Winter Blast from Dogs Past

Today my dear friends in Indianapolis (and various other frozen parts of the Midwest) are suffering through a cold front and a snowstorm while I bask in the brilliant sunlight of Southern California.  I am sipping hot tea, as the temperatures dropped a dramatic 10 degrees overnight and chilled me a bit, but I'm not the least bit unappreciative of the fact that I am in a light cardigan, no heat on in the house, and am considering clipping some flowers from my garden for a late-fall bouquet.  

This appreciation, however, is hard-earned.  Just in case anyone thinks I forgot, I give you a journal entry from February 23, 1994.  As background, the kids and I were living in the Landings near Keystone at the Crossing; I worked at Very Special Arts of Indiana; and the dog in question was Pauly, my English bulldog, who we all loved dearly, but not without pain:

"February 23, 1994 -Well, THIS has been a special day already and it's only 10:30 a.m.!

I woke up on time.  I had a good stretch.  I didn't feel overly tired.  And then? BOOM! My streak of good fortune ended.  I swung out of bed and placed my foot -- no, not on the floor as one would think -- but instead into a huge hill of vomitus material that Pauly had strategically placed as a kind of editorial comment on Purina's particular recipe of dog food.  Pleased as I was with this discovery and having been set into a fabulous mood for the day, I swiftly escorted him to the balcony where I left him with every intention of letting him rot.

After cleaning this mountainous heap (which had an odor second only to that of toxic waste), I got a second rare and wondrous treat of scooping up yet another pile (this time of a substance of which I'm much more familiar) outside on the balcony before the lovely mixture of ice and rain that was steadily falling dissolved it into an as yet undiscovered alternative to the gas chamber.   As I was more than a tad bit annoyed, I vowed to leave Pauly outside until Hell thawed (being that this IS Hell and it's already frozen over), when he expressed a difference of opinion and began a mild, however persistent, barkfest (at 6:30 a.m.).  His receipt into my home, due entirely and exclusively out of respect for my neighbors, was immediately limited to the bathroom where he was sentenced to twenty years hard time with no food or water.

The peace that followed his imprisonment, however, was short lived.  Cheyanne posted bail, as she needed to primp, and he was released on his own recognizance.  Upon serving breakfast (less than 5 minutes later), I noticed the err of my judgement.  Underneath what used to be called my piano, and now is more aptly termed His Toilet, there lay a steaming fresh pile...

My patience tried beyond its limits, Pauly was promptly incarcerated and left, once again, with no provisions.  His objections went unheeded until the necessity to use the room prevailed.  A jail break had obviously been planned and immediately upon the opening of the door, his head, ducked low, plummeted directly into my right ankle as he attempted to plow past me to freedom.  My nimble reflexes alone (albeit the door wedging his head into the frame assisted) saved the escape from coming to fruition, yet not without both harm and foul.  I was bound for desk duty, benched for the season, a 2" purple, black and red bruise my medal of valor.

The pride I delight in dog ownership runs just slightly ahead of the sheer joy I am afforded by the experience of living through yet another Indiana winter.  Trying to salvage some semblance of sanity, I went out after my morning paper envisioning coffee, toast, and the sports page as the perfect cure to my frustrations.  Outside, a fresh blanket of white stuff covered the ground and the sound of ice chipping filled the air.  My neighbors were lined up, hammer and chisels in hand, creating ice scuptures out of what used to be their vehicles.  "So" I think to myself "I've got THAT to look forward to..."

I sent the kids out after the bus alone as I had no desire whatsoever to walk the dog anywhere but straight into the lake with, say, perhaps, 110 pound weights wrapped around each leg, but within 20 minutes they were back.  The bus hadn't come, probably due to the fact that the school system was on a two-hour delay -- a fact of which I had been completely oblivious and neglectful in researching.  I DID observe, however, (solely due to by implacable fashion sense), that the woman I saw - upon my awakening peek at the outside world - who was wearing bright white tennis shoes with a straight-line black skirt and a stadium jacket and standing outside next to her equally bright white Bronco, was now standing against the garage shielding her face with her hands.  At this interim, she'd been out close to 2 hours.  I called to her and asked her if she wanted to come inside, which she did, and I was told that she had locked her keys -- ALL her keys -- inside the Bronco - WHILE it was running - when she had gone out to warm up the truck.  She couldn't get back into her apartment, nor into her vehicle, and had been standing out there waiting for her husband to come home from work.  He worked the night shift, got off at 7:30, it was now 8:30, and she thought he must have stopped off at the store rather than coming straight home.  He had the only other set of keys to the car.

