This I Resolve

I am standing in the kitchen looking at my 2010 calendar.  I thumb through the pages.  The dates have been filled.  The events are past. In a few days, it will be a new year. 

I tack up a fresh calendar for 2011.  It’s clean and bare.  It represents a new beginning. As I prepare to ring in a new year, I stop for a few minutes to reflect on what has been and what is yet to come.

I’m not one for making resolutions.  My experience has been that more often than not, my resolve fades before President’s day.  So I shy away from the yearly tradition of jotting down ways to be better.  

Still, the chasteness of the new year beckons me with possibilities.  As I prepare to turn the pages on my new calendar, I can’t help but succumb to the allure that is offered by the clean slate.  A thought begins to form in my head.  I decide to pick one simple idea and to make it my pledge for the next 365 days. 

We are all imperfect beasts.  We fall. We falter.  We fail.  That’s way it’s easy to critique those around me.  That’s why it’s easy to recognize the foibles of others.  And I know that by focusing on the faults of my friends, I can easily avoid considering my own flaws. 

But criticizing others does not make improve me.  It does not uplift me.  It does not better my life or the world I live in.  My resolution for 2011, therefore, is simply this.  To concentrate on what I can do that is right instead of focusing on what others do that is wrong.

I pick up my pen and scratch a thought on January 1.  “Do good.”  This I resolve.

Finding the Fool in You

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.  I am crazy and so are you.  There is no escaping it.  It’s a fact. Crazy is all around us.  It’s in our blood.  It's in our DNA.  It's written in the book of our lives.  We can’t help it.  We are all crazy.


It was almost  a year ago when I admitted my own insanity.  And since then, my life has been better because of it.  No more thinking inside the box.  Now I get to paint the box with rainbows and unicorns and pretend that it's my castle.  All because I am crazy... and so are you. 

Now I know what you are thinking.  You are saying, “Hey, I am NOT crazy.”  I hear you.  I understand.  I commiserate.  You are delusional.

The fact is, you are not normal.  I know this because I know you.  And if I know you, you must  be crazy.  See how it works? It's like Alfred Adler said, "The only normal people are the one's you don't know very well." 

It’s OK with me if you are not ready to confront your inner fool.  You wear your denial well. But, take it from me; admitting that you are insane will be your first step toward happiness.  When you are ready to be honest with yourself and to face the facts, let me know.  We’ll talk.  We'll laugh.  We'll order some Chinese take out. 

Unlike you, I have embraced my madness.  I relish in my alternate reality.  I am in tune with my insanity.  It’s liberating to know that I am badly dressed, not because I have poor taste.  Rather I am dressed like this because, through my neurosis, I believe myself to be beautifully adorned.  You see, it’s not my fault.  I am crazy.

Crazy also gives me an excuse, I mean explanation, for my messy car.  The crumpled McDonald’s bags sliding off the back seat. The moldy, half-filled cups of coffee in the tray.  The pennies scattered on the floor.  They are not there because I am lazy, or untidy.  They are there because I am crazy.  If I were sane, my car would be clean.  See how convenient it is.

Because I am crazy, I can play hop scotch in the swimming pool.  I can pretend to be a Princess or a Power Ranger.  I can talk to the flowers and the birds.  It's OK.  That's just the crazy lady who lives next door, the neighbors will say. 

Crazy is my answer to everything.  Need to exercise more?  Can’t, I’m crazy.  Need to wake up early? No, it isn’t good for my crazy.  Can you help me move this couch? Sorry, not right now, my crazy is having a flare up.  Whatever the project, whatever the problem, I can avoid it just by being crazy. Crazy is powerful stuff.

You are still not convinced, I can tell.  What is it?  The label?  You don’t like being branded as bizarre?

Well consider this.  In the game of life, we all wear labels.  Mother.  Father.  Sister. Brother.  Our friends and neighbors pick the labels that we wear without even consulting us.  At least with crazy, we get to choose the tag that fits us best.  You can consider, for example, peculiar.  Or eccentric.  Or extreme.  Any will fit.  All will do.  And you get to choose which to wear, which will fit you best.  Personally, I prefer mad as a hatter as it reminds me of Alice and her trip down the rabbit hole. 

