Pope for a day...SWEET, where do I sign up???

For the record, I know my hair doesn't work with the head gear.

Ok, so the Pope is retiring.  Retiring? Really?  Who do you even write your letter of resignation to, God?  I understand the rigors of the job, the pressure, the daily chore of jamming your feet in those funny pope slippers/elf shoes. It’s got to be hell, but in a good way on some level…because of course you live in the Vatican!  Still, the stress must be exhausting, especially if you’re somewhere between freaking old and ancient.

Honestly though, I wouldn’t mind being Pope for a day. The food must be awesome and you get to have a million minions doing your bidding, not to mention an entire college of cardinals.  Hell, I wouldn’t be writing my own homilies.  That would definitely be their job, since they are a college and all.  You get a cool pope-mobile, your own jet, millions of followers.  I think I just found my dream job. I would have to become Catholic of course. I’m not thinking this will be a problem though.  I hear they are enthusiastically accepting applications.

So when I heard the Pope was retiring yesterday, I have to say I was a bit taken aback.  Yes, you are old. Yes, you may not be in the greatest of health and may walk with a cane, but you are, in fact, the Pope. Can’t you work around these things?  I’m sure they can make all sorts of special accommodations for you, not to mention some really cute nurses to wait on you and give you sponge baths.  Just delegate, my Man, delegate delegate delegate. What are they going to do?  Say no? 

I’m also not sold on his choice of retirement “homes.”  I can guarantee a monastery would not be on the top of my list.  Pretty boring, no?  You work for the Catholic church.  Really, look into some island real estate on the books.  Pick something in a warmer climate, like maybe the Caribbean or Mexico.  Both are demographically Catholic.  Hell, even Florida would be better than a place filled with nuns and monks.  Yes, there is an overwhelming Jewish population in Florida, but they sure know how to live. Find a nice sandy spot on the beach, get some sun, order a nice fruity drink in a coconut.  You can pray and tan at the same time. It’s not difficult. You just need to figure out the whole multi-tasking thing.  As a woman, I do it all the time, and once you get the hang of it, you can get so much more accomplished.

I don’t know, maybe his heart was never really in it.  He never seemed excited to be the Pope, not to mention John Paul was a tough act to follow.  Anyone would have paled in comparison to John Paul’s outstanding papal talents.  He even skied when he was Pope. I can’t remember Pope Benedict skiing one time during his entire tenure.  They’re even fast tracking John Paul to sainthood.  You’re quitting, Pope Benedict.  No gold watch for you. Have you even been there long enough to collect your pension?  Usually it takes ten years to be vested. You’re two years short.

I personally believe I would make an outstanding Pope.  First thing I would do is institute a Friday Happy Hour and wine for everyone.  I’d also change the color of those vestments to something darker so I would look thinner, and the pope shoes would have to go. Perhaps a nice pair of Pope heels (not too high, mind you) and a tiara instead of that giant Pope headpiece.  That would give me a damn headache.  And really, it’s not very attractive. Also, I'd move midnight mass back to, say 8pm, on Christmas Eve.  I don't like mass getting in the way of time with my family and friends, and cocktails.

The possibilities are endless. There would be enough room for all my friends. We could have weekend games of “Angels and Demons” or “The DaVinci Code.”  The location would be ideal for those sort of murder mysteries. However, Mondays would be my day off, no exceptions.  I hate Mondays.  I figure God doesn’t like them much either, or he would have made them more appealing overall.

Now all I need to do is figure out how to submit my resume and references. I’m a natural for the job…snicker…

ME FIRST…THE LINE FORMS TO THE REAR.

I learned a long time ago that to be a better mother, wife, friend, family member, there comes a time when you must finally realize that “putting everyone before yourself” is complete and utter bullshit.