By 9:30, I had to leave.  Hubby still had yet to show, and I felt a little blessed (however selfishly) because my troubles weren't as bad as hers.  By this time, though, the leasing office had opened and she could get the keys to her apartment and at least wait in her own environment for the missing spouse.

A little bright spot proved that I hadn't been entirely abandoned of God's grace, as the kids and I made it safely to school and work respectively without much car trouble or traffic problems.  Yet, I was immediately reminded of His rath as I walked into my office only to be greeted with a "nice of you to make it" by the Board President, John Delaney...

Ah well, such is life."

Hope you enjoyed this little blast from the past!  Stay warm!

Randomness

This is just completely random stuff.  Enjoy:

Dia:  Why I named him Balloony?
Me:  Shrug
Dia:  Because it’s a good name for a balloon.

One of my favorite things right now:  Dia says her imaginary friend’s name is spelled “O-P-P-O.”  Then, when someone says “Oppo?” she says “No, it’s Owo – the “P’s” are silent.”   

I saw a billboard the other day for Crown Royal.  It said “Back with a vengeance.”  I wonder if they thought that one out.  Do they mean the next morning?

Sephora Lash Stretcher is the greatest mascara I have ever tried.  And with a $15 sticker price?  Brilliant!

Ever notice the side conversations we, as moms, have with our kids while we are trying to have phone conversations?  Here’s a few of my favorites:
    “That’s a garlic press, dude.  You don’t put cookies in it.”
    “How did you get chocolate on your foot?”
    "Oh no, sweetie, let go of the kitty ... What? ... No, darling, you can't bite the kitty."

I got a Coke that had been in the fridge for some time and took a sip.  It didn't taste right and so I looked at the bottom of the can.  I told Dia "No wonder this tasted like dirt.  It's expired."  She said "I had dirt that tasted better than that."  I laughed and asked her "Where is that from - a movie?" and she said "No, real life."  I said "Oh, you just made that up?"   She said "No, real life."   (Footnote to this one: I do not believe she's ever eaten dirt in real life.  She was being witty.)

Dia was explaining why she couldn’t fall asleep and said “My eyelashes aren’t weighty enough and when I close my eyes they just fling back open.”

That's it for now.  More later I'm sure!

Prince Charming

Maybe I’m too embedded in fairy tales and Disney Princesses, but sometimes I truly long for my knight in shining armor.  Wistfully, and probably too often to be healthy, I wish for someone to magically find me and for us to fall madly in love.  I’m not talking about physical love so much, but more that elusive connection to someone that might want to walk this life hand-in-hand with me.

But right now there is a ton of problems with that. 

Issue 1:  I gotta' be honest with myself: I might only want new love.  Romantic love doesn’t stay happy for the long haul.  OK, in fairness, I have seen it here and there, or at least I know couples who put up a good public persona, but it’s just never worked for me.  Eventually I always feel like I’m not just compromising things to make it work, I’m compromising ME.   Maybe I'm twelve types of selfish and only viewing this through that filter, but historically it has always felt like I'm the one that has to chop off big parts of who I am to keep "us" happy.
I also hate the taking for granted part.  Like hate, hate, hate it.  Truly despise it.  I saw a little saying once “Take for better or for worse, but never for granted.”  I think I’ll tattoo that on my forehead if I ever get in a serious relationship again.

Issue 2:  I may have stopped believing in love at all.  Or at least in the way I need it.  Specifically:  I may have stopped believing that someone could make my life better than it is now.  Salt on my potato I used to call it.  Perhaps this is a symptom of how great my life is these days and that’s certainly not something to complain about!  I’ve said on more than one occasion that I’m more blessed than a person has a right to be.  So asking for more just seems greedy, doesn’t it?  But that’s where I stand.  I don’t want a man for the sake of having a plus one or whatever.  I want to feel like life is better because he exists in it.  Back to Issue #1, new love certainly feels that way, but over the long haul I have yet to experience that life-is-better feeling persisting for very long (mostly due to Issue #3 below).