Plus, there are many labels that you could wear that are much worse than crazy.  Like “incorrigible.”  Or “unreliable.”  Or “100% Acrylic.”  Or “dull.”  When compared to these, crazy is not quiet as dreadful.  It’s just like Marilyn Monroe said, “Imperfection is beauty; madness is genius. And it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.”

So join me my friend.  Resolve today to lead a ridiculous life.  Be bizarre.  Act outlandish.  Welcome the weirdness inside of you.  And be the fool you were born to be. 

What A Mess!

Blobs of bright blue frosting were smeared across Beth’s (3) cheeks.  Her fingers were caked with pink and purple sprinkles.  She looked up at me and gave me her “look what I can do” smile just before she plunged her palms into the bowl of nonpareils.  She squished her hands together and then lapped the tasty embellishments off her fingers. I noticed smudges of sugar stuck to her wispy brown hair and dabbed behind her right ear.

It wasn’t just Beth.  Emily (5) had been piling a mountain of pink frosting onto a small star shaped cooking.  I found my self thinking, "How does one get icing on one's socks?" She looked like a volcano that had spewed pink lava all over her dress.   Even Eric (8), who was often more careful in his creations, was licking globs of sugar off the back of his hands and wrists.  

The tabletop was a rainbow of frosting - yellow, red, green and blue.  The floor was dusted with jimmies and sprinkles.  A spoonful of purple goo lay next to Beth’s chair.  And I had just stepped on a half eaten cookie that Emily had knocked to the floor.

I groaned.  What a mess!

When I had planned our family cookie making evening, the picture in my head was much different.  In my imagination, Ken and I were sitting quietly in the kitchen helping the girls outline sugar cookie angels with decorating gel.  I had pictured Eric humming “Jingle Bells” as he dabbed tiny red icing dots onto a tree shaped cookie.  In my vision, the room was calm, quiet, and most important, clean, just like a scene from a movie or on TV.

As usual, my reality turned out to be a bit more frenzied than my visualization.  I suppose my selective memory, the same one I used for vacations, had kicked in and I had forgotten how messy this project had been last year...and the year before that....and the year before that.  It was worse than an evening playing with Play Dough.

I hadn’t factored in the inevitable spills or the arguments over who gets to use the pink icing first.  I had miscalculated the number of paper towels I would need - apparently, ten rolls was not enough.  I had forgotten to line every surface in the kitchen with newspaper to protect against the certain destruction that accompanies most projects in our house. And I had completely discounted the chaos coefficient.

Maybe decorating cookies wasn’t such a good idea, I thought.  Maybe we should have bought Santa a box of Oreos instead.  Maybe we should skip this activity next year.   

I was just about ready to dump everything in the trashcan and chase the crowd from the kitchen when I noticed Emily.  She had been sitting quietly in her chair for almost five minutes heaping icing onto her cookie.  She was smiling.

“Mommy.” She grinned. “Look at my cookie.  It’s beautiful.”

I leaned over Emily’s chair and hugged her around the neck. “It is beautiful, Honey Bee.” I whispered.  “And so are you.”

From One Generation to The Next

According to Wikipedia, traditions are beliefs or customs shared by one generation to the next.  It derives from the Latin word, traditio, which means, “to hand down.”  Traditions are great.  They give us a sense of things that came before us.  They give us a sense of things that will come when we are gone.

Holidays and traditions are like peanut butter and jelly, they are a natural fit. 

In my family, the main Christmas tradition has always revolved around Christmas Eve.  For as far back as I can remember Mom, Dad, Theresa, Tina and I would gather at Nana’s house for a Lithuanian feast.  Other relatives, like Aunt Nell and Uncle Al, Nana’s sister and brother, would be there as well.

On Christmas Eve, just after the setting of the sun, we would push through Nana’s front door and stomp the snow off our boots.  In the dining room, we could see the table set with Nana’s best china and goblets. As we peeled the scarves away from our chins, the scents of perogies, bleenies, and kielbasa would warm our noses and call us toward the kitchen.  There we would find Nana conducting an orchestra of pots and pans on the stovetop. 

As the years passed, I grew taller and Nana grew older.  One day Dad proposed a new idea.  Why don’t we move Christmas Eve from Nana’s house to ours?  