“NO” may be the single most difficult word for any woman to say, no matter what her situation. It doesn’t matter if you are a working mother, a stay at home mom, a single woman, a divorced or single mom, or just married. The ability of society to put unreasonable expectations on us knows no boundaries.  Nothing pisses me off more than society encouraging – no, wrong word – INSISTING that we put ourselves at the end of the line, and put everyone else first. Does the world have a clue how long that fucking list is? I mean, seriously, think about it for one hot moment.  I don’t know about your list, but mine takes up two pages on any given day. And God forbid you actually take a moment for yourself, then there is whole guilt thing to deal with and wrestle into submission.  I’ll be damned if anyone is going to make me feel guilty for being kind to myself. Now THAT is some bullshit right there.

Let me give you a real world example of what I am talking about.  I have a friend. For the sake of anonymity we will call her “Jane.”  Now Jane is a young divorced mom of two very energetic little girls.  She has a good job, a deadbeat ex husband, and a veritable mountain of obligations to others, so there is really no time or energy for her to keep any obligations to herself. She’s trying to get in shape, trying to find some “me” time, and last but not least, trying to maybe find a rewarding relationship with a man along the way. Sound familiar? Anyone??

Her two school-aged daughters, adorable as they are, have taken over her bedroom in the evening, so there isn’t even a quiet moment to read a book, or watch something besides Nickelodeon or the Disney Channel (both of which make me want to stick my head in an oven and turn on the gas.)  Every night they sleep with her (on the professional advice of her daughter’s therapist) so they would feel “safe”, take over her bathroom, insist that her time be given to them completely.  In the end, she was left feeling empty and exhausted. She asked my advice.  Hmmmm…let me think about this for a moment.

Well, you know me, I’m so subtle when it comes to giving my opinion, sort of like an oncoming freight train.  My first thought was “are you fucking kidding me???”  First of all, I am NOT a fan of “co-sleeping” arrangements, and in fact my daughter, now 13, has never slept with me, unless I asked her, generally when Bill is out of town and we are watching tv together in my bedroom. I was not shy to tell Jane that she needed to get her daughters out of her room, and quick, or they would be going to college and still sleeping with her.  Several of us who are older and a bit more experienced (i.e., over 40 years of age) in such things, told her “to hell with the therapist!”  Get them excited about their own bedrooms, even put them in the same bedroom to sleep so they at least have each other.  Make bedtime a routine instead of an argument. And for God’s sake, get them to use their own damn bathroom.  I think she hesitated a little, but in the end she brightened up their own bedrooms, presented the situation in a positive light, and voila!  They are now sleeping in their own bedrooms and leaving toothpaste all over the sink in their own bathroom. Did they pout?  Yep. Did they cry?  You betcha.  But Jane stuck to her guns.  Mission accomplished. GO JANE! Wait until I tell her she now needs to find a babysitter, put that bitch on speed dial, and get out of the house for some “adult time” once in a while.  That one may take a bit more work.

It’s hard to establish boundaries so that at the end of the day you have time for yourself.  My “me” time has always been immensely valuable, and I have never been afraid to take it for myself. To be honest, I’d go bonkers without it.  So many demands from every direction make it nearly impossible, but if we don’t insist that we hold back something for ourselves, then the world will just continue to take and take, until we are popping Xanax like Skittles and hiding in the closet drinking vodka out of a paper bag.  We end up sleep-deprived, unhappy with the world around us, and most of all unhappy with ourselves.  I don’t know about you, but I can’t live like that.  I can’t even think about living like that.

So my advice to you today is take time for yourself, even if it’s an hour at the gym, or a well-deserved pedicure, or hell, if it is just being alone in your bedroom with the door closed doing absolutely nothing at all.  You’ve earned it. I’ve earned it. WE HAVE ALL EARNED IT. You are not being selfish.  Taking time for yourself will make you a better mother and spouse. Trust me on this one.

Battle of the Swimwear

We love to hate it, we dread shopping for it, we are perpetually dissatisfied with the way we look in it.  I’ve always been envious of the women who can rock a bikini with complete and utter abandon.  It’s not an easy thing to do, especially when you are 5’3” and pretty much convinced you have been ten pounds overweight your entire life.  I’ve sort of made peace with the world of swimwear by arming myself with an army of sexy and elegant beach covers and dresses.  They allow for a hint of bikini without revealing the wide selection of stretchmarks that cover my hips, and my less than toned abs. 

