Just For Giggles

Here's my personal answer to all the You Tube videos that show adorable babies laughing.  How moments like this seem so long ago and yet just a thread's width away at the same time I'll never know.  Dia is 5 years old now (and still laughs hysterically at Tim).  Once upon a time, this was her.

Hopefully you'll get a laugh to brighten your day!

It's Not All Bad

THE CHECK:

It was one of those blindingly sunny January days in Indiana.  After months and months of gray skies and gray ground and gray moods, this day streamed in sunglasses-bright.  I would have praised God and the heavens above upon waking to blue skies except I'd lived in Indiana most of my life at that point.  Bright sun in January only means one thing:  sub-zero temperatures.

But it was payday and as my bank was only a couple blocks away from my office downtown, I somewhat merrily bundled myself in twelve layers and made the trek on my lunch hour.  To expede efficiency, and to minimize the removal of too many layers, I'd endorsed the check before I left the office.

I arrived at my Credit Union, dug in my pocket and ... dug in my pocket and ... dug in my pocket and ... off come the gloves and the twelve layers.  No check.  I had to have dropped it along the way.  Barely wrapping myself up against the frigid temperatures, I dashed back out to the street in a mad and somewhat desperate attempt to find my endorsed check.  I retraced my steps over and over for close to the full lunch hour.  Frozen and furious with myself I returned to work with the hopes that accounting could put a stop payment on my check, issue me a new one (perhaps with the stop payment amount deducted from my pay) and that all could be accomplished within 24 hours or so before my bank account went negative.

As I stepped off the elevator, stripping off the ridiculous layers of clothing for what seemed like the twelfth time that day, Becky, our receptionist, said there was a call for me while I was gone.  Someone had found my check!

Back on go the layers and, this time with much more pep in my step, off I go tearing down to the building that housed my hero.  She had found the check, saw it was endorsed, looked up the number for the law firm that was listed on it, and asked for me.  Further, she was kind enough to speak with Becky rather than just leave a message - which absolutely ensured I would get the check returned to me quickly.  I must have thanked her three thousand times and offered to pay her a reward, but of course she wouldn't accept it.

THE DOG:

We adopted Logan as a 3 year old.  He was quite pedigreed - a former show dog that was disqualified from competition due to a tiny speck of black in his big brown eye.  Once his former owners learned he'd never earn his keep, they couldn't bear his bad behavior (which was fairly significant) and looked for a new, loving home for him.  I was the lucky winner.

We brought him into our first home in California, which was a rented somewhat awful, somewhat awesome place.  It could have used a bit more upkeep, definitely needed updating and there were minor things that were broken all over.  Logan found one of those things: the back gate latch.  In an incredibly quiet mode for a basset hound, Logan had followed a scent to that gate, jimmied it open and went walkabout.  In all of about 10 minutes.  I was just about to check on him when the phone rang.

"Hello?  Are you Logan's owner?" came completely out of the blue over the phone line.  Stunned (as I didn't even know he was gone yet) I answered "Yes?"

The woman explained that she was driving down Orchard Village (a pretty major road), had seen him sniffing around on the side of the street and worried that, as low to the ground as he is, he'd get hit.  So she'd stopped, coaxed him into her car, drove him to safety, checked his collar, and called the number on the tag.  After we provided her with the address, she even drove him home.  This detour had made her run late for her original destination and thus she barely even heard my earnest thanks as she pulled back down our driveway.

THE DOG, AGAIN:

For the greater part of a year, work was being done to the units in our complex.  The contractors kept using my outside water tap for their water needs.  I'm not sure why they picked mine over anyone else, but I got the fun of floating the bill for their many refills of both drinking water and their construction use.  Finally I asked the foreman to stop using our water and, of course, he apologized profusely and promised they never would use it again.

The next day, while I was at work, the kids let Logan out on the front patio.  When they didn't feel up to taking him for a walk, he could at least go out on this little patch of tile and lay in the sun or take care of his business in the tiny garden area.  Now, Logan is a very large basset.  He was 65 pounds at the time and not overweight in the least.  So picture this - 65 pounds of a very, very long dog on a patio that's maybe 60 square feet.

The contractors (who weren't using my water any more) came onto my patio to use my water and this time left the gate open.  They later claimed they didn't see Logan there.

Logan, per usual, just followed his nose.  Some scent took him out the patio gate and then out our complex's gate (which was left open to accommodate the comings and goings of the contractors).  The scent further took him down to McBean Parkway which is one of the most major thoroughfares in Valencia.