What? Move Christmas Eve? Change the tradition? No.  No way. Traditions are traditions.  They don't change.

But it’s a lot of work, Dad explained.  And Nana was getting too old for all of the cleaning and cooking.  It was time, he said, to change.

The following year our Christmas Eve meal moved out of Nana’s and into Mom and Dad’s home.  And several years later, after Nana had passed away and Mom and Dad had sold their place, the tradition changed again. Theresa became the new holiday host. A few years later, Ken and I moved to Illinois.  The days of eating the enormous Christmas Eve feast of my youth would end for me.   

My own children have never experienced the Christmas Eve meal that I grew up with.  We’ve been living in Illinois and the rest of the clan still lives in Pennsylvania.  It’s just too difficult to make the fourteen hour drive in the middle of the winter. 

So, we make our own traditions. We spend a quiet Sunday afternoon trimming our Christmas tree together.  We decorate cookies with pink and purple icing.  We visit with Santa.  We open gifts from our relatives on Christmas Eve and gifts from Santa on Christmas morning. 

Yet even though things have changed, there are parts of the old traditions that continue.  We still share a family meal.  We still spend Christmas Eve together.  We still have a home full of love and happiness.  

I suppose, in the end, the most important part of any tradition isn’t the things you do.  It isn’t the place you gather.  It’s sharing a feeling from one generation to the next.

Preparing for Take Off

Do you remember the last time you were on an airplane?  Maybe you were on a business trip.  Or maybe you were going on vacation.  If your flight was recent, the plane was crowded and everyone was grumpy.

As the plane rolled away from the gate, you may have thumbed through the in flight magazine.  Or maybe you leaned back and closed your eyes.  Or maybe you chatted with the person seated next to you asking the old standard questions like “Where are you going?” and “Where are you from?”

The one thing you probably didn’t do was listen to the flight attendant.  Maybe you saw the thin young man wearing a pressed blue uniform standing in the middle of the aisle.  Maybe you noticed him holding a seat belt and pretending to buckle it.  You may have even been aware that he was talking.  But chances are, you probably were too busy shoving your iPod into your purse to hear what he was saying.   

Too bad, because he was saying something important. 

“The cabin is pressurized for your comfort and safety. In the unlikely event of a cabin depressurization, oxygen masks will appear overhead. … If you are seated next to a small child or someone needing assistance, secure your own mask first, and then assist the child. “

If you are a frequent flyer, it’s probably OK to ignore this scripted message.  There’s a good chance it will never be relevant on your flight.  But if you are a mom or a dad, listen carefully.  The words were meant for you.

Like the cabin, a parent’s life is pressurized.  We try to maintain a delicate balance to ensure the comfort and safety of our children.  But sometimes, every once in a while, the cabin depressurizes as we hit turbulence. 

When that occurs, our first instinct is to care for our children.  To guard their safety.  To protect them above all else.  It’s an instinct.  We can’t help it.

But to best care for our children, we need also to remember to care for ourselves.  If Mom is not healthy, she cannot tend to the health of her babies.  If Dad is not happy, he cannot bring happiness to his children. 

Secure your oxygen mask is a statement for parents.  But it’s not a statement of selfishness.  It doesn’t mean that we get to be gluttons in the pursuit of our own happiness.  It doesn’t mean we stay out all night partying while our children stay home pining for us. 

It means that if parents don’t tend to their own basic needs, their children will suffer greatly. Because doing what is best for our children also means doing what is best for ourselves. It means slowing our pace when we are ill, so that we can recover for tomorrow.  It means allowing ourselves a few minutes of quiet in the morning so that we’ll feel better when the kids wake up.  It means giving ourselves a break now and then.  Secure your own oxygen mask first is a reminder that we can’t take care of others unless we first take care of ourselves.

Soon it will be time to make a few resolutions for the New Year.  Some may write, “To lose ten pounds.”  Others will say, “To exercise more.” Whatever yours may be, if you are a parent, make sure to include “secure your oxygen mask first.”

It's Only Half Begun

“It’s called a Warrior Dash.” I was saying. “Basically, you run a 5K race that includes things like crawling through mud, climbing cargo nets and jumping over fire.”

My co-worker, R., narrowed his eyes and frowned.  “Did you say, jumping over fire?”