Usually, January is not the month in which I stand in front of the mirror torturing myself with thoughts of putting on a bathing suit.  I save that special hell for late February or early March.  But a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, brought the subject to the forefront because she is heading to Florida.  She is a very tall, very athletic looking woman who actually had dropped a profound amount of weight recently, and is still adjusting to the new girl in the mirror.  I think she looks sensational. She still thinks her arms are fat and hates her legs. Today she contemplated putting on a bikini for the first time since losing weight.  I could tell from our conversation that it was not something she was looking forward to doing, and was truly worried about what other people would think.  I told her she looked fabulous, and she does.  I told her that the sexiest part of a woman’s body is her confidence, and it is. I told her if she was really worried, take the coward’s way out and buy a hot beach coverup.  She listened, and tried to believe me. I think we made progress, but you never know what is going through another person’s head.

It dawned on me, I’m really bad at taking my own advice. What a revelation! How many  times have I donned one of my bikinis for a day out on our boat, only  to stand in front of the mirror and beat myself  up for not having the body of Jennifer Anniston.  Every damn time, every damn year.  I spend a small fortune on swimwear only to have it look up at me from its spot in the drawer, taunting me.  If I manage to persuade myself to get into one, I usually stand there and pick apart every little flaw I can find.  My friend would be disappointed at my inability to take my own advice, and she’d probably give me hell for it, because she’s that kind of friend.  It’s true, we are our own worst enemy when it comes to self-deprication and self-loathing.  As I had mentioned in an earlier blog, it is my resolution to stop that self-destructive behaviour and just get on with it in a healthier, happier frame of mind. Now that the whole “swimwear” thing is in my head two months early, I shall look at it as an opportunity get a jump start on not getting thin, but getting healthy – body and mind – and hopefully that will help to change the way I look at myself in the mirror.

So here is my plan of attack.  First off, in the interest of not turning into a brittle-boned, arthritic old woman, I am going to start doing yoga.  Not the full-fledged pretzel version of yoga, since I am the most unbendy person on the planet, but a kinder gentler yoga that will allow me to start slowly and work my way up to more bendy yoga positions.  I’m not going to rush it, or push myself well beyond my limits to the point of needing traction. Believe me, I have done that many times at the gym.  Not fun.

I’m also heading back to the gym after a ridiculously long hiatus of  two years.  The best I’ve ever felt is when I went to the gym five days a week. I looked in the mirror and described myself as “strong” and “toned” and “sexy.” I haven’t done that in forever. Time to get back in the groove and do something positive for me.  But this time, I am not going to put the pressure on myself of being there every day, Monday through Friday.  It stops being fun, and becomes a chore.  I will aim for three days a week.  If I feel like going four days a week, then great, but I will no longer make it mandatory. And since I need constant motivation to keep the groove going, I am going to enlist my friend to go with me, so she can kick me in the ass when I’m too lazy to do it myself.  She already belongs to the gym I plan to join.  That solves part of the problem right there.  It’s also less than two miles from my house. Another problem solved. Wow, I’m on a roll.

So, I stand before you, ready to admit I am not in the best of shape, but ready to do something about it, and not just for the sake of losing weight.  That will be a bonus if it happens.  The name of the game is healthy – mind and body.  

Let’s do it. 

This Woman's Worth...

Sometimes in life, we struggle…sometimes we overcome.  Sometimes we just lay there, floundering, trying to find the balance in life and in all that we do.  Right now, I am floundering.

2013 begins with a lot of uncertainty in Bill’s and my future.  Bill is being laid off from his job of 32 years.  This is a tough one for him – talk about a struggle.  I am more concerned for his well-being than the financial aspect of the situation.  I make an adequate income. We are carefully planning so that by the time his job ends in September we will have nearly all of our short term debt paid off.  When you have a plan, life is a lot less terrifying, at least that has been my experience.  And while it is completely disheartening that his career at his current company is ending, we are thankful that we have been afforded a lot of lead time so that we can make the necessary preparations to weather the storm.  I keep telling him, it is not a setback, it is an adventure into the next chapter of his life.  A positive outlook does wonders.

