend to be, weed dreams are the worst-case scenario of all restaurant experiences.

Usually, they go something like this: You are the lone server in the restaurant because no one else showed for their shift on account of the wild all-nighter involving copious amounts of alcohol that everyone (including you) pulled the night before. So, in addition to being the only one on duty, you're also hung over. You're there but you're more hung over than you've ever been in your whole life and you don't think you can manage taking care of one table let alone the whole restaurant. Sure enough, in a very short amount of time, the restaurant starts to fill and the dumb ass hostesses just keep seating people and you can't even leave the back of the house to greet the first table of teenagers waiting to order milkshakes (which you have to hand-dip and whip up yourself) because you can't find your shoes. You're running around the kitchen begging someone to help you find your shoes so you can go out into the restaurant and try to take care of the 75 tables full of whining, complaining customers who are ready to order because they're "trying to make the 6:30 movie." And, to top that off, the restaurant has about eighteen inches of thick mud covering the floor making it nearly impossible to get from one table to the next....

This is a typical weed dream. I still have them. I haven't worked in a restaurant for fifteen years but the hell that is being in the weeds is apparently still so etched upon my brain that every now and then I get to relive it. Good times.

These days, I mostly use the term "in the weeds" to describe my current state of affairs when I'm overwhelmed and behind in every aspect of my life. That would be right about now. I'm buried. I can't get caught up and I feel like I'm trudging through eighteen inches of mud. And not only can I not find my shoes but every conceivable thing that could go wrong, is going wrong. The dumb ass hostesses have triple-seated me. AGAIN. And all my customers want their dressing on the side and their entrees special-ordered. If only this were a weed dream, I'd wake myself up, chuckle a bit and then go back to sleep hoping for sweeter thoughts.

But alas, it's not a dream. It's my life right now and my co-worker (Mr. Maurer) is about to get an earful. My being in the weeds is a direct result of a party we had last weekend and he's done next to nothing to help me recover. And, to top that off, the party was all about him! Hell, it was called OkTuckerfest! Mr. I-Love-To-Brew-Beer decided a few months back that we should have a big party featuring his homebrews and then he promptly set off to make six batches to serve to our guests.

In the meantime, I designed the invitations, sent the invitations, ordered custom beer glasses to give out as party favors, planned the menu, made countless trips to the grocery and other stores, cooked the food, cleaned and decorated the house and made a delicious punch to serve as an alternative to beer. He iced down the beer and put the flat screen in the garage (yes, we had a television in our garage) and then sat back and took all the credit for HIS party.

The aftermath was what you might have expected - lots of empty (and not-so-empty) beer bottles, lots of dirty dishes, dirty bathrooms and overflowing trashcans, more than a couple of raging hangovers and a TV that remains in our garage. Mr. Maurer hasn't had the strength to return it to its home yet on account of the wild all-nighter involving copious amounts of alcohol that he and three of his pals pulled. That was three days ago. It would seem that Mr. Maurer is not the partier he once was. He's been whining and complaining and snoozing every chance he gets since Sunday morning.

Am I sympathetic to his condition? Um, no I am not. Why? Because the restaurant is still open, so to speak and I can't continue to take care of all its patrons by myself. He's about to get my "No Mercy for Self-Inflicted Wounds" lecture followed by the "Don't Even Think About OkTuckerfest, Part II" speech. If that doesn't work, I'm calling off for my shift tomorrow and letting him get his own dose of the weeds.

The G Word

2009-10-15T18:39:00.002-04:00

I think it’s about time we had The Talk. Not that talk. The last time I was involved in that talk, it resulted in Max looking at his dad, then at me, then back to his dad and saying, “Please tell me I’m adopted.”

No, the talk I’m referring to is The God Talk. Wait. Come back. It’s not what you think. This isn’t the part where I tell you I’m into speaking in tongues or goat-sacrifice. I’m not getting ready to bust out the collection plate or make any alter calls. I promise. This won’t hurt a bit.

I just think it’s time that I put some things out on the table because it’s getting damn hard to come up with things to write about whilst trying to avoid the G word. And every time I use the G word, it’s received about as well as if I’d announced that I was once abducted by aliens and that Charlie is actually ET’s love child.

But here’s the thing, I can’t keep my life compartmentalized anymore. I’ve tried. I started the “other” website (All in the Same Boat) to try and separate the slightly raunchy, slightly insane, slightly intoxicated Shmee (usually featured here) from the pretty serious, pretty introspective, pretty spiritual Andrea. And you know what? It ain’t workin’. In real life, I am a combination of the two. I am all of the above. And if I’m going to continue writing here, I’m going to have to include the God stories. There are only so many epic bee-battles and mismatched shoe anecdotes that occur in one’s life.

So, here’s what you need to know about God and me as we move forward into this new era of Rambling Shmee… I didn’t always have a relationship with God. About five years ago, he picked up a big 2x4 and whacked me right in the back of the head with it because I was a monumental disaster. I had wandered off the path and was tripping over fallen branches and skinning my knees on rocks. He warned me to get my shit together or else. I’ve never really taken orders from anyone in my entire life but for whatever reason (maybe because he’s GOD) I listened, sort of.

It’s been a wild five years full of introspection, epiphanies aplenty and full on, slap-you-in-the-face humiliation. I started out thinking I had to completely change and repent and all that other Bible-thumping bullshit. I tired to fill in the holes of my life with church spackle. It was great except for one thing… I didn’t know how to live in both of my worlds: my new isolated and idealistic church world and the fun-loving, slightly naughty, non-church world. How do you balance organized religion, Christianity-style with a love for cocktails and dirty jokes and a proclivity towards using bad language?

What I finally realized is that FOR ME, I didn’t need church to find God. In fact, I didn’t need anything to find God. God, as it turns out, is right here inside of me and he likes me just the way I am. Sure, he wants to help me be the best Shmee I can be but ultimately it’s my choice whether I want to make changes or not. He’ll just keep on being God, along for the ride but ready to whack me again, if need be. That’s his favorite part.

I put the words FOR ME in bold caps because this is a really important point for me to make. When I talk about God, I have no other motive than to share what’s going on in my life with you. I like to write. I hope you occasionally like to read what I write. That’s it.

I’m not here to convince you of anything or tell you how to live your life or, God forbid, judge you. Believe me when I say, I’m in absolutely no position to judge anyone, ever. If you go to church and think it’s fabulous, then I’m happy for you. Really. If you don’t, that’s swell too. If you don’t believe in God, that’s your business, not mine. Whatever. I’m not God. What do I care?

If I’ve learned anything over the last five years, it is that we all have to find our own way in this life and one size does not fit all. One of my favorite quotes of all time is from Tim Ferris, author of The 4-Hour Workweek, “If you’re confused about life, you’re not alone. There are almost seven billion of us. This isn’t a problem, of course, once you realize that life is neither a problem to be solved nor a game to be won. If you are too intent on making the pieces of a non-existent puzzle fit, you miss out on all the real fun.”

This isn’t about my God beating up your God or me having all the answers. I so don’t have all the answers. It’s just about saying, “Hey. Here’s my story. Wanna read it?” Don’t worry. There’ll still be plenty of tales about Mr. Maurer leaving town and my being disgruntled about school functions. It’s just that in order for me to be true to who I really am and in order to keep me interested in this (remember me?), I’m going to have to break out the G word every now and then.

Deal with it.

Fall?

2009-10-12T08:17:00.006-04:00

What is up with this weather? As I sit here, right now, at 8:20 am on Monday, October 12th, it is 44 degrees. 44 degrees! My heat is on, for God's sake. It's October 12th! At this rate, we'll have snow by Halloween.

Am I happy? Oh no, I most certainly am not. I still have flowers on my blog background! I wasn't ready for autumn, let alone winter. If you think I'm exaggerating, consider this for a minute: Max, my eleven year old, has worn long pants to school for the past two weeks. Eleven year old boys DO NOT wear long pants until the threat of severe frostbite is imminent. It's just not done. It's their God-given right to wear shorts well past Christmas and no one is going to stop them from exercising that right. No one except Mother Nature, apparently. It would appear that going from 80 degree weather to 50 degree weather literally overnight has shocked even the adolescents' systems into submission. All I had to do was suggest that Max wear longs pants and in a rather Stepford-esque way, he marched upstairs and changed out of his gym shorts.

Want more proof? Uggs. People are wearing Uggs. I'm talking about grown women with brains in their heads not teenage girls who think that boots and shorts are a good look regardless of the weather. Just as an aside, would your parents have ever let you walk out of the house wearing some of the get-ups I see on girls these days? Holy shit! Doesn't anyone ever make the correlation between skyrocketing teenage pregnancy rates and the fact that young girls seem to be on a mission to put the makers of Viagra out of business? Back in my day (yes, I just said, "Back in my day..."), tight jeans were about as risqué as we were allowed to get and even then our parents were saying things like, "Those jeans aren't leaving much to the imagination, young lady!" and "Uh, yeah, I don't think so."

