Category Archives: Musings

Being here isn’t always fun, but it can be productive

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I have been uncommonly involved in soul-sucking meetings over the past several weeks.  In fact, the part of my soul that cares about the fate of the rainforest is gone.  I got nothing in me for the rainforests.  If things don’t change soon, I’m not going to give a rip for the starving children in China.  This can’t go on.

I drew a new picture to express how I have felt in some recent meetings.

Are We Going to Talk About this Topic Again?

I feel like Alice in Wonderland some days, but Wonderland is filled with reports and white boards and lots of coffee.  And I think that I would feel somewhat better about these meetings if we were actually discussing world-changing topics, like the rainforest or starving children in China.  But we’re not.

It’s been one of those weeks where you ask yourself “What am I doing with my life?”  I mean, it’s not like I’m curing cancer.  (Short digression — why is “curing cancer” always used as the example for “doing something with my life”?  Do you think that’s what scares people the most?  That’s not my biggest fear.  Ok, back to program.)  I’m performing honest work, but how is it changing lives?

I went through a period of asking myself “what am I doing?”, “how do I matter?”, “what is my purpose?” during my mid-30s and I’ve watched many of my younger friends go through the same introspection at about the same age or a little later in their lives.  I guess the mid-life crisis cliché is a cliché for a reason.  I believe that most people need to feel like they matter, like they have done some good in the world, like they are doing more than just taking up space.

And with the exception of times like this past week, I have made peace with my purpose.  I am not going to cure cancer.  Or become the next Steve Jobs.  Or become a missionary to some isolated place in the South American jungle.  But I can impact my little, itty-bitty section of time and space by being kind, telling the truth, offering my help, giving a smile, laughing freely, thinking of others…..  I know that these small things, when offered to me, have often changed the course of my day, the outcome of the week, the tone of a relationship.  I can do these.

And attend meetings.

Does it stink around here, or is it just me?

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We have a cat named Thelma Lou.  We got her and her sister at the same time.  In an homage to Andy Griffith, they were named after Barney Fife’s two girlfriends, Thelma Lou and Juanita.

A couple of years ago, while we were doing a lot of remodeling on our house, I came outside one morning and found Thelma Lou in the trash where all the construction workers left their daily garbage.

Having a hard time seeing her?  She is a wily thing–she hunts everything so camouflage is her middle name (after Lou).  See if this helps.

Thelma Lou Curled Up in the Trash

I thought of this picture today because I felt like Thelma Lou.  Because it felt like everyone was just dumping their garbage on me.  Here I am, minding my own business, when this bag of garbage came raining down.  Oops, here came a cup full of someone’s crap.  And, watch your head, here comes someone’s empty container of refuse.

“Hey, Jackasses!  Take care of your own trash!”

 

And then,in a moment of brutal honesty, I have to do a little self-evaluation…there is no cage on top of me, nothing to stop me from crawling out from these burdens.  Like Thelma Lou, who chose this spot, I let myself get buried with other people’s rubbish.  I, however, am not as comfortable curled up next to an empty McDonald’s bag.  I’m outta here; the cat can take care of herself.

I know me, most of the time

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I am relatively new at blogging, at least new at blogging consistently.  I dabbled in it for several years, but only recently began to write on a frequent basis.  And I’ve learned by reading other blogs and help and how to guides that bloggers are a lot like teenage girls — they crave feedback and approval.  They want to be popular, have a lot of followers, have a lot of likes.  What’s the point of taking the risk of putting your words and thoughts out there in cyberspace if not to get some positive feedback in return?

There is a lot of advice out there on how to get more readers, including to focus your blogs.  Blog on a theme, to specialize.  Like blog about desserts or cooking.  Or blog about gaming.  Or blog about children.  Or blog about gaming that includes cooking desserts for children.

Get These Thoughts Out of My Head

Well, that advice doesn’t help me at all.  I don’t focus or specialize at anything.

What am I an expert at?