Issue 3:  No offense to the sane gentlemen out there, but too often the divorced or never married men my age come with cargo planes worth of untreated baggage.  I once wanted to be a therapist for a living, but I passed on that long ago.  There’s no part of me that wants to be an in-home version of that.  I definitely do not feel like paying for the crap some ex-woman put them through.  Now, before you go hating me, I’m not saying it’s even possible to get to adulthood without more than a carry-on.  I’m simply saying that more people should consult a psychologist at some point in their life.  The process of dealing with your scars is underrated and under-utilized and nowhere near as scary as folks think it will be.  At the very least it gets the baggage into a more portable suitcase.

Issue 4:  It feels like love is for the young.  Are people over 45 ever depicted in ads/videos/movies falling madly in love?  (I can think of, like, 2 movies.)  No sir.  Love is a youth-oriented industry and I feel like I’m way past that expiration date.

Issue 5:  No romantic love will ever compare with the love I have for my kids.  I had Tim way too young and fell way too in love and the only love I’ve felt on par with that since were for my two daughters.  Now I've obviously been in love and intensely at that, but I know that even at love's best it will never be what a mother feels for her children.  At this point in my life if it doesn’t come somewhere near that, how will I find the energy necessary to cultivate a new relationship and the incentive to put the work in to maintain it? 

Issue 6:  This is simply logistics.  Where and how the hell can I even meet someone in my current world? I work mostly from home.  The online dating scene is not an option for me.  I don’t have any extra-curricular activities and I don’t plan on adding them for a while.  This is a problem I’m creating for myself for sure, but I have this beautiful hindsight in knowing just exactly how fast Dia’s childhood is going to fly by.  I don’t really want to miss more of her life than I already am while I’m at work and, besides, all my babysitting budget is used up for the aforementioned job anyway.  So, my Prince Charming will have to fall in love with me at the zoo or the park or the museum, Dia in tow.  What’re the chances?   

BUT… before you go all psychoanalytical on me here, I should assure you that this void I feel generally occurs only after viewing a romantic comedy (which should be banned anyway).  My life is so filled up with love that asking for more is almost ridiculous.  But there are aspects of romantic love that my family and friends cannot fill, so I definitely want to have that love someday. 

Honestly,  I have this feeling that it will happen.  I’ve lived too long and paid attention too much to not know that Divine Timing is much smarter than my timing.  As I’ve just admitted, I don’t really have the logistical ability nor the motivation at this time to jump into a relationship and be a good partner anyway.  Soon enough, though, I will be.  And then?  I’ll have dispelled all these doubts; I’ll believe in love again, and we will live happily ever after.

May you all love and be loved exactly as you need it.  (And I hope you find yourself disagreeing with me on most of my points because that would mean you've already met your Princess or Prince Charming.)
- KEC

Give Ourselves Credit

I watched "Fame" the other day.  Not the old one, the re-make.  It's not a great movie by any stretch of the imagination, but it did start me thinking.

It's not a new topic for me to ponder.  I have always been that kid that wasn't very good at anything, so I sit and watch people that are talented with a kind of melancholy.  How does it come so easily to some people?

I was raised up in a house where everyone else seemed so brilliantly and innately talented and that didn't help my inferiority complex any.  My mother is one of those annoying creatures that's good at just about everything she tries.  She's a fantastic athlete and an amazing artist.  She could create anything out of anything: a piece of wood, or clay, some paints, sand or snow (I need to dig up a photo of her snow elephant).  My father was the more emotional of the pair and you could feel that emotion through him whenever he played the piano.  Further, he had a most extraordinary eye for photography and his singing voice was just perfect really.  Then my brother, while he wasn't athletic or particularly artistic, was the super-student and so obviously gifted in that arena it was humbling even to this kid that coasted through school with near straight-As.  His grades weren't necessarily as good as mine were, but he attended a tough private school to my no-brainer public school and he, to this day, can retain everything he ever learned.  Me?  I got to test day, regurgitated the facts and *bam* it was gone.  To this day I'm like a freakin' goldfish that way.