Anyway, it's early October, it's cold, kids these days are crazy and I'm saying things like "Back in my day...". Pretty soon I'll be bitching about the price of liver pills and driving ten miles an hour under the speed limit. God help me.

Under the Weather

2009-10-08T16:53:00.003-04:00

I'm sick, Charlie's sick, Max is on the verge of getting sick and Mr. Maurer's out of town. Again. Do I really need to say anymore? Can't you just fill in the blanks for yourselves? Seriously? After all this time of reading these ramblings, aren't you qualified to write this one for me?

Come on. You can do it. Start with my failed attempts at warding off the rampant illnesses that are plaguing our planet these days; build up to me competing for sympathy with my children; and then finish with my scorn and bitter resentment of Mr. Maurer. It's easy. Throw in few cuss words and some eye rolls and pretty soon you'll be able to start your own blog.

No? Don't think you're up to the task? Well, then you'll have to wait until I can sit upright for longer than 10 minutes at a time. An outline is about all I can muster right now.

Wash your hands frequently and increase your intake of Vitamin C. It didn't work for me but hey, knock yourselves out!

The Boy

2009-10-01T16:29:00.002-04:00

Fifty minutes. Times two. That’s the amount of time I spend in the car, five days a week, to get to my job. The route is always the same with just a bit of variation on the front end. The city of Carmel has been under construction for almost as long as I’ve been working downtown so I’ve had to modify how I get onto Keystone Avenue to accommodate road closures, detours and ever-changing traffic patterns. That being said, somewhere between 126th Street and 86th Street, I make my way onto Keystone and fall in line with the rest of the suburban commuters on the road each day.

My mornings in the car are a bit different from my afternoons. On my way to work, I ride in silence. I started this practice about a year and a half ago so that I could talk to God or myself, collect my thoughts and bask in the rarity of complete quiet. Most days, it’s the only peace I can eke out of the chaos that is my life. I like to think that it keeps me out of the bell tower.

So, I drive south on Keystone out of affluent suburbia and into the inner city. The further south I drive the more the stark differences of where I live versus where I work show themselves. I am reminded on a daily basis of how people live their lives outside of the clean, comfortable cocoon of prosperity that is our home.

There are several city bus stops all along Keystone and I have grown accustomed to seeing the same cast of characters gathered along the side of the road waiting for their rides. Their appearance or lack thereof is an indication of how late I’m running. If I see them, I’m in pretty good shape. If not, I’m a member of The Late Crowd and need to pick up the pace. So, I look for them everyday…

There’s the black lady with the bleach blond hair and the eternally smoldering cigarette who waits at the stop across from the Wal-Mart; the man who’s been on crutches for as long as I can remember juggling his lunch box and leaning into the road to look for his bus; and Slick Willy. If his bus hasn’t picked him up yet, I can’t be that late.

Slick Willy is the name I inadvertently gave to the skinny, young, rather greasy looking fellow that waits for the bus everyday at the corner of 46th and Keystone. He’s always relatively well-dressed, has permanently bloodshot eyes and wears his hair slicked back in a Fonzie-inspired style, hence the name Slick Willy. Willy apparently starts his days early because by the time I see him, he looks like he’s been up and at ‘em for quite some time, if you know what I mean.

One day this week, Willy surprised me when I pulled up to the traffic light adjacent to his stop and found him slightly bent at the waist, peering into the face of a young boy while riffling through his pockets. The boy appeared to be around Max’s age and the way Willy was interacting with him, I presumed he was his son. There’s a Willy, Jr.? Who knew?

The back, wing-windows of my van were open as I stopped for the red light making the conversation between father and son completely audible. This accidental eavesdropping would rock me to my core. Maybe riding in silence isn’t always a good thing after all.

The first thing I heard Willy say through clenched teeth as he obviously searched the boy and himself for some missing item was, “Where is it? What did you do with it?” Followed by, “You know, I’m so tired of you. You’re an embarrassment and an idiot.”

As I type these words now, several days later, tears still spring to my eyes. I am as devastated by them now as I was then.

The boy never uttered a word in retort. Nor did he move a muscle. I couldn’t see his face because he wore a chocolate brown hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head. I could only see one hand protruding from the arm of his sweatshirt. I don’t know if he was returning his father’s disgust-ridden glare or if he was looking intently at the ground. I only know that his lack of movement was so striking it gave the impression of being intentionally still for fear of inciting physical violence. He had to be scared. I was locked inside my van several feet away and I was scared.

Within seconds the light turned green and I moved on, continuing my commute. I was overwhelmed by the knowledge that if this was how the dad treated his son in public, how much worse could things be in private. I was further rocked by the enormity of what this interaction represented. It was a tiny sampling of the cruelty and abuse that is so very rampant and widespread. I was beleaguered by my own inability to do anything to help this boy, let alone all the others in this world that suffer for one reason or another. The predominate thought that went through my mind was, It’s no wonder…

I wanted to turn around and grab that boy, throw him into my van and take him home. I wanted him to feel love and acceptance. I wanted him to know that his dad was wrong and that losing something wasn’t the end of the world. I wanted to go back and yell at Willy and bring him to his senses and make him realize the power he has to make or break this young man. I wanted to call the police and tell them to do something before the boy turned to drugs or alcohol and eventually crime.

I wanted to do something...anything.

In the end, the bitterest pill to swallow was the realization that no matter how badly I wanted to help, there was nothing I could do. Inaction is not my strong point. I spent the rest of the drive to work and beyond racking my brain about what I could have or should have done. I argued myself from one scenario to another until I had exhausted all possibilities of intervention.

And then I prayed. I prayed for the boy whose face I never saw, whose voice I never heard and whose name I’ll never know.

Maybe that seems trite. Maybe it is trite. I don’t have any answers yet. The only thing I know for sure is that I am forever changed. The scab has been picked. Only time will tell what comes from all of this. I do not believe in random coincidences. Nor do I believe that this relatively "normal" incident of mis-treatment should have necessarily affected me this much. But it did.

And now there will never be a day that I don’t drive by that bus stop and think of that boy and hope and yes, pray that he is o.k. I will never forget the way he stood there perfectly still with his small hand sticking out of the end of his sweatshirt while his drunk or high dad rummaged through his pockets and called him an embarrassment. And I will never look at my own kids again and forget the power and influence I have over them.

For now, that will have to be good enough.

Weird

2009-09-29T14:44:00.003-04:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, Mr. Maurer was gone last week on business, leaving me to fend for myself and our children. And if you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time at all, you already know this is not the ideal situation for the Maurer’s. It is, in fact, our own special disaster recipe laced with explosives, Anthrax and the Ebola virus. It’s that bad.

I think the message I left on Mr. Maurer’s voice mail while he was gone pretty much sums it up: “Come home, Daddy (pronounced Day-dee). I ain’t no good withoucha." Somewhere along the line, we started referring to each other as Day-dee and Big Mawma in a thick, white trash accent. Don’t ask.

Anyway, Mr. Maurer had clearly coached our offspring on the repercussions of launching Operation Drive Mom Over the Edge while he was gone, because they were angels. Yes, I just referred to MY children as angels. Actually, by their standards they were gods. They were angelic gods. That’s how good they were. When I asked them to do something, they did it. When I said no, they accepted it. Wait. Pause here for a sec and consider what I just said. And, just to add another layer of implausibility to this story, they hardly fought! At all. It was surreal. By day two, I was sniffing the milk jug for signs of drugs.

I’m pretty sure every internal bell, whistle and warning siren that my husband possesses was blaring at full tilt prior to his departure. After the previous week I’d had, he was right to be afraid. It had been challenging, to say the least.

First, I’d been forced to raise my voice and pound on the table (several times) in the middle of a high-level government meeting to get two seemingly sane adults (both with PhD's) to calm the hell down and listen to reason; Next, I’d been involved in an email war with approximately a half dozen other co-workers which resulted in roughly 107 emails, several bruised egos and some irreparably damaged feelings; Then, I had been informed that through a State error and through absolutely no fault of my own, I was now the proud owner of a $23,000 state tax lien on our house that would end up taking several hours and some more table pounding to get rectified; And finally, just to make things really warm and fuzzy, I came home on Friday night to be reminded that within an hour, eight Cub Scouts and their parents would be arriving for a demonstration on bird calls.

I literally ran to our bedroom, changed my clothes, grabbed several bottles of liquor and retreated to the neighbor’s with strict instructions not to call me until EVERYONE was gone and our kids were in bed.

So you can see why Mr. Maurer might have been filled with just a wee bit of trepidation in regard to leaving the three of us. Alone. For four days. Whatever he said, promised, threatened or otherwise did to our kids to get them to comply, it worked. We only had one teensy, tiny little incident involving Max (big surprise) and his bus driver Yvonne (pronounced by the oldest Maurer child as YUH-von in a thick, white trash accent. Hmmm…)

On the day in question, Max came in the door and began telling me all about his latest bout of unfair treatment involving someone in a position of authority in his life. I must say, he painted a pretty believable picture. He had me nodding my head and concurring that yes, it was unreasonable that he be expected to ride the bus twice a day in complete silence so that YUH-von could hear her other bus driver friends on the bus radio waxing poetic about their really fun weekends in the trailer park.