**Crickets chirp.  Minutes pass.  Silence is king.**

I know the most about being me, living my life.  I wouldn’t even say that I specialize at being me.  There are more times than I wish that I would like to send in a substitute player for myself to live my life for the day while I stay home and watch true crime.  The sub surely couldn’t make any worse decisions during that 24 hour period than I do.  Maybe they would even make better ones.  Bonus!

So, I may never have thousands of followers or be voted Blog High School Homecoming Queen because there apparently isn’t a big group of followers for “middle-aged Southerner writing about her days”.  But frankly, I would rather read about the things that I find interesting than chocolate cakes or battling asteroids.  Oh, but if it were asteroids made of chocolate cake–that I would find interesting.  And handy to just walk outside and pick up cake.

UPDATE:  I’ve been informed that asteroids don’t hit the earth often, and if they do, it’s not good, i.e. that movie “Armageddon”.  I was envisioning little chocolate cake asteroids floating down, like manna.  Apparently, I need to be following some science blogs.

Beauty Is In the Eye

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Insomnia has been my nighttime companion for several years. Normally, a sleeping pill and 30 minutes reading will cure it, but recently, even these reliable helpers have been unable to ease me into sleep. I toss and I turn, then I finally turn on the TV. Nothing great is on during the middle of the night, because, let’s face it, if it were great, it would be on during prime time viewing hours. But I do catch some interesting shows, at times. Like the time I saw on the viewing guide that The DaVinci Code was on, but when I turned to that channel, it was two naked women (ummmm) enjoying each other. Having watched the movie with Tom Hanks once before, I knew that I didn’t remember that scene, so I double-checked the guide. I was watching The DaVinci Co-Ed not Code. See, interesting, but not great TV. And I’ve learned to read carefully.

Last night I was flipping late into the night and I came across a show about little girls and beauty pageants. I assume that they were little girls, but it was hard to tell under all the make-up. They could have been 3 or 33….the anklets with the patent leather Mary Janes were what made me first suspect that they couldn’t buy their fake eyelashes by themselves. I was immediately hooked–I think it is called “fascination with the abomination”.

Let’s be clear–none of the little girls that I saw were abominable. They were actually all quite cute, but they in no way resembled little girls. The big hair and the make-up and (I kid you not) spray-on tans masked the things that I think make little girls beautiful–pony tails, missing front teeth, chocolate milk moustaches and skinned knees.

More than being a little disturbed by miniature versions of Joan Collins, circa Dynasty, I worry about the emphasis we place on physical beauty. Anyone who has access to a computer, a TV, a Smartphone, or just waits in line at the grocery store is inundated constantly with images of what is considered beautiful. Tall, painfully skinny, sun-kissed, clear-skinned, big breasted, no hips, women. We are bombarded with ads for products to help us lose weight, firm and tone, get rid of cellulite, pouf up our hair, fill in wrinkles and whiten our teeth. There are TV shows dedicated to turning the ugly goose into a swan, such as Dr. 90210, Extreme Makeover, What Not to Wear. We see images of unattainable looks (let’s face it, not even the model attained those looks in real life, it’s all due to air brushing and Photo Shop) and then get hit with the double whammy of all the things we need to make us acceptable. Could your self-esteem sink any lower?

I am having some self-esteem issues right now. Most of them, I think, stem from the fact that I am not dealing well with aging. Getting older never seemed to bother me until the last year or so and maybe I’m now having a problem because I’m staring down a birthday that ends with a zero. In our world, young is beautiful….hence, my self-esteem issues.

And the thought that has been running through my head a lot over the last few months has been “What’s great about getting older?” I am developing new issues, like cholesterol problems and the inability to eat onions (oh, the heartburn). My joints sometimes hurt; I can’t stay awake during a movie, I NEED coffee in the morning. Tell me–what’s so great?

The answer hit me out of the blue while I was talking to one of my younger co-workers the other day. What’s great about getting older can’t be seen on the outside–it all resides on the inside. My life lessons, my bruises, my failures and successes, my experiences that translate into the wisdom that only comes with age. I had book smarts as a child, but only as an older adult have I found a modicum of wisdom.