So, back to the movie.  I was watching these real kids - the actors, I mean - dancing and singing and acting.  They were playing instruments like pros.  Well, I guess because they ARE pros.  And I wondered ... do they know how amazing that is?

When Tim was in high school, he was involved in a robotics program.  At the end of the year, they had a party to celebrate their accomplishments.  I remember so clearly watching these happy, silly kids having a great time just doing their thing and I felt a most strange sense of bittersweet pride.  These young men and women had such talent.  From their own minds and without the use of a recipe or instructions, they created, planned and produced a remote-controlled robot that even shot baskets!  At that moment, celebrating like that, I knew they were pleased with themselves but I couldn't help thinking:  Did they know what amazing talent they had?  

Do YOU know what amazing talent YOU have?  This isn't to bash on myself and certainly isn't meant to elicit compliments, but my life is nothing about being good at anything.  I lead a life of moderation and that certainly includes being moderately talented and only at the things I really work at.  I can run for a long time if my foot will let me, but I run it slowly.  I will never be competitive there.  I can't do yoga worth a 'namaste' but I like the feeling I get when I try.  I can carry a tune and I have no stage fright whatsoever but I'm not good.  I work very, very hard to learn one piece on the piano and even then can't really play it all that well.  Shoot, I even wrote a fairly simple piece of music and I don't believe I've ever even played that flawlessly.

I cook often, but nothing other than maybe my turkey is worth calling in a food critic over.  You'd think I'd get better and better at the things I work at like that, but I just kind of stay at average.   That seems to be my peak.  Even when I was a rebellious teen running around on my bike constantly with kids that were amazing on their bikes, the best I ever got was one day when I decided to ride no-handed on a racing bike across town.  I was pretty stoked that I did it honestly, but I never flew ten feet in the air above a quarter pipe like my peers.

You guys... my friends and I'll bet the few strangers that read this ... probably are thinking "well, I'm not that good at anything either."  Certainly I don't have any movie stars in my rolodex.  The one really famous singer I knew has most unfortunately left this world.  I was once friends with a professional basketball player, but we've lost touch.  So, I suppose, I'm talking to a bunch of amateurs or, at the most, some on-the-poorer-side pros.  But whether you get paid to do it is NOT the sum of your talent. In just my small circle of friends, there is a truly talented actress and tap-dancer; piano players of the concert pianist level; geniuses and great chefs; brilliant writers and fantastic photographers.  I know athletes that never give themselves credit for their feats.  I am thrilled to own several pieces of art from a most unique and accomplished artist and I know closet artists that are as good as any that are selling their works out there.  I know guitar players and drummers, singers and song-writers that never cease to amaze me with their creativity.  I stand in awe of all of you.

Even as I was writing this, I started feeling 'that way' again.  You know the way: the old "why them, not me" thing?  But then I started thinking about some of my friends whose talent can't really be defined in the things I describe above.  When I thought of them specifically, I instantly thought of how they are brilliant business people or comedians, or how they manage to never tire of being there for others, or how they have an innate ability to inspire and hold up and encourage.  These sorts of talents are every bit as unique and admirable as any other, if not more so.  Then I began, slowly ... and truthfuly I'm not quite there yet... but I began to see that maybe I do have a bit of this alternative talent.  I'm really good at reading people.  I'm an excellent mom. I'm an above average listener (when you can get me to shut up).  I'm unusually gifted at stopping and smelling the roses and am intensely appreciative of this life we have.  So, maybe, after all these years of wishing I could sing, or dance, or act, or draw, or play sports ... maybe I can finally give myself credit for the talent I hold.

You should too. Let's give ourselves credit where credit is due and let's give others an opportunity to applause a job well done.

Free to be Me

I think most of us will agree that our teen years are some of the worst years of our lives.  Terrified not to fit in or, worse, to stand out and be ostracized, we learn to conform to the popular standards at a relatively young age.

We just want to be normal, popular people with average lives, right?

But what does that really mean?  According to Webster’s, it means we really want to be people characterized by average intelligence and development, who are generally liked and approved of and to lead lives deficient in quality.

Yup, me too.  Where do I sign up for that?

Now, most folks would probably argue that we don’t really want average lives.  We want amazing lives!  We want all our dreams to come true.  Certainly the path towards that goal involves following someone else’s standards, dressing fashionably and never speaking out for ourselves, right?  I’m pretty sure all the most successful adults conduct themselves in that manner, don’t you think?