“Yea, it sounds like a lot of fun.  Um….., doesn’t it?”  By the look on R’s face, I was starting to doubt my earlier enthusiasm.

“Not really.” He said.  “It actually sounds dangerous.  And kinda pointless. Why do you even want to bother?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don’t know.  Just to prove I can do it I guess.”

“Oh, that explains it.” R replied.  “Your having a midlife crisis.”

A midlife crisis?  Did he say mid-life crisis? Me? I hardly think so. I dismissed the thought.  But for some reason, R's words continued to turn in my mind all day like a sock tumbling helplessly in the rinse cycle. 

Was all of this exercise and good eating just a psychological reaction to reaching the mid-term of my existence?  Was I just becoming another statistic of middle-aged women looking to recapture their youth? Would I be doomed to spending my evenings drinking cheap wine in dusty bars while stalking much younger prey? Would I ever be able to find a decent pair of heels for less than fifty dollars?  (Sorry, my mind had started to wander on that last one. That happens when you start to get old.)  

I’d seen friends and coworkers go through mid-life crisis.  It normally involved fast cars and hair pieces for the men; boob jobs and tighter dresses for the women; and copious amounts of alcohol for both.  One guy I know even went as far as to buy a fast car and a hair piece on the same day he got drunk and met a woman with a tight dress and a boob job.  Given the fact that I was sober, driving a minivan and still wearing my comfy sweat shirt to the grocery store, I felt pretty safe.

Still the idea bore further exploration.  After all, maybe I was experiencing the Midwestern, cornfield livin’ version of the midlife crisis.  If I were destined to spend my days listening to fiddle music and attending barn dances, I wanted to be prepared.  So I decided to break the idea down to its essential elements and see if there were any substance to it. 

Well, point one of a midlife crisis is the presumption that one has reached the middle of one’s life.  Though I may be forty cough-cough years old, I am certain that I have not reached the medium of my lifespan.  By my calculations, I have many, many years before I reach the top of the hill. Oh, did I mention that I plan to live to be a hundred and thirty (making my midlife around age 65)?

Point two of a midlife crisis is the state of crisis.  I stood in front of the mirror and assessed my reflection.  Was I in crisis?  I checked my arms and legs.  They seemed to be working properly.  I checked my head.  Well, my eyes didn't work as well as they once did.  And there were a few new wrinkles.  And a grey hair.  But a pair of contact lenses, some concealer and a cut and color would fix that right up. I looked at my butt.  (Good lord, is that my butt?) Well, the good news was that I didn’t LOOK like I was in crisis. 

I didn’t feel like I was in crisis either.  At least I didn’t THINK I felt like I was in crisis.  After all, what exactly was a crisis? I wondered. I decided to check.  I pulled out my dictionary and thumbed my way to the Cs.  Crab. Cries. Crimson.  There it is, Crisis.  I crossed my fingers before reading. 

Crisis.  A noun.  An unstable situation of extreme danger or difficulty.  Hmmm…by that definition, I wake up in crisis every morning and it lasts until I down at least three cups of coffee.   A fine definition, I thought, but not very helpful in this case.

I decided to try the Internet instead.  According to Wikipedia, a mid-life crisis is an emotional period of doubt and anxiety sometimes experienced by people who realize that their life is already half over.  I sighed with relief.  That cinched it.  I am definitely NOT having a midlife crisis. 

After all, my life isn’t half over.  It’s only half begun.

Everything is a choice

“Everything is a choice.” 

Several months ago, I had written the words in blue ink on a piece of white notebook paper.  The paper was tucked into a folder.  The folder was pressed into a desk drawer.  Like a long, lost scroll, the message sat dormant, waiting patiently to be rediscovered.  I found it today while I was rifling through my files, deciding which papers to keep and which to discard as I prepared for a new year.

I set the paper on my desk and stared at it.  I let my mind drift through time until it arrived at the precise moment I had felt compelled to record the thought. 

“Everything is a choice.”

A few months ago, I attended a mandatory work conference designed to make employees better.  Better employees?  Better people?  Better something else?  I really don’t remember. 

What I do remember is not wanting to be there.  I groaned internally as I thought of spending my day doing ice breakers and team-building exercises. I dreaded the thought of wasting my day being talked at.  But I had been told that the event was mandatory.  Grin and bear it, I told myself.  It’s just one day.