Interestingly enough, YUH-von had a slightly different account of things when she called the next morning at 6:45 to beg me, for the love of God and everything good in this world, to please help her deal with my migraine-inducing, smartass extraordinaire, problem child. Her story included eye rolls, overt smirks and other rage-inducing deeds.

I’d heard her story before. Hell, I’d lived her story before.

She went on to say that if he were written up two more times, he wouldn’t be able to ride the bus for the rest of the year. I gave YUH-von my well rehearsed, I’m Sorry My Child is an Evil Heathen From Hell speech and then hung up and began threatening Max with a whole host of torture techniques, possible lost privileges including eating and breathing and the promise that not being able to ride the bus would result in his walking to school everyday.

He started to argue but then I think whatever his dad said before he left two days earlier started to echo in his mind. He shook his head a little and seemed to collect himself before saying, “Yes ma’am. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” I then went outside to make sure I was actually still in my house. I haven’t been that freaked out since that one time they both made their beds and put their laundry away without being asked. Weird.

Happy!

2009-09-22T16:16:00.014-04:00

(Note: click on the pictures for a better view)

Tell me these aren't the cutest damn curtains you've ever seen in your life! My momma made them for me and I can't even tell you how stinking happy they make me. Yes, that's right. Curtains make me happy!

What's that say about me? I mean I'm pretty sure this is the first time in the history of Rambling Shmee that I've ever written about something good and when I finally do, it's curtains. Do you think my kids and my husband might be thinking, "What the hell?" Or do you think it's more likely they're thinking, "At least she's not violating my privacy for once."

Want to see something else that makes me happy? Ok, check this out....

It's a table!!! My dad built it and I stained it. One day, while my parents were here visiting this summer, I was perusing the Pottery Barn catalogue when I came across an outdoor table that struck my fancy. What did not strike my fancy was its $650 price tag. So, I hauled my best, Daddy's Little Girl voice out of storage and asked Pop if he thought he could whip me up one of these here fancy tables. One month later, Voila! Isn't it spiffy? Again, I'm happy! Every time I walk out my back door and see it sitting there waiting to hold refreshing cocktails and/or delectable appetizers, I smile.

You want more? Alrighty, lay your eyes on these...

I got them for a song on Ebay. And soon they'll be framed and adorning the walls of my family room along with these...

also purchased on Ebay. Why? BECAUSE THEY MAKE ME HAPPY, DAMN IT!

So, that's it: relatively useless material items that make my heart sing.

Don't get used to all this joyful gushing. Mr. Maurer's gone away on business this week leaving me alone with our children to fend for myself and you know what that means...

Reality

2009-09-16T13:28:00.004-04:00

Well, it's September 16th and I think it's high time I came to grips with a couple of things. One of my favorite sayings that I repeat often is, "It is what it is". This is a reminder to myself that sometimes (often) there are things in your life that you can do absolutely nothing about. I think, right now, I'm more than a little little overdue for a reality check in a couple of key areas of my life.

First of all, summer is over. It's time to accept that despite the beautiful weather we're having right now, soon the winds will shift and the snow will fly. And based on the daily squirrel battles that are raging in our backyard over acorns and other various nuts, we are apparently in for one doozy of a winter. I swear I heard one squirrel threaten to pop a cap in another squirrel's ass if he didn't drop the buckeye and step off his turf posthaste. Other squirrels are taking kamikaze-style leaps from our roof to our trees in an attempt to beat the others to the punch. There's either a glut of squirrels, a shortage of nuts or all winter-hell is about to break loose because I have never seen the likes of the frenzied foraging that has been taking place right before our eyes for the last week or so. I'm afraid to eat anything on the deck for fear that some brazen rodent will come and snatch whatever tasty treat on which I'm munching right out of my hot little hand.

This whole winter thing might be an inevitable reality but it is definitely not good news. Shmee barely survived last winter and it was pretty mild by most standards. Of course, I'm not going down without a fight. I keep running the sprinkler in a failed attempt at keeping our grass green; I've so far refused to buy the boys any winter clothes and; I'm still donning white pants, shorts and shoes on a daily basis despite the passing of Labor Day. It's official. I hate winter. I've become one of those old people who can't take the cold anymore. I have no desire to put on a turtleneck or a pair of jeans and I'd just as soon suffer frostbite than wear socks.

And as if the reality that winter is coming and I can't take it anymore weren't bad enough, there's also the reality that another summer has passed and we still have the worst looking yard in the neighborhood. I think we've officially given up. About the most we ever do to it these days is mow and even that is not nearly as regularly as it should be. Most weeks the grass has gone to seed and the neighbors have taken to stuffing ALL the ads for yard maintenance service providers in our mailbox before we fire up the mower. To top that off all of my flowers are dead including the mums I just planted a week ago, our mailbox is more horizontal than it is vertical and our brick porch is sure to be the catalyst for a lawsuit just as soon as some poor sole takes one wrong step while trying to enter our house. Nice.

Let's see what other sad facts do I need to face? Oh yeah, there's the Max is back to his old self at school reality, the actuality that Cub Scouts is about to start up again and Mr. Maurer is the den leader this year, the I couldn't lose 10 pounds if my life depended on it certainty and the life is not worth living without red wine veracity.

Hmmm.....I think that's just about enough reality for one day. Think I'll get on Facebook now and try to convince over a hundred people I haven't seen for 20 years that I'm sane, skinny and successful.

Football

2009-09-04T10:31:00.009-04:00

Well, it's here. The most wonderful time of life for the Maurer family - football season. To say we love football is the equivalent of saying that the health care debate is out of control. Really? Ya' think? Anywho, I digress. Back to football.

We are football fanatics to the nth degree. We come by it naturally: Tuck's dad is a retired College Football Hall of Fame coach; my brothers both played high school ball; my oldest brother walked on for two years at IU before he got tired of playing the role of tackling dummy; and, my dad's main form of entertainment every fall and winter is to spend every Saturday yelling at the television while Notre Dame plays and every Sunday doing the same thing while watching the Bears.

So it's no surprise that the four of us have arranged our entire fall calendar around the boys' and Ohio State's and IU's schedules. One of those is because we love our kids, one of those is because we love college football and the other is because we love tailgating. Can you guess which is which?

The boys took last year off from playing so that we could do a bit of traveling. When it was time to get back to the gridiron, Max shocked us all by saying he did not want to play. He was done with football. His career was over. This was troubling to me. Not just because I love football and the whole reason I had boys was so I could watch them play for the next 20 years of my life but because Max has also loved football since he was old enough to say the word. He's played since preschool and had all the makings of a Mee/Maurer hybrid superstar. I couldn't understand it.

He kept saying he just didn't want to play. Finally, when pressed, he admitted that in his last season on the field he'd been hit pretty hard by some behemoth of a fourth grader and was in no big hurry to have a repeat performance. Once the flood gates were open, more truths began to spill out: he wasn't big enough, he wasn't good enough, he wasn't going to be able to play any skill positions, etc. He just couldn't take the heartache of being a second-rate player and begged me to let it go.

Well, in true Shmee/I've-never-let-anything-go-in-my-entire-life form, I wouldn't let it go. I couldn't just stand by and watch him let his (my) dream die because he had weaved some tale of impending doom in his head. So I did something that is out of character for me (me, the mom not me, the wife, daughter, friend or co-worker). I inflicted my will on him. Ok, I've inflicted my will on my kids too with demands to eat their vegetables, to stay away from a lot of junk food and soda and to do whatever else necessary to ensure safety and good health. AAANNNDDD, admittedly I have been known to insist that they be kind to others, clean up after themselves and treat their elders with respect (except their uncles who are technically not adults). But I am so not one of those parents who orchestrates their kids' every move or requires that a certain level of involvement be maintained in sports, music, or other organized activities.

However, I drew the line at football. First of all, it's football for God's sake and secondly, this seemed like a confidence issue to me and it wasn't an isolated incident. We had begun to see other signs of I'm-not-good-enough syndrome rear its ugly head in other areas of his life. So I took a stand. I announced very late in the football registration window (think: late fees and groveling to the commissioner of our league) that he was going to play. End of discussion. I dug my heals in the sand and deemed it a done deal. I got that look on my face that says, "I HAVE SPOKEN!" and avoided Mr. Maurer's looks that said, "Oh my God, when did you become the Texas Cheerleader Mom?"

Just as I had begun my campaign to get him enrolled in the local league, a friend told me about the CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) team that her church had recently started. They only allow one heathen, non-parishioner participant per season but why didn't I call them and ask if Max could play. So I did. And they said yes. Of course, the whole thing involved a lie to the Indianapolis CYO and I'm pretty sure I'll end up in hell over the whole thing but he's in and it was a price I was willing to pay. For my kid to play football.