No, actually, I don’t think so.  I live in a pretty non-sexy world so I don’t know any socialites and I'll assume they play by those rules.  Yet, I can assure you the people I do know who stand out, such as some self-made mega-millionaires I know (of which I do now know several), did not get there by following a crowd.

So as an alternative to that dull, unintelligent, unimaginative life where, albeit, we might be generally liked but not particularly self-actualized, may I suggest we say:

“I want to be a unique, outstanding person with an extraordinary life.”

Then what we are really saying is "I want to be a person without an equal, marked by eminence and distinction with a life that is exceptional to a very marked extent."

OK, I realize I just talked over the heads of my target audience.  So here, consider this:

The opposite of normal?  Exceptional, extraordinary
The opposite of popular?  Exceptional, extraordinary (yeah, it is)
The opposite of conformity?  Distinctiveness

We are so busy as teenagers trying to find ourselves apart from our parents.  It’s the time in our lives when we are supposedly rebelling.  Indeed, we would rather become ANYone other than our parents, or teachers, or those old people in our lives that try to guide us (which is code word for boss us around).  Think about how lame your parents were/are and the music they listen to (seriously?) and the way they dress (do they even check themselves in the mirror?) and could they just drop us off a block from school so no one has to see their superior lameness??? 

But in all that angst and rejection and superiority, we go right into that school wearing exactly what Emily, the head cheerleader and homecoming queen, wore last week.  (We begged Lame-O Mom for it for days until she conceded.)  We talk like “them,” we watch the same things “they” do; we listen to the same music and “like” it.  We try to become “them.”  Oh yes we do.  I did it.  I didn’t succeed, but I sure as hell tried.  And if we can’t become them, we rebel against them too by …..wait for it….. wait for it….dressing like the ‘out’ crowd that we are now ‘in’ with.  Now we talk like “them,” we watch the same things “they” do; we listen to the same music and “like” it.  We try to become this “them.”

Where’s the rebellion?  OK, and for that matter, what does that even mean?  Going again to Webster’s, “Rebel” is a person that “rises up against authority or another’s control.”  I’m no control freak – by a far measure – but I have to admit that not being under another’s control sounds very appealing.  I like the idea of controlling my own destiny and I like the idea that it will be extraordinary and I’m pretty sure that no one else is going to create that for me.  So call me a middle-aged rebel.

I’m asking teenagers to consider what they are doing and why instead of just doing it.  Take three seconds and write down your biggest dream for your life.  I don’t care if it’s “be a rock star” or “make a million dollars.”  Just write it down.  Then think about it for three more seconds.  What is it going to take to get you there?  I’m gonna’ guess that it’s not Emily the homecoming queen or even her approval.  My advice?  Live your life for you.  Do what makes you feel happiest.  And then be a real friend and encourage the kids around you to do the same – for them.

And I’m asking parents to stop programming their kids.  I know it’s hard, but find out who they are not who you wish they would be.  I know we all want our child to be loved, to be popular, to be successful, and I don’t think it’s malicious at all.  Certainly some parents actually know the code and can pave the way for their children to be the head cheerleader, or the football captain.  And that’s great.  I’m not going to argue that that doesn’t make things go more smoothly for them.  But high school is a blink and they need to be set for the rest of their lives, not lost on a journey that has no destination.  If all they've learned is how to play the game, they may have a life their neighbors admire, but they won't find the joy of scribbling outside the lines.

I don’t know a single adult that doesn’t still, to this day, whether they were uber popular or an outcast, whether they had the greatest parents or the worst… I don’t know one that doesn’t at least every once in a while hurt, that doesn’t feel lonely, that doesn’t pray for someone to just ‘get’ them.  It's why we light up around certain people, isn't it?  It's a precious friend that truly gets us and maybe even concurs on our craziest ideas.  Or not, but just loves us for having them. Around those friends we're free to be our very own "me."

Kids?  Try to believe this old person when she tells you your best move is to find what you love and follow that.  Parents?  Smoothing the way for an interim is nice, but let’s give our kids the support to be their extraordinary, unique and outstanding selves for life.