Of course, we didn't know all this right away.  Cheyanne called me in a panic when she'd gone to let him back in and found him missing and the gate open.  Scared to bits, she asked for my instructions.  I sent one child off to look for Logan and instructed the other to stay at home by the phone.  The phone was the winner.

A man called.  He was with Logan.  He'd said he watched the woman in the car in front of him clip his back end and send him flying onto the grassy embankment to the right of the road.  The woman had kept going.  This man stopped.  Logan was hurt badly and needed medical attention on an emergency level.  The man said he knew our vet, who was listed on Logan's tags, and would drive Logan there.  He did and he saved his life.

I never got to thank him.  I placed ads up all over.  I placed an ad online.  It was a long shot that he'd have seen either, but I had to try.  I felt he should know what a hero he is.

THE POINT:

I have more stories like this.  I don't have time to write them right now, but I'll put them in the list for future blog posts.  I'm willing to bet that everyone has stories like this.  So when the world's news gets you down, or when someone crushes your own world, or even when someone just cuts you off in traffic (potentially sneering at you while doing so) - don't go cynical.  People are inherently good.  Just remember your heroes - the little ones that return checks, or dogs, or act as your ambulance.  Dwell there and you'll know it's not all bad.

Unpopular Logic

I sometimes feel like I'm all alone in my thinking.  I might just be too sensitive or maybe too serious, though both of those characteristics I cringe at the idea of owning.  Over the years, I have tried to create a version of myself that is silly, irreverent at times and masked with bravado.  I would love to bury my overly serious and sensitive side, but I feel like it raises its ugly head more and more often these days.

For instance?  Charlie Sheen.  See, most people would now be chuckling to themselves… he’s kind of all the worst of a New Orleans Mardi Gras, isn’t he?  Prostitutes, drunken revelry, drunken regrets, invoking the gods, thinking you’re a god… all while riding on top of an overly decorated float surrounded by an entourage of fans who only love you for the goodies you throw their way.  Now while I can certainly see why folks are laughing at him, I cannot be content to do the same.  All I can think about are his kids.  It physically frightens me and I feel incredibly sad for them.  These are real children that didn’t ask for this ‘privileged’ life.  Shoot, the last time I heard of a child requesting their own birth was … um… yeah…

See?  I do this ALL the time.  The television shows and the reality programs that other people seem to not only watch, but enjoy, send me to a level of despair that is nearly intolerable.  I saw a moment of “Wife Swap” back in the day and all I could think was that it was this awful televised version of child abuse.  The kids get a new mom for a week and they are expected to obey her crazy set of new rules?  I’m sorry, what?  Now, I clearly realize that the parents in these cases are twisted to begin with since they would even consider participating in a show like this, but then we just add to these innocent children’s pain.  Here’s a whole new train wreck for you to endure.  Woo hoo.

Off the television (and usually at the grocery store), I watch parents sneering at their children and, between clenched jaws, spewing “Stop.that.right.now.” This is typically followed by my personal favorite “Do you want a spanking?”  I want so badly to go up to these parents and ask them when exactly it was that they stopped loving their kids.  Now I don’t think for a moment that they did stop loving their kids, but if they could just see – through the child’s eyes – how much it looks like they did maybe they’d be a little more respectful.  I mean, could you imagine living in a world where whenever your boss got slightly irritated, he angrily spat at you through his teeth and asked you ridiculous, condescending questions?  If you do live in that world, you should quit that job.  Now. 

On the television, it plays out live and we just watch it.  Or we don’t think about it.  We just watch the drama and ignore the very real reality.  Charlie Sheen has, what, 4 kids?  Each one of them not only gets to experience their personal hell live and in person, but they get it on instant replay to boot. 

I'm speaking from the viewpoint of a daughter of a relatively nice alcoholic.  He never hit me, he didn't have delusions of grandeur, and the pain endured from his alcoholism was mostly from his absence - his retreat into self-medication and sleep.  Still, he didn’t spare me the errant comments.  He didn’t spare me the clenched teeth.  He didn’t spare me the look of absolute hatred and resentment when his gaze fixed on my face.  And he didn’t spare me the memory of them all that I can’t erase no matter how hard I try.  Yet I was lucky, in a way, because my father was a non-celeb.  He didn't go outside much and I didn't have friends over very often.  I only told the friends I trusted about my dad's condition.  Even with that sometimes I'd get it thrown back in my face in a hurtful way, but for the most part I endured my sorrow privately and in the relative safety of a close circle.