To be fair, I really like the company where I work.  I’m paid well. The hours are consistent. My workload is challenging, yet manageable.  People are friendly and I always have the sense that upper leadership wants to do the right thing.

But, like so many big companies, my employer has its share of Dilbert days.  I’ve come to expect and accept them as part of the deal.  My fear and suspicion was that this particular conference would be another Dilbert day. So far, my fears appeared to have been well founded.

Just after lunch, one of the presenters began to talk.  His name was Tony.  Tony was wearing a white shirt and a blue tie.  He had dark, curly hair and a trimmed beard.  He looked happy to be there.  While I can’t recall everything he said, I remember his message.  It was elegant.  It was simple.  It was true.

“Everything is a choice.”  Tony told us. 

“You can wake up and choose to accept your day as it is.  You can choose what you eat.  You can choose what you wear.  You can choose to be sad.  You can choose to be angry.  Or you can choose to be strong.  You can choose to love.  You can choose to succeed.  Our life is defined by the choices we make.” 

“Many people,” Tony said, “spend their lives arguing for their failures.  They blame others.  They criticize their circumstances.  They lean on their weaknesses.  They make excuses.  They complain about their lot in life.  They choose to be unhappy.”

“But you have the power to overcome failure, others, circumstances, weakness, excuses, and life.  You have the power to be happy and successful.” He told us. 

“Everything is a choice.  You can choose to do better.   You can choose to be better.  You can choose to act better.  Choice is the power.”

As Tony spoke, I perked up.  I listened.  I thought about the message.  I picked up my pen.  I wrote down four words.

“Everything is a Choice.”

My life is my choice.  I am not a slave to my circumstances.  I can choose to be healthier.  I can choose to be happier.  I can choose to live the life I was born to live.

“Everything is a choice.”

If It's Important, They'll Leave a Message

My cell phone was ringing.  Well, not really ringing.  It was playing my ringtone, “The Entertainer” from the film The Sting. 

I preferred the ringtone on my old phone, “I Wanna Be Sedated” by the Ramones.  But I still hadn’t figured out how to change the ring tone on my new Droid.  Bad me.

I picked up the phone and stared at the key pad.  The number on my caller ID didn’t look familiar.  It wasn’t even from my area code.  Wrong number? Telemarketing? Political call?

For a minute, I considered not answering.  If it’s important, they’ll leave a message, I thought.  Then curiosity got the best of me.

“Hello.” I said cautiously.

“Hi…um….Janice, this is K-----.....From work.”

“Oh, yea.  Hi K----.” I said with a hint of puzzlement in my voice. K had moved to town from Texas about three years ago.  That explained the odd area code.  She must still be using the same number as she had on her phone from Texas.  So mystery one was solved.  

That left one more mystery.  Why was K calling ME? 

K worked in my office.  We had several mutual friends.  We’d occasionally go to the same events.  Our kids attended the same school.  Since she arrived in town, I’d had occasion to sit at the same lunch table with K. I liked K and enjoyed talking to her from time to time.   

But I’d never been to her house.  And she had never been to mine.  And we didn’t exchange cards at Christmas.  And she had never called me at home before.   

Mystery number two would soon be solved.  “Well, the thing is my car is broke down at the corner of Empire and Linden.  I have three of my kids in the car with me.  I need to get the youngest from day care before six o’clock.  And I called everyone I know and you were the only one who answered your phone.”  She explained.

It took me a minute to process what K had just said.  Let's see.  She had a problem.  None of her close friends were available.  She needed my help.  And I was her last resort. 

“Oh, I see.”  I said.  “Umm.  Do you want me to call a tow truck or something?” I asked. 

“Um.  Yea.  Sure.”  K responded.

From K’s response, I sensed I missed something.  Then it hit me.  The problem wasn’t that the car was broken down.  The problem was that she had a car full of kids. It was freezing cold outside.  And she still needed to get across town to pick up the youngest from daycare within the next forty-five minutes.

“Is your car in a safe place?” I asked.

“Yea, we’re in a parking lot.”  She said. 