And here's the kicker. HE'S THE STARTING QUARTERBACK! It's a win/win. Max is back in love with football and I get to walk around imitating him by saying, "Oh Mom. How can I ever thank you for making me play football? You're the greatest, best mom a boy could ever have. All hail you, Mom."

It is so sweet to be right for once...

Middle School

2009-08-16T11:01:00.007-04:00

Well, it's over. My baby is a man. He's got a locker and hair on his legs and a growing attitude problem. And he's about as hormonal as a hungry pregnant woman. I'm considering slipping some Midol in his orange juice.

Despite all that, middle school started off pretty well and marked some pretty major behavior changes. Monday morning he was up and dressed before the rest of us. This has never happened. In the history of Max Maurer, this is unprecedented. Typically, we have to threaten him with death to get him out of the shower, help him locate THE perfect pair of socks and scramble behind him to retrieve all the miscellaneous items that fall out of his back pack. In elementary school, he was always the last one on the bus to the point of making the driver wait for him.

This year he lays out his clothes every night, MAKES HIS BED EVERY MORNING, loads his backpack the night before and is the first one at the bus stop! Top that off with coming straight home from school and doing all his homework without being screamed at every 30 seconds and I am beginning to wonder if this really is my child. Can you say Twilight Zone? This weekend he came down with a wicked sore throat and his biggest concern was the possibility of missing school on Monday. Stop it! You're freaking me out! Where's the underachieving, irresponsible class clown that we've grown to know and love?

Of course, the week was not without it's challenges. I've been to the office supply and/or craft store everyday since Tuesday for such items as lanyards, Sharpies, an accordion folder, yet another three-ring binder, two skeins of yarn, non-mechanical pencils, locker shelves (Shouldn't these be included with the school?) and a stuffed animal (I'm not joking).

And speaking of lockers...Wednesday, we just about had to give him a sedative due to the fact that he struggled with the lock all day and was late for two classes. By Thursday morning, he had developed a nervous tick in anticipation of having to wrestle with it again. We both took turns talking him down off the ledge and assuring him that he'd get the hang of it. Finally, an angel of mercy disguised as the school police officer (Should I be concerned?) taught him the trick to his lock. He came home declaring himself the Locker Master.

One thing he hasn't mastered is his new musical instrument which just so happens to be none other than the trombone - THE loudest instrument in the entire band. The only possible worse selection he could have made is the drums but I might be willing to endure that as opposed the sounds he's producing from his trombone. It's some sort of hybrid combination of a sick elephant and a car accident. Thursday night, Tuck and I attended the open house at the new school. When one of his band directors said they expected the kids to practice playing their instruments FOUR TO FIVE TIMES PER WEEK, I raised my hand and asked if they had actually ever heard an 11-year old play a trombone. Not. Good.

All in all, we're off to an amazing start. He's really taking his newfound responsibilities seriously. He's even making better lunch choices. The first day he came home and told me he'd had pizza, potato skins and a Fuze (think: 48 grams of sugar per container) to drink. I flashed him a look that said, "Don't make me go out and buy you a Hannah Montana lunchbox", and that was the end of that.

Now, if I can just do something about his wardrobe....

Dirty

2009-08-08T12:58:00.005-04:00

It used to be different around here. It used to be clean and shiny and organized. There was a place for everything and everything was in it's place. Of course I also used to have a nanny and a cleaning lady that came once a week. These days we've got a 15-year-old male babysitter who's not real concerned with cleanliness as much as he is texting and sleeping on my couch. And I'd consider hiring a cleaning lady if I weren't so embarrassed for her to actually see the place.

This house is bordering on disgusting. Our dust bunnies have glowing red eyes and long fangs and, I'm betting, rabies. The refrigerator stinks, the trash cans are overflowing and all the toilets have rings. I'm more afraid of Typhoid Fever than I am the H1N1 virus at this point. We've sunk to an all new low.

I'm trying to whip things into shape and I think I might be doing a better job if I cared a little more. Somewhere between working almost full-time and taking care of two kids and volunteering to sit on the Board for a not-for-profit and trying to launch a writing career and running an online women's group and joining a book club and attempting to read every self-help book ever written and going to weddings and hosting friends for the weekend and traveling a bit... cleaning, by necessity, took a back seat. And once she climbed in the back, it was easy to give her a Happy Meal and a Game Boy and ask her to entertain herself for awhile.

Now the situation is grave. I've been reduced to cleaning the kitchen on a Friday night. A FRIDAY NIGHT! - the most sacred of all time periods in any given week. Friday is for cocktails and take-out. It's for collapsing in a comfy chair still dressed in your work clothes. It's for telling the kids to find anything to do besides bother you. ("Anything" includes playing in traffic, talking to strangers and running with scissors). It's about congratulating yourself for making it through another work week without telling your boss and every other living soul in your office EXACTLY what you think of them. Friday night is not for cleaning kitchens.

But, regrettably, when you're at situation critical, you do what you've got do. Considering that my Facebook status now says, "If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then I must be the devil", Ithink it might be time to take drastic measures.

False Alarm

2009-07-31T16:46:00.007-04:00

It all started with a wine tasting. I didn't know I was going to a wine tasting. I thought I was going to a board meeting for a local not-for-profit. The wine tasting was a bonus. One of my fellow board members had invited her wine guy (I didn't really know people had wine guys) to come and give us all a little taste...Of about a hundred different wines. Now that's my kind of board meeting.

Two hours later I narrowly escaped the wine guy's attempts to get me to buy multiple of cases of wine and made my way out to the parking lot with another board member. I spent about thirty minutes talking to her about this and that before getting into my car and starting it up. I put it into reverse and then my friend rolled down her window and we continued our conversation for about five more minutes. She finally bid me farewell and left. I stepped on the gas to back out of my spot only to find that my car had died while I had been chatting. When I turned the key to start her back up, nothing. She was dead. The lights worked and air was blowing out of the vents but the engine would not turn over.

Shit.

The last thing I needed was one more car problem. Mr. Maurer was not going to be happy. I fished my phone out of my purse and rang him up. As expected, he was less than happy. We just paid $3100 to have the van's transmission replaced. Now, he was just certain that this might be all she wrote for Greenie. Greenie is the pet name of our 1996 Honda Accord. (Isn't that clever? The car is green!) It has 180,000 miles on it and was slated to be put out to pasture this year. But that was before Vannie dropped her tranny in Alabama. We were hoping Greenie could hang in there just a little bit longer.

Shit.

As the four of us rode home in silence, I saw the life coaching training that I hoped to start in September circling the drain. Mr. Maurer looked like he was about to cry.

As soon as we got in the house, the phone rang. It was AAA. Tuck had called them to tow Greenie to the service station and they were calling to say he needed to be there when they picked it up. He and Max jumped back in the van and off they went. I stayed home and ate a huge taco salad. It was the least I could do.

Thirty minutes later the phone rang. It was Max...

"You are not going to believe this Mom", he said with a maniacal cackle.
"What?" I inquired.
"The car was in reverse! You can't start the car unless it's in park, DUMBASS!"
(Ok, he didn't really call me a dumb ass but it was totally implied.)

The AAA man had gotten into the car, moved the gear shift into park and started her right up. I wasn't there but I'm betting that Mr. Maurer failed to mention the fact that he too had tried to start Greenie without realizing she was in reverse. Since I had spent 3 hours at a board meeting/wine tasting and had made him get dressed, load the kids in the car and come get me followed by him going right back to meet the AAA man while I ate a taco salad in my pj's, I let that one slide. Who says I'm not a good wife?

Pinch Me

2009-07-20T17:29:00.006-04:00

So this is the week that I'm supposed to be in Chicago. With Martha Beck. And 49 other life coach wannabes and Martha groupies discussing mysticism and creativity and Magic and how right-brained people rock and will someday rule the world. In other words, I'm supposed to be in Heaven. Any yet somehow, someway, tragically I find myself in Hell.

Yes, instead of attending the "Unleashing Your Inner Genius: Right Brain Tools for Thriving in Today's Scary Environment" seminar that was written in bold, red caps in my Outlook calendar for three months, I'm attending the Math-in-CTE/Who-Gives-a-Shit seminar with 28 teachers, 5 national facilitators and one very disgruntled state employee. That event has also been in my Outlook calendar for three months but it was (and still is) marked tenative. I was just certain that something (divine intervention, the H1N1 virus, a mid-summer tornado...) was going to save me. I did everything I could to get out of it. I prayed. I begged. I manipulated. I offered Mr. Maurer as a sacrifice to the Gods. But alas, here I am.

So, instead of being at the Embassy Suites Lakefront Hotel in Chicago, I find myself at the Holiday Inn in Clarksville, Indiana. Rather than overlooking beautiful Lake Michigan, my room overlooks an oversized retention pond complete with an overturned row boat next to it that I fear is reserved for fishing out dead bodies. And while I've never actually been to the Embassy Suites Lakefront Hotel in Chicago, I'm betting that the guests there aren't suspicious of the blatent overuse of carpet freshener or how well "Ryann" actually cleaned their rooms despite the sweet little card she left them telling them how much she really cares.