My inability to find life’s balance comes from inside me.  I’ll be 48 years old next month – just two years away from the big 5 0...wow.  I’m not sure where the first 48 years have gone, but it’s been quite a rollercoaster ride.  I’ve overcome a lot of adversity in the first 48 years, and enjoyed many triumphs. I’ve made mistakes, some of them sizeable.  But I have no regrets. I own my past – good, bad or otherwise. I am the sum of my experiences and all paths to this point have led me to right here, right now.  I love my husband, my daughter, my family and friends, and my career.  I count myself as blessed in so many ways. But at the end of the day, the struggle comes from looking in the mirror and trying to find the guts to really like my physical appearance. And it comes from inside me, not from anyone else. Ok, I know I’m not “homely.” I know I have great hair and pretty green eyes. There are many things about myself that I actually appreciate, maybe even love. Yes, I have been known to dabble in botox, and spend more than my fair share on skincare, but at the end of the day, I don’t look anywhere near my age.  I don’t want to look 20. I just don’t want to look 50, so it’s all good.

In the end, my insecurity (yes, I said insecurity) comes back to the whole “weight thing.” It’s the thing that haunts me, follows me around like some sort of shadow.  It chips away at my self-worth, taunts me at every turn, and ruins my fun at the most inopportune moments - like today.  My prevailing thought when I woke up this morning? It’s a new year, summer is just around the corner, need to start worrying about how I am going to cram my ass in a swimsuit. Did I gain weight over the holidays? Are my jeans a smidge snugger than they were a week ago? Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter? Yep, it does to me.

I look at my scale as some sort of mortal enemy that doles out my torture, one day at a time. Even when my clothes fit the same and the needle hasn’t moved, I worry. If I gain one pound, that will turn into 3 which will turn into 5, then 10, and so on. Going to a restaurant can be just as painful. What did I eat today?  Was it healthy?  Too many calories? Should I order the salmon or the steak that I really want? No, I don’t want any sauce or butter on my entree.   “Would you like dessert?” Are you freaking crazy?  Yes, I want it. No, I’m not having it.  I’ve been having these conversations in my head since high school.  I thought I was fat then. I hated myself.  Now, I look back at those photos and think to myself, “You looked great, what the hell was your problem?”  My problem?  After 30 years, I still look at myself the very same way. I never see thin, only "if I could just lose five more pounds" or "does my ass look big in this outfit?" It’s mentally and emotionally exhausting.  I’ve battled my way through eating disorders on more than one occasion in my life, and it’s still a struggle, much like being a drug addict or an alcoholic.  And with it comes shame, hopelessness, and fear that it will rear its ugly head again.  I’m tired of being afraid.

So here is my resolution for this year. This is the year I am going to find TRUE balance. I am going to stand up to the demon scale and tell it to fuck off. I’m going to “walk the walk” instead of just “talk the talk” to my daughter when it comes to self-worth and being healthy.  I am going to stop comparing myself to every size 2 woman that crosses my path and realize that I look good, REALLY good, for almost 48 years old. (I’m not owning 48 yet, I have 30 days to go before I cross that bridge.)  I am going to concentrate on being healthy, instead of being skinny, and I am going to order the cheesecake once in a while.  While I take on this challenge, I am going to document my progress in my blog, It is not always easy laying your thoughts and emotions out there for people to see, but if it helps someone else who is fighting the same battle, then it is worth it.  I know I’m not the only woman on the planet who struggles with her weight so maybe it will prove to be beneficial to someone else if I share my journey.

Have no fear, I will attempt to throw some humor into the equation, just to keep it fun. And above all, I will try to convey the positive in everything.  With the positive lies hope, and without hope…well, life just sucks, so hope part is important.

I hope you’ll bear with me on my path to a happier, healthier mind and body.  I can’t guarantee the ride will be smooth, but it should be an interesting journey this year.