I know my limitations, I know my abilities, and I know when to ask for help (and not to be ashamed). I know my priorities and I know what really matters in the long run. I know how to say “Thank you” and how to say “I’m sorry”. I know when to say that I messed up. I know when to take a stand and when to lose a battle in order to win the war. I know about diplomacy and office politics, I know about telling my husband that I love him every day. I know that I am not perfect and that I will fail, but I know that doesn’t mean I am a failure.

Thus, when I’m worrying over my weight, or my not-nearly-so-perky boobs, I remind myself that on the inside things are pretty good. I may not be happy with my looks, but on the whole, I am content with my decisions and my actions. I am beautiful because I acted as beautifully as I could, or as my mama always said, “Pretty is as pretty does.” She was so right. So, instead of What Not to Wear the real show should be called How Not to Act, because in the end, who remembers what you were wearing? But everyone remembers how you acted.

The Value of a Good Cry

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We don’t watch a lot of TV in our house.  For one thing, there always seems to be other things that need to be tackled.  For another, we’re in the middle of remodeling our house, and we are currently living in only 1/2 the house.  That means the bed is in the living room, and when one person wants to watch TV is about the same time that the other person wants to rest or read.  I would watch more TV, but Matt doesn’t like all the noise, so the invention of the DVR was ideal for me.  It makes it easy for me to record my shows and watch them when Matt is outside or at work or just generally not in the house.
One of my favorite shows is Grey’s Anatomy.  I like the dialogue and the characters.  And I’m almost always guaranteed a good cry.

Normally, I’m a very even-tempered person.  Matt has accused me of being too even-tempered.  He said once that if he came into the house and announced that he won the lottery or that he ran the car through the garage door, my reaction would be the same:  “That’s nice, honey.”  I don’t think that I’m that even-tempered (I would get excited about the lottery), but I would be the first to admit that most things roll off of me very easily.

I am a true believer in the saying “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”.  I have toughed it out through issues and crises and emotional upheavals that I wouldn’t have expected myself to make it through.  Some of my hardest battles have been in my fight against clinical depression.  I have felt like King David in Psalms, wondering

How long, O LORD will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and every day have sorrow in my heart?
Psalm 13:1-2

With help of family, friends and professionals, however, I have been able to see my way out of each of my episodes of depression (Thank You, God).  I can recognize the warning signs of an episode and seek out proactive help before it gets any worse.  God has been good (and obviously never forgot me).

One of the interesting side effects of my therapy for depression is that now I rarely cry (I think that it is the medication).  I get sad, sometimes have the blues, but crying is an uncommon event.  Matt can probably count on both hands how many times he has seen me cry since we have known each other.

While I am glad that I don’t cry all the time, or at the drop of a hat, I had feared that I had become so cynical or hard that I was unable to cry.  That is why I so appreciate the cry I get each week watching Grey’s Anatomy.  It reminds me that I have the capability to be empathetic, sympathetic, and vulnerable.  I am reminded that (even though scripted and sometimes hokie) there are people out there struggling with their own sets of problems, and somehow surviving through what may seem unendurable.  Somehow, those five or so minutes a week that I silently cry is cathartic.  I usually feel better during the closing credits than I did when I sat down.

Am I weird?  Maybe.  Could I find a better way to let go of some pent up emotion?  Probably.  But for right now, I am grateful for some small things, including that God has helped me fight my war with depression, and yet I still have the ability to have a good cry on a regular basis.  I feel like I got my cake and I’m eating it, too.

Being Cristy

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I’ve become hooked on a new TV show called “Being Erica”. The premise is simple, but brilliant: a woman who feels like a failure and who has many past regrets decides to seek help from a therapist. His brand of therapy is unique–he sends Erica back in time to relive and “fix” those moments she regrets: the time she lost her virginity, getting drunk at the Fall Dance and embarrassing herself, letting a professor totally humiliate her in her Creative Writing class, etc. By going back in time, she is able to avoid those things that cause her regret in her life now.

I would love to go back in time and have the opportunity to relive and “un-do” my regrets. Some are a moment in time, some are regrets that span years. As part of the short list, I would spend more time on my social life and less time on studying when I was in college. I would take back a very hurtful thing that I said to my mom when I was 14. I would never drink too much vodka one night in 2004.