I'm also guessing that the program director of Martha's seminar didn't have to speak to the hotel manager about the fact that one of the participants' cars was broken into the previous night or that several others were a bit nervous in regard to the gathering of unsavory characters in the parking lot and to the door of the hotel being propped open with a brick. But that's just a guess. What do I know?

Maybe, I'm wrong. Maybe talking about math and welding all day, everyday in southern Indiana for a week will be much more fun than meeting my idol and spending three whole days with other New Age loonies just like me in one of my favorite cities. Perhaps I'll enjoy myself much more handing out goody bags and door prizes and fielding complaints about the Holiday Inn than I would learning about new ways to access the right-brain, creative, inspired aspects of myself in order to utilize the opportunities that this new economy is presenting. Who wants to learn about that?

No, clearly my place is here collecting the $26.00/day state meal allowance and writing blogs for free. Who needs new opportunities to use their creativity? I've got all the inspiration I need.

Never Say Never

2009-07-13T13:01:00.007-04:00

Let the judging begin. I've prepared myself. I know it's coming and I'm ok with it. Ready?

We got Max a cell phone....(gasp).

You've got 15 minutes to get it out of your system. Here let me help you. Why don't you try something like, "Oh my God! That's ridiculous!" for starters. Or how about, "An eleven year old child does not need a cell phone." Then you can work into something like, "I cannot stand to see kids sitting in restaurants with their faces buried in their phones, texting everybody and their brother and barely even interacting with their families." or "Why do these kids need to be in constant contact with each other?" For the grand finale you can choose from any of the following: "Those Maurer kids are spoiled rotten!" or "They'll be sorry when he's downloading porn and passing it around to all his friends!" or "It must be nice to have money to burn."

Rant away. And then shut up please. And for you non-children-having people in the group, you can just skip the ranting part and go straight to the shutting up. You may rant only after you've had your own kids and have eaten your own words in regard to things you said you'd never do. Which you will.

Just for the record, this is just one more thing in a long line of things about which I said never. First there were ear infections and tubes. Yes, I was deluded enough to think that if I breast fed my oldest child long enough (the common thinking at that time) he'd never get ear infections or have to have tubes in his ears. I think he had just turned two when he had the surgery.

Then there was ADHD. No child of mine was ever going to be medicated for a behavioral issue! All those kids needed was a good ass whooping and if my kid ever acted like that I'd be more than happy to provide just that. Yeah. Well there wasn't enough ass whooping on the planet to stop my sweet little angel baby from acting like a complete nut-case lunatic both in and out of school. Of course it took $2000 worth of testing and a 2 x 4 upside the head to convince me that we should finally try the meds. In the meantime, he became completely convinced that he was the "bad" kid. He grew out of the ADHD and only had to take meds for two years but the confidence issues remain today.

And no that's not the reason we got him the cell phone.

Let's see. What else is in the Never file? Oh yes, there are the video games and the PG13 movies, the email and the IM accounts and let's not forget the inappropriate TV we let him watch. The list goes on and on and I'm sure it will continue to grow. I've got a lot more things on which I've taken a hard line including but limited to: getting an earring or a tattoo, dying his hair purple or green, going on Spring Break without parental supervision and attending either Purdue or the University of Michigan. The opportunities to eat my words are endless.

Here's the bottom line...No, he did not need a cell phone but we aren't exactly running a need-based operation around here are we? My guess is neither are you. If we all made every decision based on what we actually, truly need, I'm betting we'd all have a lot less.

Secondly, yes he's a texting machine now but he's sent more texts to me and his dad than anyone else. I'm sure that won't always be the case. If we'd let him, he'd text every minute of the day. We don't plan to let him. Kind of a key component in most things involving kids.

Thirdly, we're not idiots. Ok, we're not complete idiots. He's not going to have unlimited or unfettered access to it. We're treating it like we do his video games and computer time. It's a privilege. I keep the phone and he comes to me and asks if he can use it. We have parental controls on it that allow us to monitor and limit its use.

Lastly, he is a good kid. He's responsible and he works hard to earn his allowance which is going to help pay for the monthly fees. He actually bought the phone himself. We've been frank about the dangers of porn and sexting and every other horrific peril that irresponsible cell phone use can cause.

I think we scared the hell out of him. This morning, as a joke, his friend sent Max the following picture...

He came flying down the stairs yelling, "I didn't tell him to send it! I swear!"

So far, so good.

(Your 15 minutes are officially up.)

Multiple Choices

2009-07-09T12:57:00.002-04:00

Hmmmm....What to write about...What piece of fabulous good luck, wise judgment or fortuitous decision-making should I share first? Which of the auspicious boons that have graced our lives of late should I use to make you all green with envy? So many choices, so little time.

Perhaps I should tell you all about how Mr. Maurer and I, all of three days into the ten that our kids were gone to Alabama, decided to remodel BOTH THE BOYS BEDROOMS as a surprise. Before they got home. In seven days. Apparently the relaxing nature of coming home from work every night and doing exactly what we wanted to do, when we wanted to do it was just too damn much for us. And I guess the fact that we've undertaken more do-it-yourself projects than Bob Villa over the years has somehow yet to teach us that every project takes three times as long as we think it will and will result in maxed-out credit cards, threatened divorce proceedings and creative new cuss words. Oh yeah and before I forget to mention it, if you EVER even THINK about painting multi-colored strips in any room in your house because you saw "some chick do it once on HGTV and it looked really easy", STOP. Just trust me and stop. Monotone walls are underrated.

No? Not into self-mutalation and torture? Heard enough already? Well, how about the one where just as Mom and Dad are about to load up our van and hit the highway to meet us in northern Alabama to give us back our children, the Check Engine light comes on? Now that is one good story. It's got everything you could want in a tale: high drama, big money and unscrupulous characters. It's also really long and ongoing just in case you're into epic sagas. If you've ever wondered what happens when you cross a faulty transmission and a crooked mechanic with one highly stressed, 41-year old mother of two with an interesting command of the English language, this is the novel for you. Enjoy the journey as the author takes you on a fast-paced thrill ride from Indiana to southern Alabama and back in just three short days only to turn around and do it all over again after paying thousands of dollars to have her seven year old van fixed! This classic page-turner is sure to have you laughing out loud.

Or...maybe you're into mysteries. If so, this next story might be right up your alley. As the plot unfolds, our main character is cautiously optimistic that soon her dreams of a promotion, more pay and a chance to do meaningful work are just around the corner. Hopes of a new job in a new office are soon dashed by government bureacracy and political positioning though as she comes to realize that she's being bamboozled into doing twice the work as she was previously doing for the same pay. What's mysterious about this tale, you ask? You'll be glued to the pages as our heroine unravels the secrets to a) why anyone would ever take a government job in the first place; b) how she can find a way to stick it to the Man without ending up on a double-secret government watch list; and c) what she continues to do wrong in the career department that lands her in exactly the same place over and over and over again. This summer thriller is a sure-thing and rumor has it, Angelina Jolie is begging for the lead role in the movie, due out some time early next year....

Boring

2009-06-04T17:02:00.002-04:00

Alright already! I'll write something witty. Ok, maybe I'll just try and write something. Sorry about my absence. It's been a busy month. And when I say "busy", I mean "boring" - as in, I haven't had much to write about. At least not funny stuff. And my sister-in-law made it very clear that she, for one, does not like it when I write things that aren't funny, which made me feel much like a performing monkey. Sort of like when someone calls Tuck a "funny-man". He says it puts him in the mindset of being on The Hollywood Squares and being introduced as "Funny-man, Tucker Maurer", a la Jim J. Bullock.

I kept meaning to write about the trip I made to the wetlands with Charlie's Cub Scout troop but it just never happened. Here are the highlights....

Tuck was out of town.

Max and Charlie and I went to a nature preserve in Fishers. (Yes, there's a nature preserve in Fishers. It's right next to the Burger King.)

It was raining.

It was muddy.

It was windy, tornado windy.

We ate hot dogs.

We ate marshmallows. (Because it's THE perfect side dish with hot dogs).

I fought off the urge to maim several 7 year old boys as they ran around like mindless imbeciles because their parents seem to think this is appropriate and acceptable behavior.

We trudged through the mud and the muck in order to dig through a swamp looking for creatures that I typically try to avoid.

We trudged back while I silently vowed to find my Mr. Maurer voodoo doll when we got home.

Charlie walked up to me during our return trudge to express his appreciation for my bringing him by announcing, "Mom. I'd rather go to the grocery store for 2 hours than do this."

You're welcome, Son.