And so it begins…

The Vagina Monologues

I have noticed an interesting, albeit annoying, phenomenon lately – completely heterosexual men with vaginas.  I am not saying the have REAL functioning, vaginas.  They have vaginas in the figurative sense, which makes them act like women.  No bueno.

Now before you point your finger at me in an accusatory fashion, please know that I am not saying ALL men have vaginas.  There are still the manly men out there who grow beards in “Movember” and scratch parts of their anatomy in public that makes their significant others cringe.  I, for one, like my men “manly” and am happy to report that my husband Bill has never exhibited signs of even a tiny vagina as part of his anatomy.  Yes, I have seen him cry, but not without a good reason.  He hates shopping, and  has never exhibited signs of bi-polar behaviour.  He is an all-American guy who would rather have his teeth drilled without novacaine than get a manicure.  He passes gas regularly and thinks it is incredibly funny.  He is more comfortable in his Levi jeans and a fishing t-shirt, and he actually had to purchase a suit when we got married, since he didn’t have one to his name.  He gives great bear hugs when I am sad, and always makes me feel “little” even when I’ve gained weight.  He is also more than capable of telling me to pull myself up by my bootstraps when I am being a big baby.  He keeps it real, and I am thankful for my manly guy.  

Seriously, these vagina-sporting men are rocking that particular girl part with great enthusiasm.  They are moody, weepy, given to temper tantrums, and would rather go shopping than watch sports.  They are “in touch” with their feminine side, dress better than most women I know, and they fight like girls – nasty.  They show signs of manipulative behaviour and use the guilt card on a regular basis.  Every time I am around one of these dudes (I am using that term loosely here) it makes me break out in a rash.  How DARE they impinge on those womanly traits?  Women are the only ones who are allowed to act like that.  It is expected of us. It is our God-given right.  It is what makes us one big collective pain in the ass.  Seriously, I’m pretty sure if Bill caught himself acting in that manner, he would make me take him out to a field and shoot him with one of his big manly guns.

I do know women who think guys with vaginas are “cute” and are thrilled to have a shopping buddy, as well as a bed buddy, all rolled into one.  I, for one, could not deal.  To me, there is nothing sexy about a man who is more obsessive about waxing his guys parts than I am about waxing my hoohah.  Of course, I am not repulsed by man hair.  I find it kind of appealing, and it certainly is handy in the winter when it’s cold outside.  I understand that there are guys out there that are sporting the “fur coat” on their backs.  I realize women may not find that attractive.  That’s fine.  Go get laser hair removal.  But for chrissake, don’t make a public service announcement about it.  This is way too much information.  I don’t even want to think of ME getting a wax job.

I think the most annoying thing about these vagina-equipped men is that they are so “in tune with their feelings” and feel compelled to inform anyone who will listen about how they wished their girlfriend could understand their needs.  Do I think men have needs? Yep, absolutely.  Are guys supposed to talk about it ad nauseum?  Nope, not last time I checked.  That is a conversation FOR YOUR GIRLFRIEND, not the entire world.  I do not want to “chat about it” over a cup of coffee.  That is what I have female friends for.  Us girls have the lock on whining, moaning, complaining and going on in great detail about every little aspect of our lives, no matter how trivial.  I can’t even imagine what Bill would say if one of his close buddies came up to him and said, “You know, I really love [insert name here] but she just doesn’t take the time to understand what I’m feeling about our relationship, and that I really just want her to listen.”  Really? Yeah, let’s just say Bill wouldn’t handle that interaction well.  But it’s never going to happen, because out of all of his guy friends, NONE of them have a vagina.  I’m 100% sure he’s happy about that.

It’s not that I don’t miss having a homosexual guy friend.  THAT is a totally different animal. They are allowed to have an imaginary vagina. They are the most awesome at telling you which outfit looks like crap on you, and will partake in heartfelt chats for hours about feelings and relationships and Real Housewives of New Jersey.  I’ve had several gay friends over my lifetime who not only have maneuvered me through some very dicey relationship issues, but have also kept me from committing some devastating fashion mistakes.  Gay guy friends are like great female friends without the competitive edge.  There is no competing. It is apples and oranges. 