I don’t doubt for a minute that's why my heart bleeds for these kids.  I don’t doubt for a minute that’s why every day I take this job of mom so very seriously.  Sure, I’ve slipped.  I’m not perfect either, but I hurry to apologize, to point out that that was a huge mistake on my part, to assure them they weren't to blame for my poor behavior and to never, ever do that again (and really don't).  I believe this is what seems to be lacking with both celebrity and private parents – the self awareness of the influence, the TREMENDOUS influence that we have.

If you can look back on your childhood without recalling a single errant comment that broke your heart; without recalling a time when one of the people that was supposed to love you most in this world, seemed to love you least; then God bless your parents and we need more of them.   If not?  Unfortunately, that makes you kind of normal and maybe you can take a second and consider how damaging those moments really were.  Maybe take another second and consider that no child deserves that damage.  Not Charlie's and not our own.

And while, on the whole, I’m definitely opposed to evangelizing, here I feel maybe more people should come over to my side.  On a personal level, let’s watch our tongues, our affect and our tempers a little more and on a more global scale let's not support televised child abuse, or neglect the kids that are the collateral damage when their parents implode.  I realize we can’t sign a petition to take away Sheen’s kids, for instance, but we can just turn the damn thing OFF.  If we don’t watch, the networks won’t play it – and they certainly won’t make more.  If we don't watch, then maybe the kids can suffer their parents privately - sharing the problems they're enduring with trusted friends rather than the whole judgmental world. 

Sigh… but I think I’m alone here in my unpopular logic.

Joke of the Week

My best friend in Indy recently put up a Facebook post that said “girls are mean” referencing 8th grade girls.  Her friends in the know replied with “Yes they are” and went about commenting on other things. 

I just have to wonder – have we become so accustomed to cruelty that we have come to expect it?  Why are we so mean to each other?

Thinking back to my 9th grade?  I was no exception to the girls Steph described.  A friend and I created a weekly newspaper we called “Love Letters.”  We’d write our reports on heart-shaped sheets of paper stapled together at the top.  That one copy somehow made the rounds not quite as virally as today’s applications, but rather impressively still.  We wrote on who was dating who, featured the ‘couple of the week,’ and titillating break-ups.   That part was all pretty benign.  The part that was so mean was our joke section.  There were the standard funnies that were going around or that we’d heard somewhere and sometimes we'd clip a comic from the Sunday paper, but we always had “The Joke of the Week.”  The mean part was that sometimes that was followed, quite simply, with someone’s name. 

I know why I was the girl that wrote Love Letters and who featured a fellow student as The Joke of the Week.  You see, I’d been The Joke of the Week on more than one occasion.  My mother, who never understood how ‘modern’ girls behaved, often dressed me out of style at best and in my brother’s hand-me-downs at worst.  The clothes were ill-fitting, or unflattering and always too short.  To this day I won’t wear ankle length pants.  I have flashbacks to the teasing as soon as I see my pants fall short of draping over the tops of my shoes.  It really did hurt my feelings and what made it worse was that I didn’t choose it.  I didn’t have a job and couldn’t get one at that age; therefore I had no money and had no control over what I was given to wear.  The teasers, though, never took that into consideration. 

So, in response to my pain, I picked on some poor kid that was socially awkward and made him or her The Joke of the Week.  Did it make me feel better?  I suppose.  It at least put the spotlight on someone else for a while.

I wish I could go back and do that year over again. 

Today I was checking myself a bit.  Do I still do and say hurtful things?  Right off the bat, I realized I have the reflex to be mean to anyone who ever hurts my children.  When the beings I love the most are injured, I just want to lash out and make that other person hurt just as much.  But, here’s the thing.  Even though that seems somewhat justified, what purpose does it serve?  If I apply logic, it fails.  Justice is one thing.  Revenge just perpetuates the problem.  After all, isn’t that the very reason they hurt my kid in the first place?  Someone gets their feelings hurt, they hurt back, that person hurts, they hurt forward…  on and on.

I have always felt that my job as a parent is to get out of the way and let the kids become who they inherently are.  My job isn’t to ensure they become a doctor, lawyer, or head cheerleader.  My job isn’t to lord over their homework and lock in those good grades.  My job is simply toward their character.  They are under my guidance to become kind, gracious and compassionate humans.  If they fail at that, I have failed. 

When I have to explain to Dia that something she did wasn’t kind, I always remind her that we don’t need any more hate in this world.  There are enough bad guys to last us.  This world needs love and the best we can do is provide that, one person at a time. 