Really. That's all I've got. That and the story of how the music teacher at the kids' elementary school has officially made Mr. Maurer's Fight-On-Sight list but that will have to wait for another day. At the painfully slow rate that blog idea's are coming these days, I feel I'd better conserve them. Things are bound to turn around though. The boys are spending the weekend with their uncle while we go to Bloomington for a big wedding and the 14 year old babysitter from last summer (he's now 15) is back. Those of you who knew us prior to the blog will recall several very funny stories from last summer including The Omelet Debacle and The We-Don't-Throw-Water-Balloons-At-Little-Girls-On-Bikes Lecture.

I'm sure life will provide some more material soon. Either that or I'll start making shit up.

Being Mom

2009-05-10T11:41:00.005-04:00

Today is my eleventh Mother's Day. For eleven years now, I've awakened to breakfast in bed, mushy cards and gifts that have run the gamut from econo-sized bags of peanut M&M's to a laptop, depending on our financial status at the time. Today was much the same as the other ten Mother's Days I've had except my male counterpart was not here to lead the festivities. The Dudes were on their own and I must say, they did a fine job.

Since Dad was away, I let them sleep with me last night. So when my alarm went off at 6:00 am, due to the fact that for the second weekend day in a row I've been too stupid to turn it off before I've gone to sleep, I rolled over to see the two people who have transformed me into "Mom". That tangle of arms and legs on the other side of the bed was a pretty sweet sight despite the early hour and despite the cloud of bad breath that hung over them.

A little while later they woke up, showered me with proclamations of "Happy Mother's Day, Mom" and then snapped into action. They brought me breakfast in bed (microwave pancakes with syrup), cards and gifts. Charlie had made me a beautiful custom note pad that said "I Love You to Pieces" with several glued on puzzle pieces . He also gave me a gift card to Barnes & Noble. Max gave me an ITunes gift card and the Pièce de résistance - a laminated letter that he had typed at school. It reads:

Dear Mom,

Happy Mother's Day, the only day you get a break from cooking, cleaning, and working. I suppose you have to because the universe is better without a hole. Meaning, WE NEED YOU AROUND! I'll never forget the feeling where I'd open my lunchbox and find a thoughtful note from you. Then, I enjoyed the meanest pb and j. Just spending time with you always rose my spirits. I think you are the strongest woman in the world. Reasons: you had Charlie. And me I suppose. You've always encouraged me along the way. I think that's what kept me going all these years. You're a very special person Mom. And that's what today is all about. Mom.

Love,
Max

Why does my 11 year old sound like he's looking back on his troubled struggle through childhood and seeing me as his only bright spot? And when did he start referring to the time we spend together and the things I currently do for him on a daily basis, in past tense? And who knew that a lunchbox note and a peanut butter and jelly would have such a big impact? It's been two years since I put notes in his lunch box!

But that's the thing about being Mom. You never know what's going to make a lasting impact. Somewhere along the line you learn - either through a heartwarming Mother's Day letter or a noticable behavior change - that everything you do has the potential to make a lasting impression on them. This time it was a good thing. I loved reading those those tender words about how much I mean to my child. But there have been some not-so-good influences too.

For example, when Charlie was little and first started getting himself dressed, he had the uncanny knack of picking out THE most mismatched, outrageously paired ensembles known to man. The vanity in me, led me to change his clothes. I couldn't just let him wear what he wanted to wear out of some ridiculous fear that his looking like a clown would be a poor reflection on me as a mother. What I didn't know then was that those wardrobe changes would undermine his confidence a bit. No matter what I said to him as justification for changing his clothes, the message was loud and clear: "You're not good at this." To this day, he won't pick out his own clothes unless I force him too. And even then, he comes to me for approval of his selection and is noticeably self-conscious despite my ringing endorsements.

When I made the connection, it broke my heart a little to know that I had sapped his self-esteem a bit. It also made me a better mom. Those kind of lessons always do. It's our failings that inspire the biggest changes; our shortcomings that fuel our resolve to do better. You also learn to forgive yourself and move on. You must. You're not perfect. That was never the point.

Since 1998 when Max made his way into this world, I've been known by Mommy, Mom, Big Mama and my personal favorite, Woman. Whatever the two of them have called me, it's always meant the same thing: the female that lives in our house, bosses us around, feeds us, provides us with clean clothing, wipes our noses and butts, applies bandages, checks homework, brings us the puke bucket when we're sick, drives us to wherever we need to be, hugs and kisses us, makes sure we brush our teeth and wash our bodies, sighs heavily a lot, rolls her eyes nearly all the time, and has been known to yell loudly enough to rattle the windows. It also means the person that we will always love in a way that we will never love anyone else. And that is the best Mother's Day gift of all.

Rat Race

2009-05-06T22:10:00.009-04:00

I know, I know. It's been about a hundred years since I blogged but, seriously, it's the last thing on my agenda right now. It's May and for some odd reason every May is ridiculously crazy. This May, however, is over-the-top, ridiculously crazy.

First, there's the everyday lunacy that is life with two jobs and two kids (old joke - same punchline). Max has golf. Charlie has Cub Scouts. Tuck has three hours of Den Leader training. Really? How many ways are there to say, "Please don't molest the boys in your den"? Got it. Copy that. Can I go now?

Secondly, Tuck has been traveling like a fiend for work. It's actually a good thing seeing that cuts had to be made and they chose him and since they did he has to travel to cover some of the duties that were previously being handled by the guy they didn't choose. On the other hand, I think I've made it perfectly clear in some previous posts that there's a reason I'm not a single mom and I think you'll all now agree that I should not be left alone for extended periods of time with my children. Add to that the fact that suddenly my very boring job just got A LOT busier and I've had to do a bit of travel myself and we're getting a tiny bit closer to the reason that I haven't blogged in two weeks. But we're not done. There's more. There's much more.

As you know, Sir Charles recently turned seven and we, in an attempt to top all of his previous birthday extravaganzas and those of all his friends, decided to take him to Milwaukee to see the Titanic exhibit that is traveling around the country. Sometime before Christmas, his teacher read a book to his class about the Titanic and Charlie was hooked. For the next several months we had the pleasure of reading every children's book ever published on the subject of the Titanic. Charlie became the leading expert of 6 to 7 year olds in the field of the Titanic. He can tell you how long the ship was, how many people died, what time the ship went down, what part of the ship Leonardo DiCaprio scored with Kate Winslet and so much more. Yes, he's seen the movie. Yes, we fast forwarded through the sex scenes. Do you really think we're ready to have The Talk with our 7 year old? Please. We haven't recovered from our first go-around yet.

Anyway, when we found out that the exhibit was going to be just a mere 5 hours from us right around Charlie's birthday, we hatched our plan. We'd go to Chicago and pop in on Uncle Mike and Aunt Sara on Friday night, go to dinner at some kid friendly locale like Rain Forest Cafe, spend the night and then get up on Saturday morning and head to Milwaukee for Titanicpalooza. There we'd spend the night at the Milwaukee Hilton City Center (just a couple blocks away from the museum) and, after perusing all the Titanic splendor, we'd head back to the hotel to partake of the INDOOR WATER PARK. Come Sunday, we'd get up and haul ass back to Indy so that Tuck could prepare for his four day work trip to Pennsylvania. Hello. Can you say, "Best Birthday Ever"? What could go wrong?

Well apparently, a couple of things could go wrong. First of all, it's wrong that the Rain Forest Cafe actually felt like being in the rain forest. It was about 80 degrees in Chicago that day and about 90 degrees with 99% humidity in the Rain Forest Cafe. We'd have left if it weren't for a certain 7 year old being in complete picture taking and "OH MY GOD IT'S THE BEST BIRTHDAY I'VE EVER HAD" nirvana. He snapped off more pictures of fake monkeys and elephants then should be allowed by law. We muddled through but only by the grace of cold Stellas.

So, fast forward to Saturday morning when we all loaded into two vehicles (yes, Uncle Mike and Aunt Sara agreed to go to Milwaukee with us. Fools.) and headed north. Let me stop here and say that The Weather Channel people are a bunch of lying liars. They said it was going to be in the mid 60's in Milwaukee with a 30 or maybe 40 percent chance of rain. When we left Chicago (in flip flops and shorts) it was 70 degrees and not raining. By the time we reached our destination, it was pouring and.......42 DEGREES. Strike three on ever moving to Milwaukee.

At any rate, we made it to the Titanic exhibit and, much as I expected, about halfway through, Mr. Titanic declared he was ready to go to the water park. There's only so many artifacts one 7 seven year old can take. In the end, he declared it "awesome". We got him a couple of souvenirs which he promptly left in the restaurant where we ate lunch afterwards. 5 days and an additional $30 dollars later, the replacements showed up in the mail. The model of the Titanic has already taken its place on the shelf next to his trophy collection and I'm sure the first time he wore his commemorative t-shirt will be the last.

The water park was a slice of...er...heaven. Maybe I'm the only one who's a bit skeeved out by public pools but I certainly shouldn't be. Yuck. I was sure we were all going to come home with the Ebola virus and that was before the Swine Flu outbreak. The closest I got to the water was dangling my feet in the hot tub which I affectionately referred to as the Bubbling Cauldron of Death. The only thing that kept us all out of the hospital was the toxic chlorine level. I couldn't decide if my skin was peeling due to chemical burns or some flesh eating bacteria. Again, we muddled through and again, only by the grace of cold beer.