So to any overly-sensitive, overly emotional, moody, weepy guys out there.  Stop it.  It’s not attractive, or sexy, or even remotely appealing.  Pull out your tampon and MAN UP.

Her name is Lola...she is a showgirl...with yellow feathers in her hair...

This one is for all my "bird" friends...you know who you are...

Most people don’t understand my unnatural obsession with birds…all birds really, but specifically MY birds, and mostly my umbrella cockatoo who I lovingly named Lola when she came into my life at 12 weeks old.

Lola appeared in our lives sort of haphazardly, but then again not really.  I’m pretty sure she had a plan from the moment she laid eyes on me, because as soon as I picked her up she laid her head on my chest and literally cried like an infant.  It must have been that “sucker” tattoo on my forehead that she spotted because I was “stick a fork in me” done immediately.  I had owned birds for many years, but this pile of white feathers captured my heart with one fell swoop, and I haven’t been the same since.  We took her home on my birthday, the weekend of the 2010 blizzard, and she held our hearts hostage.  We hand fed her with a 60cc syringe filled with bird formula for over a year. I even began making her bird baby food from a concoction of applesauce, vegetables, sweet potatoes, a dollop of peanut butter, and numerous other things that would go into a blender, then into the syringe.  I still make up a mix of fresh food for her every day, and I’m sure I will until the day I die.

We doted on her, played with her, spent a small fortune on toys, bought her a cage that takes up half of my living room, and let her run our entire life.  She was thrilled at her ability to make us do her biddings.  At the same time, we taught her to play by herself – with her mountain of ridiculously expensive bird toys – and enjoy the company of her feathered brother and sister, Sam and Lisa.  Overall she was unimpressed with her siblings, as she is with anything that might possibly take the spotlight off of her, but she found enjoyment in her new surroundings.  I contribute her impressive socialization to the fact we encouraged her to “make her own fun” and we hand fed her for so long – something that is not unusual for cockatoos in the wilds of Australia, Malaysia or Indonesia.  In fact, parent cockatoos have been known to feed their young well into their second year or until the mommy and daddy bird have another “clutch.” Cockatoos have an inherently strong flock mentality, and they rely on each other for most everything, including emotional support.  Yes, they are highly emotional.  If Lola were human, she’d be considered a drama queen.

To know Lola is to love her.  She’s a brat, a clown, a master manipulator, a skilled snuggler, and about a million other things.  No one believes me when I tell them that she crawls under the covers and curls up next to me when I am lying in bed watching tv. She’d attached herself to me with Velcro if she could.  She demands all of my attention when I am in the room, and you cannot even believe how hard it is to ignore a pet that can actually say its own name OVER and OVER and OVER to persuade you to pick her up and give her a smooch on the beak or a scratch under her wing.  This past week, we left for a trip and she was without us for five days. I had a slew of friends stop over to feed her and talk to her, but I was worried.  It was a first, even though she had just turned three years old.  Cockatoos can pluck themselves, sometimes to the point of self-mutilation, if they perceive themselves to be lonely, or unloved.  Loneliness can turn to neuroses, and that is very very bad for a bird.  But we arrived home and there she was, looking especially cute, bouncing up and down, and repeating “HI LOLA!” until I got her out of the cage and covered her with kisses.  She was fine. I was relieved.  She is an extraordinary bird and I am so proud of her.

I’ve owned pets my entire life.  Indeed, I really can’t imagine my life without my “feathered and furry babies” for one moment. I currently have Lola, my blue pionus parrot Sammy, my sweet flighty cockatiel Lisa and my bedroom slipper of a Pekingese Marlen.  All of them are so intrinsically woven into the fabric of my being, but Lola more so than the others for sure.  Maybe it is because I know she stands a very good chance of outliving me.  Thankfully, she is in love with my daughter as much as Bill and me, so I know if something happens to me, she will be loved like no other bird. I find great peace in that fact.