Advice from the Lovelorn

I have this theory that relationships are like wallpaper. 

We have a room - say the kitchen - and it needs ... "something."  We look, and think, and consider, and look some more and then?  We find it.  The perfect wallpaper.  We spend hours putting it up, smoothing it out, cursing over the inconvenience but knowing it is so very, very worth it.  We spend the next few months smiling every time we walk into that room.  "This is so right" we think contentedly. 
Eventually, though, we stop really seeing the wallpaper.  It just becomes part of the room.  Its place is appropriate and welcomed, but we don't really notice it anymore.  Then it gets a few stains, or starts peeling in a corner and we notice but we just leave it.  No time, you know?  Pretty soon, it's looking drab, dirty and that corner is really starting to come loose.  We know we should take the time to fix it, but - later.  Maybe we even put it on our 'to-do' list.  But life and everything else takes priority and we never get around to it until it's really so bad that we have no choice but to strip it altogether and start over or be forced to live around the true eyesore it's now become.

I shared this theory with my last two significant others but, obviously, to no avail.  In one case, it didn't prevent me from becoming the wallpaper and in the other, I'm afraid the wallpaper might not have been high enough quality as all attempts to repair it, failed. 

Yet if anyone is wise enough - I ask them to heed this wallpaper advice: Fix it before it's too late. 

You see, I've been experiencing this tremendous feeling of regret lately.  I'm 46 and, in the last almost 5 years, I've had all of about 9 dates with all of about 3 different guys.  Two I met online in a frustrated attempt to get back at my ex for trolling internet dating sites while we were supposed to be in counseling working things out.  Obviously that is the wrong reason to chance upon someone. Still, it led me to a couple of dates with pretty nice guys that just weren't right for me.  The other guy I dated was a very old friend of mine and was one of those cases of trying to create something that wasn't there. 

So probably because I'm a bit lonely, my mind keeps calling back to former relationships and thinking "what was I thinking when I broke up with him?"  This calls back all the way to my first ever boyfriend who is aMAzing and handsome and wonderful and who I should have stayed with barring all costs, but who I threw over foolishly.  We're talking 7th grade, but still.  Now, he's in a completely stable and very happy relationship, so I'm happy it turned out as it did, but darn it did I ever miss my chance there.  My second regret is my next serious boyfriend.  He was a complete doll who, when I called him to break up, drove all the way to Indianapolis from Sacramento non-stop to convince me not to.  We were in a long-distance relationship that had somehow survived over a year despite our relative youth, but after my father died I was just too much of a wreck to deal with the grief after every goodbye.  Ah, excuses....  Fact of the matter is I should have stayed put, but I took the easy way.  I ended up married, and I suppose, exactly where I needed to be as Tim and Cheyanne were results of that detour. 

Obviously that marriage didn't last and on I went to the next set of relationships.  Of them, only two do I truly grieve having lost.  Of the two, one left me so I had no control there.  The other I was just stupid, stupid, stupid to ever let go.  I suppose I had my reasons, but I guarantee they were petty and now I sit with no time or opportunity to pursue active dating; with a less-than-optimal dating pool to dip my feet into should I find the time; and basically having to rely on an act of God to produce my true love.

So, I land here, on my blog today, to give my friends out there some advice from the lovelorn.  Don't replace the wallpaper - Repair it.

I know (though I can hardly be called upon as an expert) how hard it is to live with someone for a very long time.  I know it's hard to call back that feeling of love that you once had.  I know it's easier to look at the stains and the torn corners and to be lulled into a sense of ordinary (perhaps even boredom).  But as someone who has been there and wish she didn't do it - it's worth the time and it's worth the effort.  It's even worth the investment if there needs to be one.  The grass isn't greener.  It's just different grass.

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DISCLAIMER:  This is NOT to say stay in bad relationships.  I have NEVER regretted leaving the two I should have never been in to begin with.  If it makes you cry, hurts (physically or soulfully) or if you get nothing in return, bail out.  It's scary to be alone sometimes, and I for one miss a plus one, but on my worst days it's better than being in either of those relationships. 

I also would like to disclaim that life often detours us in a very correct manner (and there will likely be a blog post on this fairly soon as I've been working on one for awhile).  So, while I wish I'd stayed with my high school long-distance boyfriend, I'm not sure I'd have ended up with the children that I did and that was far more fulfilling to my soul than any man has ever been (no offense to anyone out there). So in reality I probably have no idea what I'm talking about and you can feel free to ignore my advice altogether.