We made it home in time to unload our suitcases, do the laundry and pack up Mr. Maurer. He left on Monday morning and returned Wednesday night. We had a weekend to relax (if you can call cleaning the entire house, mowing the yard and doing 11 loads of laundry, relaxing) and then we were off to the races again. This weekend I have a big fundraising event for a not-for-profit for which I serve on the board of directors and then Tuck leaves for Cincinnati for a bachelor party Saturday. He's then going on to Pennsylvania for work (again) through Thursday. Yes, he's leaving me on Mother's Day weekend. Hell hath no fury, people. Hell hath no fury.

Charles Davis Maurer

2009-04-23T12:48:00.009-04:00

Yesterday, my baby turned seven! Holy cow, where has the time gone? It seems like yesterday that the second Maurer child made his grand entrance into this world. I spent much of this week in Louisville on business and Charlie was my wake up call on Wednesday when, at 7:00 am, he phoned to announce that it was his birthday. "I know," I said. "I was there when you were born." I promised to tell his birth story when I got home later that evening. So after we finished cheeseburgers, fries and ice cream cake - his birthday dinner of choosing - I told of the humble beginnings of one Charles Davis Maurer.

Pregnancy, as I've mentioned before, is not my most favorite state and this one had been much the same as the first resulting in Max, except I was a seasoned veteran this time around. I hated it as much, if not more than last time and couldn't wait to get it over. Tuck was mostly hiding from me and keeping Max as far away as he could as often as he could. I was in real estate at the time and was extremely busy. I didn't have the luxury of sitting at a desk for 8 hours and then racing home to plop myself on the couch until it was time to go to bed. So, while I hadn't gained near the 65 pounds I gained the first time around, my extreme fatigue and job-related stress combined with my rampant hormones rendered me close to intolerable. Even I didn't want to be around me.

As Max had come 10 days early and my labor had lasted roughly 8 hours, my doctor warned that this baby could come early and very fast. In other words, if I wanted an epidural this time around, at the first sign of labor I'd better get my ass to the hospital tout de suite. And I wanted an epidural. More than I wanted a baby. I began announcing around week 7 that if I didn't get an epidural, someone (Mr. Maurer) was going to pay. I was not going through that craziness again sans heavy rugs. No way. By the time I reached the third trimester, my friends and family had formed The Committee to Ensure Shmee Gets an Epidural During Labor in a lame and ineffective attempt to get me to shut the hell up already about the damn epidural.

Just when I was about to relax about the whole thing and try to enjoy the last 6 weeks as the mother of only one child, Charlie decided to cause a little trouble. Even in utero, he was not going to let his brother get all the attention. At 34 weeks on a Sunday, I began having contractions. A trip to the hospital, an injection of a labor-halting drug and a confirmation that my body had indeed started to prepare for birth (2 centimeters dilated, 50% effaced for you mothers in the audience) later, I was sent home and ordered on bed rest.

I'm not sure that any words, with the exception of "it's too late for an epidural", have ever been uttered that gave my husband greater trepidation than the words "bed rest". For those of you who don't know me, I'm not the bed rest type of gal. Oh sure, I like an occasional lazy day spent on the couch and there is no greater vacation for me than one spent in a chair on the beach. But those are not the same as being ordered to stay in bed when one has a crazy job for which one does not get paid unless one sells something, a very active four year old (think: swinging from the chandelier) and a then compulsive cleaning fetish. I thought Tuck was going to cry.

I spent three weeks being largely immobile. I got up only to move from the bed to the couch, to go to the bathroom or to make sure Max wasn't painting the dog or constructing any weapons of mass destruction. By the time I made it to 37 weeks - the magical benchmark for lung development - I had ruled out little that I'd do to get off bed rest including physical violence, mental torture and sexual favors. I wasn't spending one more day on that couch. I went to my weekly OB appointment on Friday and was told I could resume normal activity. I was also told that I probably wouldn't make it through the weekend. I was nearly completely effaced and dilated to 3.5 centimeters. I left the office fearful that Charlie might just fall out as I walked across the parking lot.

I launched Operation Baby Weekend. I alerted all the key players, packed my bag and took to sitting in the car in preparation for the trip to the hospital. Now that I was off bed rest, my thoughts had returned to the epidural that I'd better be getting and I knew that once labor started things were going to move quickly. My body was already almost halfway through the process and there wasn't going to be a moment to spare. My parents (they hadn't abandoned me and moved to Alabama yet) arrived in the early evening and we all waited. And waited. And waited some more. Saturday came and went and still, no labor. I walked up and down the block almost non-stop, ate spicy salsa and contemplated unspeakable yet popular labor-inducing acts. I was that desperate.

By Sunday, I was inconsolable. When my parents left for home that evening I feared I might not ever forgive them. I went to bed and cried myself to sleep. Melodrama was my only friend. At exactly 2:00 Monday morning, I awoke to an all-too-familiar feeling of having pissed myself. Just like the onset of Max's labor, my water had broken. I was drenched and immediately began having contractions. I elbowed Tuck with excessive force and said, "Get up. My water just broke. We need to leave now!" I felt like a starter's pistol had just been fired. I frantically changed clothes, called my friend who I'd recruited earlier in the day as backup care for Max when my parents ditched me and went in to rouse the then youngest Maurer from a dead sleep. When I came back into the room, my husband was standing in our closet contemplating the perfect pair of pants to wear to the hospital.

"OH MY GOD!", I screamed. "PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE NOT SERIOUSLY WORRIED ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE GOING TO WEAR. IF I DON'T GET MY EPIDURAL BECAUSE OF YOU AND YOUR INABILITY TO SELECT A PAIR OF PANTS IN A TIMELY FASHION, I'LL MAKE YOU WISH YOU'D GONE TO BED COMPLETELY DRESSED."

He started to argue but then thought better of it. He grabbed a pair of jeans, threw them on and out we went. By the time we arrived at the hospital, I was in absolute agony. My contractions were 3 minutes apart. I told the nurse on duty that my water had broken and that at last check on Friday I was almost to 4 centimeters dilated. She said she needed to confirm that my water had broken before they put me in room and strolled off to retrieve what she needed for the test despite my asking her if she wanted to have a feel of my wet ass. As soon as she walked out, I began sobbing. I told Tuck between wails that I didn't think I could do it again without an epidural and how I just knew it was going to be too late. When I took my head out of my hands and looked up, my husband was gone. He had ran down to the nurse's desk to lay down the law. He told them how I had gone from 4 to 10 centimeters dilated in an hour last time and how this baby had been trying to come for the better part of a month and how I was prone to psychotic snaps. He begged them to take my word for it that my water had broken and to please, for the love of God and in the name of everything that was good in the world, give me an epidural so that he could live the rest of his life without fear of being neutered in his sleep.

To their credit, they snapped into action and began operating like an emergency rescue squad. They got me on a gurney, wheeled me into a delivery room and had an anesthesiologist on the scene within minutes. In moments, the delicious numbness spread down my back and into the my nether regions. It was pure bliss. I watched and laughed as the monitor showed each horrific contraction. Before it was all over, my legs were so numb they were falling off the table like two gigantic water balloons. A couple of hours and a couple of pushes later, Charlie Maurer made his appearance.

He was born at 6:14, Monday morning and he was tiny. He weighed 6 pounds even and was 18.5 inches long. As soon as I saw him, I thought he looked just a like a little bear, hence creating the nickname Charlie Bear which I use to this day. For a brief few days, he looked and acted just like Max had at that age. That changed quickly. He began to look exactly like his Dad and he began to act like a torture victim. The kid started crying in the delivery room and didn't stop for 9 months. Seriously. NINE MONTHS. He had reflux which meant he had a perpetual stomachache. All he did was cry and eat and puke. I've never seen a baby puke as much as he did. I changed my and his clothes at least a half dozen times a day. I couldn't go back to work because I knew there was no one else who would agree to take care of him on a daily basis. Even his own mother didn't want to take care of him on a daily basis. I used to only half joke that if gypsies had come to the door asking for babies, I'd have handed him over and never looked back.

After several different meds, a variety of formulas, a prescription of Prozac for Mom and twelve months of pure hell, the Maurer family emerged from Charlie's first year battle weary and beat down. "I know what we need", I declared one day after I had found a angel of mercy in the form of a babysitter and had returned to work. "We should move into a way-too-big, way-too-expensive, way-too-many-improvements-needing house. That way we can look back on the first year of Charlie's life as the good old days." And it worked. That and the fact that one day God flipped a switch and transformed our Bear from an evil, hell-beast of a baby into just about the sweetest, most easy going kid you'd ever want to meet.

Yesterday, on his birthday, the first of the three Pow Wow fish died, casting a cloud over the festivities. This morning, he woke up with stomacache and declared he felt like he was going to puke. And then he did. Seven isn't looking so good so far for Bear. Here's hoping things get better.