Since the TV show is fiction (we are talking about time travel), doing the opposite of what she once did is usually not the solution. For example, even though Erica goes back in time and doesn’t drink any at the Fall Dance, she still finds herself the unwanted center of attention. The real solution is learning that she cares more about what she thinks about herself than what others think about her.

My guess is that it would be the same for me. I would go back and hold my tongue when I was 14, but unless I comprehend the lesson, I could still have said something equally as nasty when I was 16. The point is really not about erasing our bad decisions but learning from the consequences. I’m probably a better person now because I said something mean, understand how hurtful it was, and consciously avoid repeating my mistake.

When I interview candidates for a job openings, I always ask one question: “Tell me about a decision that you made that didn’t turn out the way that you wanted or anticipated and how you handled the results.” I call it my trick question–I’m really not interested in what the mistake was, how big or small it was, or how responsible the person was for the mistake–I’m always listening for the candidate to end their response by saying something like “But what I learned from that was….” or “Since then, I always make sure that….” Any kind of statement that shows me that when they misstep, they learn from it, try to avoid repeating it, or picked themselves up and went on.

Regrets are not horrible things to have, as long as they don’t rule your life. While I would rather have learned my lessons without hurting others or myself, I don’t think that life works that way, so all those regretful moments got me to this place. They shaped and honed me, refined me like silver, as it says in the Bible. And one regret that I don’t have is regret with the person that I am trying to be now. OK, so the fictional ability of “un-doing” our regrets sounds attractive, but in the end, I’ll keep mine and be thankful that I don’t have any more than I do.

When It’s Gone

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I just learned that Santa Claus isn’t real. Ok, that’s really a metaphor, but I have had a fundamental shift in my beliefs, so I’m comparing it to learning that Santa doesn’t exist. For the first time in my 30s, I read Gone With the Wind, and I realized that it’s not my favorite book any more and I don’t like Scarlett O’Hara.

For anyone who hasn’t known me since I was a pre-teen, this probably doesn’t sound like foundation shifting news, but if you have known me since I was 13 or so, this is big news. For the last 25 years, when asked what my favorite book is, I have easily, without hesitating, answered Gone With the Wind. Now, I’m questioning why and how I could have obsessed over this book.

I fell in love with this book after falling in love with the movie. It was my version of Twilight or Harry Potter. I soaked up the words and the stories, fell for the characters and the sweeping dramas. I pestered every teacher (History, English, Social Studies) to let us watch the movie, hoping to infuse my fellow students with my love. I collected anything that I could afford that was about the 40+ year book and movie — movie posters and postcards, autobiographies about Margaret Mitchell, Vivien Leigh, documentaries on making the movie, collector’s plates, dolls. If I had had money, I would have had the most extensive GWTW collection possible. My mom named our cat “Scarlett” in honor of my obsession.

My first day as a freshman in college, I was hanging one of my GWTW posters in my dorm room, when my new roommate said that the girl two doors down also had a GWTW poster on her wall. Expecting a “wanna-be” fan, I stopped by to see for myself the inhabitant who also liked my Scarlett. I then met the girl that would be my roommate for the next 3 years, but only after we circled each other like lionesses, throwing out GWTW questions, sniffing each other for weakness and blood. Only when Betsy and I were both satisfied that we were equally devoted (and knowledgeable) about GWTW did we realize that we each had found a friend for life.

So, this is why it is so hard to accept that, after deciding that it was time to reread the book, I don’t like Scarlett, and that I am offended by some parts of the book. Scarlett isn’t heroic, she’s selfish, two-dimensional, unimaginative and hard. The love of money, the absolute hunger for money, gives her the justification to turn her back on her God, her family, and her morals.

She is a survivor, however, and I can understand how her story would be so compelling when it was published during the middle of the Great Depression. The story is, in essence, one of surviving after the world in which you know is completely turned upside down. I have thought several times while reading it recently that this story has become relevant again during our current ecomonic and financial breakdown, war, massive lay offs, etc. Thousands are people are dealing with the same issues that these characters dealt with — how do you live you life when your life doesn’t resemble anything that you’re used to?