“Well, Ken is on his way home right now.  How about I send him over to pick up you and the kids?  He can take you to get your youngest.  Then you can figure out what to do about the car.”

K paused, “But I really hate to put you out like this. I just tried EVERYONE and you were the only one home.”

“It’s OK.” I said.  “We moved here from out of town too and we don’t have any family nearby.  I’ve been in situations like this before.  I know that when these things happen it’s important to have friends and coworkers to turn to.”

“Well, then, if Ken doesn’t mind, that would be great.” I could hear the sigh of relief in her voice.

Of course, when I called Ken, he was more than happy to shoot across town and help K.  A couple of hours later he was home and reporting that K and the kids were safe at their house and that a tow truck had been called to take care of the car.

For the next few days I thought a lot about my conversation with K.  And I think it’s because I learned some important things.

First, I learned that it feels good to help a friend.  Ken and I were both glad that we were able to step up and lend K a hand.  It made us feel like we meant something to someone.

Second, I was reminded that it’s important to ask for help from your friends and neighbors.  I don’t think it was easy for K to ask for help.  She’s a lot like me in that she is independent and self-reliant.  People like us tend to forget that we don’t have to carry the weight of the world on our shoulders.  There are always friends and neighbors who will help us if we ask.

Third, I learned to trust the little voice inside of me.  K had called a host of friends and neighbors.  But no one was answering her call.  And, when I noticed the unfamiliar number appear on my own phone, I was poised to ignore it.  But from somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice encouraged me to answer.  I’m glad I trusted that voice.

Finally, I learned that I still need to figure out how to change the ringtone on my Droid.

Feeling A Day Late and a Dollar Short

My sister Theresa loves Christmas.  She bakes mounds of cookies, cakes and pies.  She spends hours shopping to find just the right gift at just the right price. She wraps hundreds of presents in pretty paper and delicate bows. 

She tramps the family miles into the woods to pick out a perfect tree. She makes apple cider and hot chocolate.

She decorates her house from top to bottom, inside and out.  She spends days planning and cooking elaborate meals and hosting holiday parties.

And, she gets most of this done before the Thanksgiving leftovers are gone (an eight course meal that she cooked from scratch).

I love Christmas too. That is, I love the day OF Christmas.  The twenty four days before, however, are a much different story. I’m not nearly as organized or energized as Theresa.  At the best of times, most of December is a blur of shopping, shipping worrying and fretting.

This year has been particularly bad.  I never did any pre-shopping.  Right now, there isn't a single gift set aside and ready.  I didn’t order Christmas cards yet, a task I normally complete in October.  I have no idea what the kids want from Santa.  I'm concerned if we don't mail one soon it won't arrive at the North Pole in time.  And, we are already into the first week of December and I have not even started my holiday decorating.  A process that usually takes me four days.

I know, what you are thinking, there are plenty of days left, right? Wrong. From now until the end of this decade, I don’t have a single unscheduled minute.  There are Christmas parties, Christmas pageants, and Christmas plays to attend.  And that is in addition to our normally busy schedule.

In the next twenty four days, I still need to make a list, shop for gifts, ship gifts to family back east, order Christmas cards, address cards, mail cards, wrap presents, pull out the decorations, put up the decorations, trim the tree, make cookies,……and on and on and on.   So don’t be surprised if you see me outside putting up lights at three a.m. on a Tuesday.

If I could afford it, I’d be pay someone to do all of this for me.  Then I could concentrate on more important things – like watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas for the 100^th time.  Or sleeping.

All of this is why today I’m feeling a day late and a dollar short.   

Is it just me?  Am I the only one feeling buried in holiday happenings? Cause it seems like the rest of the world is organized while I’m suffocating under the weight of my To Do list.

There has to be a better way. There has to be a secret to getting my holiday tasks in order.  Maybe the answer is adding an extra two hours to every day.  Or maybe the answer is moving Christmas to the second week in January so I have more time to prepare.  Or maybe the answer is winning the lottery. 

That’s where you come in my friends.  I need HELP and I need it NOW.  Please, if you have suggestions on how I can wrap up all of my holiday tasks (pun intended) without going crazy, I eagerly await your suggestions.  Send them to me on Facebook or leave a comment here.

And now, with a HO HO HO, off I go to get it all done before the setting of the sun.