Would I recommend to anyone that they go out tomorrow and get a cockatoo so they can understand these incredible creatures?  No I absolutely wouldn’t.  Why?  Because far too often people bring birds into their homes without understanding all that is involved with these highly social, highly intelligent creatures.  No they are not merely “decorations.” Yes, they will love you to death.  They will also break your eardrums with their “singing” (I used that term loosely.) They are messy, expensive, demanding, painful if they bite, and incredibly stubborn when it comes to getting their way.  We live in their world, not the other way around. And while I have brought my three feathered kids (fids) into my home, the fact of the matter is they are still wild animals – not at all domesticated like a dog or a cat.  You cannot predict their behaviour, and you cannot promise that they won’t unexpectedly lean over and take off an earlobe.  Lola has yet to draw blood, but I know it is not a matter of “if” but “when.”  It will happen eventually, and more than likely it will involve stitches – something I have never had before, and honestly, I am not looking forward to at all.  But I will still love her to pieces, and I will still encourage her to be exactly what she is…one of the most glorious, affectionate species of birds on earth.  Cheers to the cockatoo – creatures with the intelligence of a five year old and the emotionally reasoning of a two year old, equalling the smartest brattiest most delightful two year old…for the rest of their lives. 

If you are looking for information on cockatoos or other birds, please contact me and I will be happy to direct you to where you can find the most relevant and honest information.

So I haven't blogged in a while..shoot me...

Sometimes you just need to get your drunk on, and start typing. I needed to do this.  Blogging is like sex after a long dry spell.  Sometimes you just need to have a cocktail or five to supply the lubrication, and get on with it.

I know I know. I haven’t blogged in a million years and you all are on pins and needles waiting to see what words of wisdom I have to impart.  Hold back your disappointment. I have none.  But here is what I do have, after months of working my ass off for work, and sticking my nose in places it probably had no place being…

1.     I have an incredible family, especially my daugher, who accepts me unconditionally.  Yes, they understand I’m not quite sane, and I am probably completely unmedicated (actually I am medicated – how scary is THAT???) But they love me.  I know that when I look in their eyes, and mostly they are just glad I’m happy.  You really can’t ask for much more than that.  Unconditional acceptance is one of the greatest gifts in life.  It’s my brass ring, my light at the end of the tunnel, my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  I’m not easy, I’m not subtle, and I completely lack any sense of diplomacy…yet my family understands and accepts, and doesn’t judge.

2.      I have a husband who not only lets me be myself – which isn’t always a good thing - but he knows when to “reel me in and keep me grounded.”  Not an easy task for anyone.  I worry that I am more than he bargained for, and I’ll just make him exhausted.  But every day he wakes up with a smile on his face, looks in my eyes and declares he loves me madly.  He’d have to be mad to put up with my antics.  Thank you Bill. I love you more madly.

3.      I have friends who, like my family, accept me and all the craziness that comes with…patient? Yep, they are incredibly patient, and probably just a little nuts themselves.  But I know they accept me for who I am, not what I can do for them. They revel in our mutual moments utter abandonment, and they understand that while I am not perfect, I am well-intentioned.  Thank you for that.

4.      I have a career that provides me with all I ever dreamed of..ever…in my entire life.  I get to boss everyone around, be creative in ways I never thought possible, thrive under pressure, and  hug lots of really cool people. And I get to do most of this in really cool locations all around the world.  Thank you God…for great timing and allowing me to be and accomplish all sorts of amazing things. 

Life is odd. Life is grand.  Life provides us with relationships and opportunities we never imagined.  But really, we earn these gifts.  I’ve busted my ass, made a ton of mistakes and tried my best to learn from each and every mistake.  I am where I am because of every choice I have ever made – good, bad or otherwise.  Honestly, I cannot imagine being anywhere else.  I have no regrets, no disappointments and no desire to do anything differently.  So now, I shall just go forth, do my best, and hope that I don’t do anything stupid.  Perfect? No.  Happy? In ways you cannot even imagine.