I don’t want to deal like Scarlett did. I don’t want to become hard or focused only on money, with no thought to how my actions impact others, or with only “me” in the middle of my actions. Here is my lesson — not how to survive, but how not to survive.

I’m looking for a new favorite book. Betsy, if you read this, I don’t know if you are saddened, indifferent or surprised that it took me so long to come to this realization. But, I’ll always be glad that Scarlett introduced me to you.

A New Year, a New Me

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Two thousand and nine is here. I have to admit that New Year’s Eve is a holiday that I have never understood. Why do people get so excited about one night — ringing out the old, ringing in the new? What’s so wrong with the old? Old is comfortable. It is known. It isn’t scary. New can be frightening. It can be overwhelming and disorienting. Why would we want to celebrate such a chaotic event as the changing of the year?

I guess it’s safe to say that I’m not a risk taker. I have no desire to jump out of a plane, drive 200 mph, or eat medium-rare hamburgers. I like my drama either on TV or between the covers of my book, not in my life.

I am boring. Dependable, stable, comfortable, but boring. I am that “back-up” girl that some people had in high school, that girl you could invite to the dance if you couldn’t get your real crush to go. You knew she wouldn’t embarrass you, that you could talk to her, but there were no sparks, no va–va–va voom. I’m that girl — spark less.

Maybe that’s what makes New Year’s Eve so appealing to most people. It’s an opportunity to redefine oneself. It explains all the resolutions — “here is the line in the sand where I stop being “x” on this side and start being “y” on this side.”

Thus, I banished my boring self as of 12 am EST this past Wednesday night / Thursday morning. I resolved to take more risks (emotionally, physically, fiscally), inviting more excitement and drama into my life. I will try para sailing with Matt in February when we go to Mexico. I will try rock climbing at the Whitewater Center. I will order salad with the dressing on it instead of on the side. I will be someone 2 degrees to the right of who I have been.

The chance to change, I think, is worth celebrating. That I can understand. Happy New Year!

Christmas Cards

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I just joined Facebook, which is just one more way to completely eradicate the need for face-to-face contact with other people as well as further diminish the number of real letters and cards that are sent through the mail. Nothing comes through the mail anymore except circulars and Geico Insurance mailers. (Thank goodness for the number that you can call to stop credit card offers, or two of those per day would still be coming, as well.) With the invention of bill pay on-line, most of my bills don’t even come through the mail, any more.
But, this time of year is different. I love to go to the mailbox during the holidays. CHRISTMAS CARDS! During the month of December, I get an average of one card per day. The days when two or three come are the best. A card, a letter, a picture — a real, honest-to-goodness piece of mail that someone addressed, licked and stamped. For at least 20 seconds, I was on some one’s mind.
I am a Christmas card junkie and hoarder. All my Christmas cards are displayed on my fireplace mantle (and this year, this is the extent of our Christmas decorating). Each year, after Christmas, the cards are stowed away, and the pictures are placed in an album. I have Christmas pictures of all my friend’s children, their dogs / cats, their vacations, etc. in my photo albums. I do not toss away at the end of the holiday season — I save and cherish.
What is my fascination with Christmas cards? I’m not sure. And I don’t send out particularly great ones myself. I don’t include write-ups of what I’ve been doing the past 12 months (hint: working, sleeping, working, occasional trip, working) because there are usually no great dramas or milestones (thank You, Lord, for the lack of drama). This year was the first year that I sent out a “picture” Christmas card.
Yet I absolutely love getting Christmas cards from my family and friends. I love knowing that people were thinking of me, putting me on their “Best Wishes” list, going to the trouble in this day and age of instant messaging to find my address and addressing (ah, the tedium) an envelope. When I look at my mantle and the number of Christmas cards, it’s a visual reminder of the sheer number of people in my life that care for me and for whom I care.
I don’t suppose that most people know that when they send me a Christmas card they are saying more than “Happy Holidays”, “Merry Christmas & Happy New Year” — they are also saying “you are loved”. Back at you all.