Family Visit

2009-04-15T21:20:00.003-04:00

So, apparently there's a very big difference between a vacation and a family visit and I was very, very wrong to call what we went on last week a vacation. A vacation is restful and relaxing and involves very little activity. In fact about the most you are required to do on vacation is drag your fat ass from your condo to your beach chair carrying not much more than a magazine, a towel and a econo-sized cocktail. And you are not required to leave said beach chair until your bladder is full or your econo-sized cocktail is empty.

When you're on vacation, you most certainly do not drive 12 hours over two days in a minivan with two kids, a dog and enough gear to last a month. And you do not stay under one roof with 7 other members of your immediate and extended family. You never, ever sleep on lumpy mattresses or trundle beds nor do you do dishes or laundry or, God forbid, cook. You don't go to Sam's Club or Walmart and you don't let others go there either. Oh yeah, and taking your kids to the Bass Pro Shop to see the taxidermy is so not a tourist destination.

Vacation isn't about loading up the van and driving an additional 45 minutes to the public, no-alcohol-allowed beach where, upon arrival, you are required to haul 8 rusty beach chairs, 2 over-sized umbrellas, 17 beach towels, a gallon and a half of sunscreen, a giant cooler full of sodas and waters and a old guy with a bum leg down to the surf. You also never have to spend over 90 minutes in the gift shop picking out the absolute best souvenir for your 11-year-old only to finally settle on a $20, semi-permanent, Superman tattoo. Oh yeah, and kites are on the Do Not Buy list unless your kids are able to fly them without your assistance.

On vacation, it's always sunny and warm and you're never more concerned about windburn than you are sunburn. You always remember to apply sunscreen properly and you never forget to put it on the back of your legs and arms whereby ensuring that you don't turn yourself into a two-toned freak of nature. You also don't say things like, "Oh, it's not that cold" or "Ooh, there's the sun". You're not required to be civil or pleasant or make small talk on vacation. Grunting is totally allowed in response to most questions and even, in some cases, encouraged. You don't get up early, rush to get dressed, spend the better part of two hours in A FABRIC STORE, skip lunch and then rush back to meet up with the rest of the gang for an early dinner at Denny's. That's not vacation, people!

It's really all about properly setting your expectations. If you think you're going into a family visit, you don't mind all these things. You're actually tickled pink if no one throws anything at anyone else's head or launches any F bombs. When your brother takes his third or fourth shower of the day despite the fact that seven others are waiting to take their first and you restrain yourself and only flip him the bird instead of initiating Operation Psychotic Meltdown, you pat yourself on the back and call it a success.

A family visit is about survival and not doing anything that jeopardizes your ability or desire to see these people again. It's about medicinal cocktails and biting your tongue and accepting the fact that you're going to come home tired. It's also about not forgetting that these people - these crazy, messed up lunatics - love you and that they need medicinal cocktails to deal with being with you for a week too.

Vacation

2009-04-01T18:27:00.004-04:00

Listen. Can you hear it? This chair is calling to me, "Shmee...Shmee....Come and join me. Rest your weary body. Soak up the sun. Sip multiple cocktails. Listen to the surf. Forget that your son said he didn't think you were really a "swim suit person" when you modeled your new tankini for him. What the hell does he know? He's just a dumb kid. I'm a wise beach chair and I think you look fabulous."

I'm coming sweet angel of mercy chair. I'm coming...

Deathwatch

2009-03-22T08:32:00.006-04:00

Yesterday was the annual "Let's see how much money can we suck out of your parents" fund raising extravaganza at the boys' school. I dread it more than I dread having our taxes done every year and even more than I dread Christmas. It's that bad.

Imagine 400 elementary school kids along with their parents and siblings packed in the school, frantically running from classroom to classroom playing low-tech carnival games and having their hair spray painted all the colors of the rainbow. Add to that the fact that each of them eats their weight in cotton candy and drinks about a 2 liter of Mountain Dew and you've got all the makings for a grammar school rave. Typically, it ends up being around 110 degrees in the building and smelling like a boys high school basketball team's laundry basket.

Every year I say we're not going and every year Sucker Dad caves and drags me over there kicking and screaming and muttering under my breath about how no one better talk to me or else. This year, even Sucker Dad said we weren't going. This is our sixth year at this school and we've got four more to go. It was time for a break. One family can only take so much.

We made the decision. It was a done deal. We were definitely not going to Pow Wow (that's the really cleaver name that they came up with for the event which is Swahili for The Festival of the Ninth Ring of Hell). We made a pact. That pact lasted right up to the point when, after having asked me if we were going and being told no, the two undaunted Maurer boys went to the weakest link. He didn't even start with no. He caved right on the spot. It went something like this...

"Dad, are we going to Pow Wow?"
"Yep. Get dressed. Let's go."

Huh? What the hell? Sometimes I think he likes being the hero. "Sorry your Mom's such a evil tyrant, guys. Come on, I'll buy you an extra large cotton candy when we get there."

"Fine", I said, "It's your funeral. I'm not going. Have a wonderful time."

He started to argue but then thought better of it. I hadn't had a shower, was still in my bathrobe (yes, it was 1:00 in the afternoon) and had a look on my face that said, "If you make me go to this I'll invent a new method of torture which involves jumper cables and the toaster." Add to that the fact that I was all out of Xanax and my flask was empty and he decided he'd be better off going it alone.

So, off they went. So long Sucker Dad! I was all happy and basking in the glow of my solitude, snickering under my breath about what a fool he was and secretly hoping the heat in the building was stuck on 90. I took a sip of coffee and was about to settle in for some long-winded blogging and Facebooking, when it hit me. I had forgotten to declare my No Fish rule.

In addition to the rest of the horror that is Pow Wow, every year the PTO geniuses decide that yes, they should DEFINITELY have the Fish Pond again. Despite the fact that every parent loathes the fish pond. Despite the fact that the poor fish live on average of about 3.75 hours after Pow Wow ends. And despite the fact that after said fish kick the proverbial bucket, parents are left to deal with the aftermath. This alone is enough to keep me away from Pow Wow. I can't take one more funeral procession to the toilet complete with music and hysterics and the assurances that, "Of course fishies go to heaven, Sweetheart." I've had enough. But alas, I forgot. And now Sucker Dad was the only thing standing between me and several new ill pets. I didn't like my chances.

Sure enough, two hours and a exhaustive search for the fish bowl later, we welcomed three death row inmates into our home. Charlie had won two fish: Bob and Griffin. Max had won one: Martin Luther King, Jr. Don't ask. I have no idea why my oldest son would name the only solid-colored fish in the bunch after a civil rights icon, but I'll be willing to bet he's the first to go. I'm already planning the funeral.

Nothing

2009-03-11T21:31:00.002-04:00

Literally, I've got nothing that I could possibly blog about this week.

I could tell you how much I hate my job but you've heard that song before.

I could talk about dirty bathrooms and dust bunnies but I'm sure you've got problems of your own.

I could talk about how Tuck made me go to a Cub Scout meeting last night even though I made him swear when Charlie signed up that I wouldn't have to be involved, but would you really be empathetic to my condition?

I could rant and rave about the construction project from hell that is Carmel, Indiana right now and tell you how I'm considering going door to door to convince everyone who is affected by this bullshit to do all their shopping in Fishers as an act of protest against our brainiac mayor, but if you don't live in Carmel, you probably don't want to hear about my tales of woe.

I could launch into a big diatribe about how I think the media secretly loves to report on people losing their jobs and living in tent cities and secretly hates to have to report anything good like the stock market gaining points or unemployment numbers dropping but I'm sure you're smart enough to figure that one out on your own.

I could tell you to never, EVER buy a mattress with a 6 inch thick pillow top on it because it will develop deep wells where you and your husband sleep and a big hump in the middle and pretty soon you and your husband will develop carpel tunnel and neck pain and a whole host of mysterious ailments and you'll come to the conclusion that you're going to have to replace it even though you just bought the really expensive thing three years ago, but who the hell is dumb enough to buy a mattress with a 6 inch thick pillow top on it?

I could warn you that if one more person sits down to the dinner table and before having even the smallest nibble of what is on their plate begins to whine, complain and/or moan, I am liable to make good on my promise to make nothing but fried Spam and creamed spinach for a month, but you know I'm prone to idle threats.

I could say that I liked it better when my kids didn't have any friends because I'm tired of hauling them all over hell's half acre to hang out when I, myself, haven't done anything socially (unless you count Facebook as being social) for over a year, but you'd just think I was being selfish.

I could talk about how the absolute damn dumbest thing I've ever done was to paint our kitchen floor black because it's tantamount to having a black car, but you'd probably just think to yourself, "Yeah, I knew that was a bad idea."

I could complain about the ever-changing weather this time of year here in the Hoosier state and tell you how it makes me cranky to wear capris and sandals one day and then gloves and a scarf the next, but I think you've probably already picked up on my mood.